Tonight's lesson: How to be a glutton after art and architecture.
It began in a rainstorm and ended in clogged arteries.
As I was dressing to go out, the wind was howling in the windows of the apartment and by the time I left, it was pouring rain.
The fierce weather meant that the lecture at the Virginia Center for Architecture was delayed to allow for latecomers.
I wasn't bothered in the least; the postponement meant that I could check out their new exhibition, "Art by Architects."
The 44 pieces were all by practicing or retired architects and in various mediums.
I hate to say it, but the pieces that delighted me most were mostly of, well, buildings and streetscapes.
Like Christina Canabou's "Tenement Street," a large drawing that focused not on the buildings but on the magnificent dome rising behind the shabby apartments.
The charming "Sicilian Street" by John LaMonica was tiny but evocative.
I was transported back to a 2008 visit for Patrick McClane's watercolor, "Bermuda Shutter," with its white-washed building and wall and deep green shutter, propped open but shading the interior.
Since so many of the pieces were about buildings, the ones that weren't stood out all the more.
Figures, nature scenes, and abstract collages all attested to what's in an architect's mind besides building plans.
I said hello to the Frenchman and found a seat in the third row for the lecture.
Tonight's lecture was "Poplar Forest: The Most Palladian Work in America" by architectural historian Travis McDonald, who's been involved with the restoration of Thomas Jefferson's country retreat for twenty-some years.
You gotta love you some TJ to work at a project that long.
It was interesting, I hadn't known that TJ envisioned Poplar Forest as his getaway from the hordes of people at Monticello clamoring to see him.
It was where he intended to be a hermit.
For the record, I shall need no such place when I retire.
An example of villa-style architecture, the octagonal house was, according to McDonald, "a fantasy impervious to reality."
Oh, my, if only all of life could be like that.
And, just for the record, the privies were octagonal, too. No lie, he showed us a slide.
The history nerd in me looks forward to someday seeing this unique house now that I know its story.
With such enlightenment behind me, I was free to head east to meet a friend for dinner.
Aziza's was mobbed when I arrived (hello, restaurant of the year) and my friend was missing in action, but conveniently, I found another at the bar.
He looked a tad stuffed and confirmed with a grin that he'd eaten far more than he'd intended to.
Since my dinner date was nowhere to be seen, I sat down to catch up with the one who was present.
I had heard that he was leaving Richmond, so I asked about his plans.
Turns out he's off to Palestine in two weeks to teach, with no plans to return.
I asked how his parents were taking his decision (not well) and he mentioned that his mother was appalled at his choice of destinations.
"Can't you just go teach in the East End instead?" she'd not-so-gently suggested.
He admitted to curiosity about how impoverished kids in that part of the world are different from our own disadvantaged youth.
Fact is, he's considering eventually doing his PhD on the subject.
It was a curious experience having a conversation with a guy I've known for four years, knowing I may never lay eyes on him again.
I did tell him how much I admire this great adventure he's setting off on (and if not now, when?) and all the potential it holds.
Then I asked him to text my friend and inquire where the hell he was.
"On my way down the hill," he texted back from high atop Church Hill.
The explorer left once the tardy one arrived, but we stayed at the bar because every table was taken.
Who am I kidding? We'd have stayed there anyway.
My friend started a new job a few weeks ago and it has been kicking his butt up and down the hill ever since.
You see, he used to be a bartender/photographer/perennial student and now he works a regular job and answers to a manager or two.
Whoa. It has taken some major adjustment for him.
Luckily, he'd caught twenty winks before our dinner, so he was starved and ready to chat.
With no further plans later tonight, we set out to become eating machines.
We got our socks knocked off with our very first dish: shad roe with sunchoke puree, citron brown butter sauce and, just in case that wasn't decadent enough, an oozing fried egg atop it all.
Best of all, it was my friend's first shad roe, making him a lucky man to start with shad roe of this ilk.
The sweetness of the sunchoke was a killer balance to the earthy shad roe and egg and we were still naive enough to go ahead and sop up all that puree and butter sauce until the plate was gleaming.
Rookie mistake and we're not rookies.
He was busy telling me about his upcoming trip to Nashville and the pleasures of photographing small children and we forgot to keep our eyes on the prize.
So when the pan-seared softshell crab with ramps atop cheesy polenta with bacon arrived, we dove in again, barely coming up for air.
In my defense, it was only my second softshell so far this season and I couldn't have controlled myself if I'd wanted to.
And I didn't.
The cheesy polenta was rich on its own and obscene with the chunks of bacon and the crab's delicate breading let the flavor of the meat shine through.
But, it should be noted, we were slowing down just a bit.
I told him my barber story only to learn he knew the barbers and the shop.
We walked about how people who grow up in California are different and why he might want to move to California (a woman, natch).
And then, brave souls that we are, we went on to our next course.
He was having a margarita pizza with hot Italian sausage and I, to my eternal optimism, was having some gland.
Pan-seared sweetbreads with English peas ('tis the season) and carrots in saffron sauce was exquisite, the sweetbreads with a silky texture, the fresh-as-a-morning peas and the carrots of various colors adding a sweet crunch.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
Hell, I couldn't. At least not entirely.
I ate as much as I could before my taste buds shut down, telling me A) I was disgustingly full and B) all my savory needs had been met for the evening.
Even my compadre, a man and much bigger than I am, threw in the towel after one piece of pizza.
It wasn't like we didn't want to finish, just that it was impossible.
In fact, we knew as soon as he brought up that he hadn't known how foie gras came about.
When your dining companion starts talking about force-feeding in the middle of dinner, he's trying to tell you something.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
In any case, we asked for boxes for our leftovers at that point.
He and I have been going to Aziza's for years together and we never fail to end a meal with a cream puff.
He even took a picture of me once with the cream puff approaching my wide-open mouth and posted it all over the internets for the world to see.
Tonight, with our boxes sitting on the counter and our filled-to-the-gills satiety, it appeared that a long-standing tradition was about to die.
Instead, Friend ordered his second cup of coffee and suggested we enjoy some after-dinner patter.
I told him about the gardening I'd done earlier this week and he shared that he'd prepared his beds but not yet planted anything.
We talked about the upcoming RiverRock festival, Toots and the Maytalls and doing yoga on a paddle board.
Another photographer came in and the two of them discussed some Haiti photos.
And then my friend looked at me, looked at all the coffee left in his mug and said, "Yea, we're gonna need a cream puff."
Hallelujah and spread the ganache.
Our server, to her credit, merely smiled but the look in her eyes said, "told you so."
Yes, we were full, and no, we had no more room for savory, but sweet was a whole different matter.
One of us would fork the puff to hold it in place so the other could break off the perfect combination of dark chocolate, sweet cream and delicate pastry.
At one point, Friend looked at me and said, "I wanna be in a vat of that cream."
I can't say I shared that wish, but I did scarf my half way before he finished.
My lack of a petite feminine appetite no longer amazes him after four years of shared meals.
His response is hilarious and always the same. "Whoa."
It just means he's impervious to my reality. Smart man.
Showing posts with label softshelled crabs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label softshelled crabs. Show all posts
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
The Great Escape
My Labor Day weekend could best be summed up by the National:
So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city.
I've stayed in town for enough holiday weekends to jump at a chance to go elsewhere when I get an offer.
In this case, it was the northern neck and points beyond for a few days.
Our adventure began in Morattico, a tiny former fishing village on the Rappahannock river.
And although I've visited there dozens of times (my parents live there), this time I had a first-timer with me, so I wanted to play tourist.
That is, to the extent you can play tourist in a one-horse town with no stoplights.
Luckily, there's the Morattico Waterfront Museum, housed in the former general store, so that's where we headed on arrival.
My parents have been living the river life since the '80s, so I remember when the place was a working store, albeit one with more than a few cans that looked like they were older than me.
But with the nearest real grocery store a half an hour away, the general store had been invaluable for milk or even the odd baking ingredient.
But when it was a store, it had occupied only a fraction of the building, as we discovered going through the museum.
In addition to the store area, the museum also encompasses the storage areas and the living quarters above it, meaning room after room of old stuff and pictures.
The stove was still in the center of the store area, as were the old cases, but everywhere there were pieces collected from locals.
The docent pointed us toward the manual typewriters and old spice jars and baking equipment.
Turns out she'd been a typist and one of the typewriters was hers.
She also claimed to have a talent for baking cakes ("But not cookies," she said. "I burn them. And I let my husband make the pies"), scoffing at how unused the sifter on display appeared. "Mine looks just like it, 'cept it's about worn out."
Upstairs was more interesting, with great big pictures of the old crabbing and oysters wharves and the local men who had worked them everyday.
One photograph showed a man "tonging" oysters dressed in a vest, tie, button-down shirt, jacket and trousers on a boat.
The card said he dressed the same everyday, whether tonging or not.
There were pictures of the old houses in the village, including my parents' house, which had also been a store and a theater at one time.
By the time we'd seen every room on every floor, the museum was technically closed.
But Morattico is an hospitable place and the docents allowed us to linger as long as we wanted, even exhorting us to come back soon and watch the video about the town.
I'll put it on my to-do list next time I'm down there playing tourist.
Dinner was at the Lancaster Tavern, a 1790 building that stands in front of the enormous "hanging tree" and across the street from the county jail with its few and tiny windows and the dollhouse-sized clerk's office.
But inside the tavern was clearly everyone in the county who wanted to go out to dinner on a holiday weekend.
Tables continued to fill up during the nearly three hours we were there.
My father, ever the wit, pointed out a group at a table in the next room, saying, "That's Frank. He's a Republican but not a prick. Unlike his wife who's a rabid Republican who doesn't shut up."
It's a charming place, low-ceilinged since people were shorter back then and with a fireplace in every room.
A place where the server tells you whose local garden the grape tomatoes in the salad came from.
The kind of place that has a "chef's chicken of the day," which on this night was a fried chicken breast with white pepper gravy.
Neither my Dad nor I could resist such southern charm.
My only disappointment was that it was a boneless piece of breast, but the abundance of gravy almost made up for it.
And while I didn't ask whose garden yielded the zucchini and squash in the vegetable medley, I bet our server knew.
My mother had insisted we have dessert at home and her big, beautiful lemon meringue pie was a fitting end to a day spent looking back in time.
Thus stuffed, two of us spent the rest of the evening digesting on the dock, enjoying the soft, salty air around us.
Ducks quacked nearby, we could hear but not see fish jumping in the water and the recently full moon made a dramatic showing behind ominous looking clouds.
It's so quiet down there that it almost hurts my city ears.
Next morning, after a pancake and sausage breakfast, we drove off for the main event.
Crossing the Wicomico river, silvery and placid in the morning sunlight, we ended in Reedville, where we were catching the Chesapeake Breeze to Tangier Island.
The hour and forty minute trip out into the bay to get to the island was spectacular - a gray sky allowed us to stand on the upper deck and enjoy the breeze and the view the whole way out without frying in the sun.
Like the night before, we couldn't help but drink in the soft, salty air all around.
Thoughts of the city were long forgotten.
Once on the tiny island, we made our way to one of the five restaurants there, Fisherman's Corner.
It had been started thirteen years ago by two women who wanted to earn money while their husbands were out fishing every day.
Conveniently, their husbands were happy to supply them with fresh fish and seafood daily.
Given the island's reputation for crabs ("soft crab capital of the nation"), we both ordered the Tangier-style soft-shelled crab sandwich and a plate of the house fried onions.
The plate of onions attested to the kitchen's talent, delivering delicately-battered pieces of onion, crisp but no greasy and positively addicting.
Once our lunch came, we found out what Tangier style meant: five small soft shells perfectly fried and served on thick white bread with house-made cocktail sauce.
That's right, five crabs on one sandwich. It probably should have been called a soft shell poor boy given its girth.
We learned from a Southern Living article framed on the wall that when the place had opened, it had been considered the fanciest place in town because they used glasses instead of plastic tumblers.
I'd have sipped out of a tin can to eat one of those sandwiches, but looking around at the blue-striped and blue-flowered tablecloths, I could see where the place might have seemed a step up.
Once fortified, we set out to explore the mostly marsh island.
At five miles by one mile, it seemed like an easy enough trek, although most of our fellow shipmates opted for golf cart tours.
Close to fifty historical markers were scattered around the island, providing information and old pictures of structures long gone.
A kid on a bike pedaled by, his fishing pole laid across his handlebars, a dollar bill between his teeth.
Houses were tiny and the roads between them barely wide enough for a golf cart.
Wooden bridges were everywhere over the inlets that thread their way through the island.
Even more plentiful was wildlife; we saw a great white egret, so still it looked like a statue, herons and ducks.
We mounted Hoisting Bridge, built at the highest point of land on the island (five feet rather than four feet above sea level) and learned of its function.
It was where young couples had gone to court for years.
The local rule of thumb was that no more than three couples at a time could woo on the bridge - one at each end and one at the center.
The preferred position for courting, we learned, was with the guy sitting on the railing and the girl standing in front of him so their lips would be conveniently at the same height.
Walking on, we saw the first house on the island built with two bathrooms, despite it being 1961 construction.
This was a notable enough fact that it was included on the historical marker.
We saw an American flag made of painted sea shells laid out in a tiny front yard.
Most yards held graves because that' where you buried your kin, close enough to maintain and fenced in in case they started to wash away in a storm.
After zig-zagging the entire island for an hour and a half to ensure we saw everything, we stopped at Spanky's, which promised air conditioning, ice cream and music (alright, the music was country, but at least true country and not that modern country crap).
It also gave us a chance to hear the Elizabethan-era English the locals speak.
Eavesdropping on one of the servers on her phone, I struggled to understand her archaic sounding speech while eating my mint chocolate chip hot fudge sundae.
In the bathroom before we left, I respected the sign on the wall.
Gentlemen: Your aim will help. Stand closer. It's shorter than you think.
Ladies: Please remain seated for the entire performance.
Unintelligible or not, the sign's meaning showed a decided sense of humor.
Wandering back to the Chesapeake Breeze for the return trip, I felt like we'd been away for more than just a day.
It began sprinkling as we headed back toward the mainland, but eventually stopped, allowing us to return to the front of the boat and the intoxicating breeze.
Back on land, you could say all we had to show for our day was full bellies, bug bites and a well-worn map of Tangier island.
But the truth is, it had been a couple of days in another world, a world where fishing remains supreme and a lot of things are still done the old ways.
Just the kind of reason we needed to get out of the city.
Even waking up today, I felt a lingering languor from our escape.
Back on Grace Street for my walk, though, I was pulled back to reality.
"Whoa! I'd recognize that sashay from a block away," called the bicyclist from the street and I looked over to see one of my regulars pedaling by.
Almost home, a guy passed me on Belvidere, sending out an incredibly loud wolf whistle as he went by me.
Home again, home again, jiggety jig.
So happy I was invited
Give me a reason to get out of the city.
I've stayed in town for enough holiday weekends to jump at a chance to go elsewhere when I get an offer.
In this case, it was the northern neck and points beyond for a few days.
Our adventure began in Morattico, a tiny former fishing village on the Rappahannock river.
And although I've visited there dozens of times (my parents live there), this time I had a first-timer with me, so I wanted to play tourist.
That is, to the extent you can play tourist in a one-horse town with no stoplights.
Luckily, there's the Morattico Waterfront Museum, housed in the former general store, so that's where we headed on arrival.
My parents have been living the river life since the '80s, so I remember when the place was a working store, albeit one with more than a few cans that looked like they were older than me.
But with the nearest real grocery store a half an hour away, the general store had been invaluable for milk or even the odd baking ingredient.
But when it was a store, it had occupied only a fraction of the building, as we discovered going through the museum.
In addition to the store area, the museum also encompasses the storage areas and the living quarters above it, meaning room after room of old stuff and pictures.
The stove was still in the center of the store area, as were the old cases, but everywhere there were pieces collected from locals.
The docent pointed us toward the manual typewriters and old spice jars and baking equipment.
Turns out she'd been a typist and one of the typewriters was hers.
She also claimed to have a talent for baking cakes ("But not cookies," she said. "I burn them. And I let my husband make the pies"), scoffing at how unused the sifter on display appeared. "Mine looks just like it, 'cept it's about worn out."
Upstairs was more interesting, with great big pictures of the old crabbing and oysters wharves and the local men who had worked them everyday.
One photograph showed a man "tonging" oysters dressed in a vest, tie, button-down shirt, jacket and trousers on a boat.
The card said he dressed the same everyday, whether tonging or not.
There were pictures of the old houses in the village, including my parents' house, which had also been a store and a theater at one time.
By the time we'd seen every room on every floor, the museum was technically closed.
But Morattico is an hospitable place and the docents allowed us to linger as long as we wanted, even exhorting us to come back soon and watch the video about the town.
I'll put it on my to-do list next time I'm down there playing tourist.
Dinner was at the Lancaster Tavern, a 1790 building that stands in front of the enormous "hanging tree" and across the street from the county jail with its few and tiny windows and the dollhouse-sized clerk's office.
But inside the tavern was clearly everyone in the county who wanted to go out to dinner on a holiday weekend.
Tables continued to fill up during the nearly three hours we were there.
My father, ever the wit, pointed out a group at a table in the next room, saying, "That's Frank. He's a Republican but not a prick. Unlike his wife who's a rabid Republican who doesn't shut up."
It's a charming place, low-ceilinged since people were shorter back then and with a fireplace in every room.
A place where the server tells you whose local garden the grape tomatoes in the salad came from.
The kind of place that has a "chef's chicken of the day," which on this night was a fried chicken breast with white pepper gravy.
Neither my Dad nor I could resist such southern charm.
My only disappointment was that it was a boneless piece of breast, but the abundance of gravy almost made up for it.
And while I didn't ask whose garden yielded the zucchini and squash in the vegetable medley, I bet our server knew.
My mother had insisted we have dessert at home and her big, beautiful lemon meringue pie was a fitting end to a day spent looking back in time.
Thus stuffed, two of us spent the rest of the evening digesting on the dock, enjoying the soft, salty air around us.
Ducks quacked nearby, we could hear but not see fish jumping in the water and the recently full moon made a dramatic showing behind ominous looking clouds.
It's so quiet down there that it almost hurts my city ears.
Next morning, after a pancake and sausage breakfast, we drove off for the main event.
Crossing the Wicomico river, silvery and placid in the morning sunlight, we ended in Reedville, where we were catching the Chesapeake Breeze to Tangier Island.
The hour and forty minute trip out into the bay to get to the island was spectacular - a gray sky allowed us to stand on the upper deck and enjoy the breeze and the view the whole way out without frying in the sun.
Like the night before, we couldn't help but drink in the soft, salty air all around.
Thoughts of the city were long forgotten.
Once on the tiny island, we made our way to one of the five restaurants there, Fisherman's Corner.
It had been started thirteen years ago by two women who wanted to earn money while their husbands were out fishing every day.
Conveniently, their husbands were happy to supply them with fresh fish and seafood daily.
Given the island's reputation for crabs ("soft crab capital of the nation"), we both ordered the Tangier-style soft-shelled crab sandwich and a plate of the house fried onions.
The plate of onions attested to the kitchen's talent, delivering delicately-battered pieces of onion, crisp but no greasy and positively addicting.
Once our lunch came, we found out what Tangier style meant: five small soft shells perfectly fried and served on thick white bread with house-made cocktail sauce.
That's right, five crabs on one sandwich. It probably should have been called a soft shell poor boy given its girth.
We learned from a Southern Living article framed on the wall that when the place had opened, it had been considered the fanciest place in town because they used glasses instead of plastic tumblers.
I'd have sipped out of a tin can to eat one of those sandwiches, but looking around at the blue-striped and blue-flowered tablecloths, I could see where the place might have seemed a step up.
Once fortified, we set out to explore the mostly marsh island.
At five miles by one mile, it seemed like an easy enough trek, although most of our fellow shipmates opted for golf cart tours.
Close to fifty historical markers were scattered around the island, providing information and old pictures of structures long gone.
A kid on a bike pedaled by, his fishing pole laid across his handlebars, a dollar bill between his teeth.
Houses were tiny and the roads between them barely wide enough for a golf cart.
Wooden bridges were everywhere over the inlets that thread their way through the island.
Even more plentiful was wildlife; we saw a great white egret, so still it looked like a statue, herons and ducks.
We mounted Hoisting Bridge, built at the highest point of land on the island (five feet rather than four feet above sea level) and learned of its function.
It was where young couples had gone to court for years.
The local rule of thumb was that no more than three couples at a time could woo on the bridge - one at each end and one at the center.
The preferred position for courting, we learned, was with the guy sitting on the railing and the girl standing in front of him so their lips would be conveniently at the same height.
Walking on, we saw the first house on the island built with two bathrooms, despite it being 1961 construction.
This was a notable enough fact that it was included on the historical marker.
We saw an American flag made of painted sea shells laid out in a tiny front yard.
Most yards held graves because that' where you buried your kin, close enough to maintain and fenced in in case they started to wash away in a storm.
After zig-zagging the entire island for an hour and a half to ensure we saw everything, we stopped at Spanky's, which promised air conditioning, ice cream and music (alright, the music was country, but at least true country and not that modern country crap).
It also gave us a chance to hear the Elizabethan-era English the locals speak.
Eavesdropping on one of the servers on her phone, I struggled to understand her archaic sounding speech while eating my mint chocolate chip hot fudge sundae.
In the bathroom before we left, I respected the sign on the wall.
Gentlemen: Your aim will help. Stand closer. It's shorter than you think.
Ladies: Please remain seated for the entire performance.
Unintelligible or not, the sign's meaning showed a decided sense of humor.
Wandering back to the Chesapeake Breeze for the return trip, I felt like we'd been away for more than just a day.
It began sprinkling as we headed back toward the mainland, but eventually stopped, allowing us to return to the front of the boat and the intoxicating breeze.
Back on land, you could say all we had to show for our day was full bellies, bug bites and a well-worn map of Tangier island.
But the truth is, it had been a couple of days in another world, a world where fishing remains supreme and a lot of things are still done the old ways.
Just the kind of reason we needed to get out of the city.
Even waking up today, I felt a lingering languor from our escape.
Back on Grace Street for my walk, though, I was pulled back to reality.
"Whoa! I'd recognize that sashay from a block away," called the bicyclist from the street and I looked over to see one of my regulars pedaling by.
Almost home, a guy passed me on Belvidere, sending out an incredibly loud wolf whistle as he went by me.
Home again, home again, jiggety jig.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
More Than This
Even the most sociable of extroverts occasionally needs an introverted day.
I began mine with a drive past the windmill, past the sheep farm and out to the Northern Neck to see my parents.
They are both talkers so while I help out with things around the house, we chat about the strangest things.
My mother's wedding suit was a size seven and she weighed 104 pounds when she got married, I learn as I mend a draft snake for them.
While helping water the array of plants on the big screened porch, we compare the soft-shelled crab preparations we've all had lately.
I hear that they've gotten an e-mail from their local restaurant saying sugar toads are in.
As is typical for her, my mother expresses disgust at the thought of something so exotic while I wax poetic about the sugar toads I had three days ago.
Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree.
After lunch I sit bundled on the dock with the river lapping all around me, finishing Rob Sheffield's ode to coming of age in the 80s, "Talking to Girls about Duran Duran."
May I just acknowledge that I hadn't thought about Madonna's "Dress You Up" since, well, probably the 80s?
I related to both the musical references, Roxy Music, A Flock of Seagulls, Psychedelic Furs, as well as the spirit of the book: "So we beat on, boats against the currents, borne ceaselessly back into Bryan Ferry."
Surely that set the tone for the rest of my night, if not my life.
Back home, I chose some solitary art time by going to the Visual Arts Center to see "Oscar Munoz: Imprints for a Fleeting Memorial" because it leaves tomorrow.
It's a compelling show with the Colombian artist exploring image and memory in various multi-media permutations.
And I was the sole occupant of the gallery.
"Narcissus" was a video self-portrait done by sifting charcoal onto the water of a bathroom sink.
The charcoal causes a shadow of the image to form and as the water slowly drains, the image and its shadow coincide, his mouth becoming misshapen, his jaw floating away, until it all goes down the drain.
So much for vanity.
In the back gallery was an installation called "Sedimentaciones," consisting of two tables with overhead video projections on them.
Table as canvas, so to speak.
On each were images of photos, blank paper and two developing trays with drains.
Out of nowhere, a hand appears and picks up an image and places it in the tray where it dissolves.
But wait, moments later another hand appears, chooses a blank image, placing it in the tray where an image appears.
Ad infinitum. And all the while, the sound of a drain is heard.
Mesmerizing was the video piece, "Roltrato," a word which can mean either "portrait" or "I try again."
In the video, Munoz uses a paint brush with water on it to "paint" his portrait with water on a concrete slab in the sun.
The moment he creates the image, it starts to disappear. Trying again endlessly to create a portrait.
Roltrato.
It undoubtedly says something about what an art geek I am that I can walk out of a show the night before it leaves town feeling lucky to have made a last minute catch.
Book finished, art appreciated, there was nothing left for me to do but go eat.
But eating's tricky this week what with restaurant week going on; I don't want to add to the fracas.
That led me practically back home to Magpie where I found a civilized but small crowd probably seeking the same thing.
A glass of Conde Villar Tinto was an easy-drinking Portuguese wine I found justifiable given today's cooler temperatures.
The amuse bouche was a cucumber square in tomato coconut cream with lime foam.
Now I was amused.
I heard about upcoming nuptials from a groom-to-be, with the bachelor party involving guns, pig and a road trip.
Most brilliant of all, it's also scheduled days in advance of the big day.
As the bartender said, "Who ever thought the night before was a good idea?"
Needless to say, the bride was not in attendance, given the proximity of the ceremony.
I was happy to see a section of the menu devoted to low-priced small plates and began there with fried hearts of artichoke with roasted poblano pesto ("I could eat a vat of that pesto," the bartender told me and I agreed).
Nor could I resist the fish special, a sandwich of all things.
More precisely, an open-faced sandwich, a pan-fried softshell on a French batard with house cured bacon (pork belly), tomatoes, sunflower shoots and a poblano curry sauce.
The bacon was thick and plentiful, the crab crispy and the kitchen clearly working the poblanos.
Well, I might add.
Other than my brief chat with the groom, I'd spent the evening reading about Baltimore's quintessential cookie and keeping my sociability to myself.
For an extrovert, it's almost like beating against the current.
I began mine with a drive past the windmill, past the sheep farm and out to the Northern Neck to see my parents.
They are both talkers so while I help out with things around the house, we chat about the strangest things.
My mother's wedding suit was a size seven and she weighed 104 pounds when she got married, I learn as I mend a draft snake for them.
While helping water the array of plants on the big screened porch, we compare the soft-shelled crab preparations we've all had lately.
I hear that they've gotten an e-mail from their local restaurant saying sugar toads are in.
As is typical for her, my mother expresses disgust at the thought of something so exotic while I wax poetic about the sugar toads I had three days ago.
Sometimes the apple does fall far from the tree.
After lunch I sit bundled on the dock with the river lapping all around me, finishing Rob Sheffield's ode to coming of age in the 80s, "Talking to Girls about Duran Duran."
May I just acknowledge that I hadn't thought about Madonna's "Dress You Up" since, well, probably the 80s?
I related to both the musical references, Roxy Music, A Flock of Seagulls, Psychedelic Furs, as well as the spirit of the book: "So we beat on, boats against the currents, borne ceaselessly back into Bryan Ferry."
Surely that set the tone for the rest of my night, if not my life.
Back home, I chose some solitary art time by going to the Visual Arts Center to see "Oscar Munoz: Imprints for a Fleeting Memorial" because it leaves tomorrow.
It's a compelling show with the Colombian artist exploring image and memory in various multi-media permutations.
And I was the sole occupant of the gallery.
"Narcissus" was a video self-portrait done by sifting charcoal onto the water of a bathroom sink.
The charcoal causes a shadow of the image to form and as the water slowly drains, the image and its shadow coincide, his mouth becoming misshapen, his jaw floating away, until it all goes down the drain.
So much for vanity.
In the back gallery was an installation called "Sedimentaciones," consisting of two tables with overhead video projections on them.
Table as canvas, so to speak.
On each were images of photos, blank paper and two developing trays with drains.
Out of nowhere, a hand appears and picks up an image and places it in the tray where it dissolves.
But wait, moments later another hand appears, chooses a blank image, placing it in the tray where an image appears.
Ad infinitum. And all the while, the sound of a drain is heard.
Mesmerizing was the video piece, "Roltrato," a word which can mean either "portrait" or "I try again."
In the video, Munoz uses a paint brush with water on it to "paint" his portrait with water on a concrete slab in the sun.
The moment he creates the image, it starts to disappear. Trying again endlessly to create a portrait.
Roltrato.
It undoubtedly says something about what an art geek I am that I can walk out of a show the night before it leaves town feeling lucky to have made a last minute catch.
Book finished, art appreciated, there was nothing left for me to do but go eat.
But eating's tricky this week what with restaurant week going on; I don't want to add to the fracas.
That led me practically back home to Magpie where I found a civilized but small crowd probably seeking the same thing.
A glass of Conde Villar Tinto was an easy-drinking Portuguese wine I found justifiable given today's cooler temperatures.
The amuse bouche was a cucumber square in tomato coconut cream with lime foam.
Now I was amused.
I heard about upcoming nuptials from a groom-to-be, with the bachelor party involving guns, pig and a road trip.
Most brilliant of all, it's also scheduled days in advance of the big day.
As the bartender said, "Who ever thought the night before was a good idea?"
Needless to say, the bride was not in attendance, given the proximity of the ceremony.
I was happy to see a section of the menu devoted to low-priced small plates and began there with fried hearts of artichoke with roasted poblano pesto ("I could eat a vat of that pesto," the bartender told me and I agreed).
Nor could I resist the fish special, a sandwich of all things.
More precisely, an open-faced sandwich, a pan-fried softshell on a French batard with house cured bacon (pork belly), tomatoes, sunflower shoots and a poblano curry sauce.
The bacon was thick and plentiful, the crab crispy and the kitchen clearly working the poblanos.
Well, I might add.
Other than my brief chat with the groom, I'd spent the evening reading about Baltimore's quintessential cookie and keeping my sociability to myself.
For an extrovert, it's almost like beating against the current.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Doing It Cowgirl Style
It's 5:00 on a Saturday afternoon. Do you know what you're doing tonight?
I didn't. Hence the beauty of getting an e-mail at 5:05 from a friend.
"What's going on? What are you doing tonight? Dinner? If you are free, let me know."
Freer than free. Planless. Absolutely nothing on the books whatsoever.
And this is the friend who once told the world that, "Oh, Karen knows the rules. She just chooses not to play the game."
Needless to say, I find that kind of insight irresistible.
By 6:15, we were the sole occupants of the bar at Acacia. By 6:45 there was a wait for tables and bar space.
Gavi di Gavi Ru appealed to me and satisfied my friend's passion for white wine only, but our tastes diverged once we got to the food menu.
He asked me what sugar toads were and once I explained puffer fish, stuck his tongue out in disgust.
I asked him if he ate mortadella and he grimaced, shaking his head.
So I ordered both while he chose the tempura local softshell with shaved Napa cabbage, carrots, red onion and curry vinaigrette.
He raved about his salad (and Chef Dale is a master with softshells, I agree) but I was more than happy with my two tenpura sugar toads with honey soy sauce.
Insert in mouth, scrape flesh off bones, savor and swallow. Yum.
The housemade mortadella was an enormous portion of what is a large Italian sausage anyway and combined with the pickles of fiddleheads, ramps and cabbage and grainy mustard on toasted bread could have been a meal in itself.
Not to mention its $3 price tag.
It was a beautiful night to be at Acacia because the front of the restaurant was wide open to the temperate evening air.
Once we finished the wine, we decided to do the progressive dinner thing and move on to Arcadia.
They, too, had their front door open and a lively crowd was in place when we were welcomed to the bar by a bartender who didn't have any customers at that moment.
Poor thing, he had no idea what he was letting himself in for.
My friend had been at Arcadia just a few days ago and wanted the same wine he'd had then: Drouhin Pouilly Fuisse.
Light, with a long finish, it was a great choice as far as I was concerned.
Having just polished off sugartoads and mortadella, I wasn't especially hungry, but my friend insisted we soldier on with our eating.
Deferring to him, he chose a starter of petite crabcakes (full of jumbo lump crabmeat but a tad salty, I thought) followed by the obscene and decadent Braveheart beef 22-ounce bone-in cowboy cut for us to share.
Because no one, not a cowboy or even a cowgirl, needs 22 ounces of meat.
On the other hand, that Braveheart beef is disgustingly good, even if I felt my arteries clogging as I ate it.
After mortadella, no less.
I'm going to hell in a handbasket, as my Richmond grandmother used to say.
Midway through our meal the rain began suddenly, making for a lovely soundtrack and sending people scurrying in from the outside.
I felt the temperature of the air wafting in from outside drop almost at once.
The music was a great mix tonight, too; I heard everything from Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" to Missy Higgins' "Steer."
But the search ends here
Where the night is totally clear
And your heart is fierce
So now you finally know that you control where you go
You can steer
When you eat as much as we did tonight, you have plenty of time to cover all kinds of personal topics.
Friend asked why I am at Balliceaux so often (music), told me about his new love (and the unexpected first night kiss) and gave me major points for hair and lipstick upkeep.
It's funny; you never know what people notice about you unless they tell you.
In the interest of ensuring that we had to be rolled out of Arcadia, he insisted that we get dessert and I picked a flourless dark chocolate torte with chocolate gelato.
The fudge-like torte was sensational, barely semi-sweet and texturally like velvet in my mouth, but the gelato was even more exquisite, positively sticky with its high butterfat.
Even so, no self-respecting cow girl would have eaten it after that hunk o' meat we'd just shared.
There isn't enough riding on the range I could do to offset the amount of food I downed tonight.
But then a real cowgirl would have had plans by 5:00.
And maybe steered a little bit better.
I didn't. Hence the beauty of getting an e-mail at 5:05 from a friend.
"What's going on? What are you doing tonight? Dinner? If you are free, let me know."
Freer than free. Planless. Absolutely nothing on the books whatsoever.
And this is the friend who once told the world that, "Oh, Karen knows the rules. She just chooses not to play the game."
Needless to say, I find that kind of insight irresistible.
By 6:15, we were the sole occupants of the bar at Acacia. By 6:45 there was a wait for tables and bar space.
Gavi di Gavi Ru appealed to me and satisfied my friend's passion for white wine only, but our tastes diverged once we got to the food menu.
He asked me what sugar toads were and once I explained puffer fish, stuck his tongue out in disgust.
I asked him if he ate mortadella and he grimaced, shaking his head.
So I ordered both while he chose the tempura local softshell with shaved Napa cabbage, carrots, red onion and curry vinaigrette.
He raved about his salad (and Chef Dale is a master with softshells, I agree) but I was more than happy with my two tenpura sugar toads with honey soy sauce.
Insert in mouth, scrape flesh off bones, savor and swallow. Yum.
The housemade mortadella was an enormous portion of what is a large Italian sausage anyway and combined with the pickles of fiddleheads, ramps and cabbage and grainy mustard on toasted bread could have been a meal in itself.
Not to mention its $3 price tag.
It was a beautiful night to be at Acacia because the front of the restaurant was wide open to the temperate evening air.
Once we finished the wine, we decided to do the progressive dinner thing and move on to Arcadia.
They, too, had their front door open and a lively crowd was in place when we were welcomed to the bar by a bartender who didn't have any customers at that moment.
Poor thing, he had no idea what he was letting himself in for.
My friend had been at Arcadia just a few days ago and wanted the same wine he'd had then: Drouhin Pouilly Fuisse.
Light, with a long finish, it was a great choice as far as I was concerned.
Having just polished off sugartoads and mortadella, I wasn't especially hungry, but my friend insisted we soldier on with our eating.
Deferring to him, he chose a starter of petite crabcakes (full of jumbo lump crabmeat but a tad salty, I thought) followed by the obscene and decadent Braveheart beef 22-ounce bone-in cowboy cut for us to share.
Because no one, not a cowboy or even a cowgirl, needs 22 ounces of meat.
On the other hand, that Braveheart beef is disgustingly good, even if I felt my arteries clogging as I ate it.
After mortadella, no less.
I'm going to hell in a handbasket, as my Richmond grandmother used to say.
Midway through our meal the rain began suddenly, making for a lovely soundtrack and sending people scurrying in from the outside.
I felt the temperature of the air wafting in from outside drop almost at once.
The music was a great mix tonight, too; I heard everything from Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" to Missy Higgins' "Steer."
But the search ends here
Where the night is totally clear
And your heart is fierce
So now you finally know that you control where you go
You can steer
When you eat as much as we did tonight, you have plenty of time to cover all kinds of personal topics.
Friend asked why I am at Balliceaux so often (music), told me about his new love (and the unexpected first night kiss) and gave me major points for hair and lipstick upkeep.
It's funny; you never know what people notice about you unless they tell you.
In the interest of ensuring that we had to be rolled out of Arcadia, he insisted that we get dessert and I picked a flourless dark chocolate torte with chocolate gelato.
The fudge-like torte was sensational, barely semi-sweet and texturally like velvet in my mouth, but the gelato was even more exquisite, positively sticky with its high butterfat.
Even so, no self-respecting cow girl would have eaten it after that hunk o' meat we'd just shared.
There isn't enough riding on the range I could do to offset the amount of food I downed tonight.
But then a real cowgirl would have had plans by 5:00.
And maybe steered a little bit better.
Friday, April 6, 2012
A Bag and a View
The tag on the bag said it all. "Enjoy your lunch."
As if that were ever in doubt.
A sure sign that Spring has arrived is when Acacia does their first softshell-to-go lunch of the season and that day was today.
Before I could even place my order, I got an e-mail from a friend saying, "I'll order and pay if you pick up and deliver."
What poor writer would turn down that kind of offer?
So there I was pulling up to the curb at Acacia (they only give you a half hour to do so, although I was told the line had begun fifteen minutes beforehand) to grab and go.
Oh, but such grabbing!
A fried local softshell sandwich with curry slaw and cilantro mayo came with a creamy cucumber and pasta salad, all exactingly prepared by Chef Dale Reitzer this morning.
I hate to think how early he had to be in on a Friday to have our lunches ready but I loved the fact that he was willing to do so.
Even better, I was told that more bagged lunches are in the plans for this year than last and I enjoyed every one they did in 2011.
With bag in hand, I hightailed it to my friend's office overlooking the Lee statue on Monument Avenue to enjoy my second softshells of the year.
April is turning out to be a great month for crabs for the first time in my life.
Or anyone's, I'm willing to bet.
The perfectly fried velvet softshells and slaw were oozing out of the chewy baguette, making for messy and of-the-moment flavorful eating.
The creamy pasta salad was almost unnecessary given the girth of the sandwich. Almost, but not quite.
One change from last year was that there were no cookies to end the meal.
Instead, we admired the view out the windows of the preparations for Easter on Parade; a stage had been set up at the base of Traveler's hooves.
Friend told me had just ordered a print to hang next to the window's view; it's the vintage Dementi photograph of tobacco growing right up to the base of the Lee monument.
It should make for the picture-perfect accompaniment to today's sunny view.
Not that we needed anything other than the contents of the bag to follow the directive on it.
Rest assured, Acacia. Lunch enjoyed.
As if that were ever in doubt.
A sure sign that Spring has arrived is when Acacia does their first softshell-to-go lunch of the season and that day was today.
Before I could even place my order, I got an e-mail from a friend saying, "I'll order and pay if you pick up and deliver."
What poor writer would turn down that kind of offer?
So there I was pulling up to the curb at Acacia (they only give you a half hour to do so, although I was told the line had begun fifteen minutes beforehand) to grab and go.
Oh, but such grabbing!
A fried local softshell sandwich with curry slaw and cilantro mayo came with a creamy cucumber and pasta salad, all exactingly prepared by Chef Dale Reitzer this morning.
I hate to think how early he had to be in on a Friday to have our lunches ready but I loved the fact that he was willing to do so.
Even better, I was told that more bagged lunches are in the plans for this year than last and I enjoyed every one they did in 2011.
With bag in hand, I hightailed it to my friend's office overlooking the Lee statue on Monument Avenue to enjoy my second softshells of the year.
April is turning out to be a great month for crabs for the first time in my life.
Or anyone's, I'm willing to bet.
The perfectly fried velvet softshells and slaw were oozing out of the chewy baguette, making for messy and of-the-moment flavorful eating.
The creamy pasta salad was almost unnecessary given the girth of the sandwich. Almost, but not quite.
One change from last year was that there were no cookies to end the meal.
Instead, we admired the view out the windows of the preparations for Easter on Parade; a stage had been set up at the base of Traveler's hooves.
Friend told me had just ordered a print to hang next to the window's view; it's the vintage Dementi photograph of tobacco growing right up to the base of the Lee monument.
It should make for the picture-perfect accompaniment to today's sunny view.
Not that we needed anything other than the contents of the bag to follow the directive on it.
Rest assured, Acacia. Lunch enjoyed.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Out of the Loop and That's How I Like It
I don't appreciate Edo's Squid like most people do.There, I said it.
But then, I'm not a big pasta person. After a while, I get tired of every dish being heavy on garlic and I love garlic. The decibel level is the absolute highest in Richmond and conversations must be endlessly repeated.
And the speed with which the staff clears tables and seats diners during peak periods when the line is down the stairs is excruciatingly slow. Like tonight, there can be a dozen people in line and five empty tables and no one is being seated for half an hour. Huh?
But as my dinner companion reminded me, they do fish really well and I do love fish done right. And he was taking me out for my birthday, so I asked him to choose the destination and he's exceedingly fond of the Squid.
So there we were, shouting our conversation and trying to decide what to eat from a list on which skate wing had already been 86'd. I would have enjoyed some skate wing for my birthday.
A bottle of Venica Collio Pinot Grigio "Jerera" with its long finish bought us time to decide what to eat while the room bustled around us.
Apparently we'd arrived at precisely the right moment because the trio who arrived just after us were not seated for a full hour after we were. They looked starved and we felt guilty about that but it had nothing to do with us.
It was hard not to enjoy the early evening light coming through the windows and bringing the spring evening inside, but the screaming child I could have done without.
I was sharing with my friend a couple of good stories (the stranger asking me to dance on the sidewalk and the stranger sliding the postcard into my lap at the concert), but he's such a cynic that all he could conclude was, "Men always have a strategy to get laid."
Nothing like being a buzz kill for my tales of serendipitous romantic encounters.
We ordered arugula salads with shaved Parmesan and I got one of the night's specials, the softshelled crabs.
Opting out of the usual pasta side, we left it up to the kitchen, who delivered a bowl of flash-cooked snow peas with a hint of soy sauce and oil to them. Major Asian yum.
My friend commented on how strange it was to be in a restaurant so crazily busy and not know a single soul, so of course it was only a matter of minutes before someone I know showed up at the table to say hello and talk of the danger of late night get-togethers (my impending birthday celebration).
For a change, I was chided for not eating more than I did, so different than the usual accolades about my hearty and unladylike appetite. I pleaded last night's rare rib-eye as a factor still in my diminished capacity. I guess I'm just not a rib-eye kind of a girl.
But my Maryland childhood makes me most certainly a crab kind of a girl and these were seasoned and fried up perfectly, so I was very content.
Unlike the unfortunate people still waiting for a table in a room with as many empty as full tables when we left. I just don't get it.
But yes, my friend, the fish was really good. There, I said it.
But then, I'm not a big pasta person. After a while, I get tired of every dish being heavy on garlic and I love garlic. The decibel level is the absolute highest in Richmond and conversations must be endlessly repeated.
And the speed with which the staff clears tables and seats diners during peak periods when the line is down the stairs is excruciatingly slow. Like tonight, there can be a dozen people in line and five empty tables and no one is being seated for half an hour. Huh?
But as my dinner companion reminded me, they do fish really well and I do love fish done right. And he was taking me out for my birthday, so I asked him to choose the destination and he's exceedingly fond of the Squid.
So there we were, shouting our conversation and trying to decide what to eat from a list on which skate wing had already been 86'd. I would have enjoyed some skate wing for my birthday.
A bottle of Venica Collio Pinot Grigio "Jerera" with its long finish bought us time to decide what to eat while the room bustled around us.
Apparently we'd arrived at precisely the right moment because the trio who arrived just after us were not seated for a full hour after we were. They looked starved and we felt guilty about that but it had nothing to do with us.
It was hard not to enjoy the early evening light coming through the windows and bringing the spring evening inside, but the screaming child I could have done without.
I was sharing with my friend a couple of good stories (the stranger asking me to dance on the sidewalk and the stranger sliding the postcard into my lap at the concert), but he's such a cynic that all he could conclude was, "Men always have a strategy to get laid."
Nothing like being a buzz kill for my tales of serendipitous romantic encounters.
We ordered arugula salads with shaved Parmesan and I got one of the night's specials, the softshelled crabs.
Opting out of the usual pasta side, we left it up to the kitchen, who delivered a bowl of flash-cooked snow peas with a hint of soy sauce and oil to them. Major Asian yum.
My friend commented on how strange it was to be in a restaurant so crazily busy and not know a single soul, so of course it was only a matter of minutes before someone I know showed up at the table to say hello and talk of the danger of late night get-togethers (my impending birthday celebration).
For a change, I was chided for not eating more than I did, so different than the usual accolades about my hearty and unladylike appetite. I pleaded last night's rare rib-eye as a factor still in my diminished capacity. I guess I'm just not a rib-eye kind of a girl.
But my Maryland childhood makes me most certainly a crab kind of a girl and these were seasoned and fried up perfectly, so I was very content.
Unlike the unfortunate people still waiting for a table in a room with as many empty as full tables when we left. I just don't get it.
But yes, my friend, the fish was really good. There, I said it.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Bag Me a Lunch, Acacia
When I get an e-mail saying "too good to be true," I sign up immediately and when it turns out to be as good as it sounds, I call it a score. For an hour today, Acacia's Dale Reitzer was making soft-shelled crabs, one of his personal favorites, and creating a lunch-to-go around them. I couldn't think of a single reason not to avail myself of such an offering; I immediately thought of a friend who likes softshells as much as I do and invited him along.
The menu was simple: a softshell sandwich with slaw (say that three times fast), housemade potato chips and a cookie. The e-mail said, "Take Acacia home with you, to the office, or enjoy your bagged lunch in the park." There was never any question that we'd be eating ours anywhere but in the park.
Stopping at Acacia to claim our reserved bags, we were delighted to discover that a limited array of beverages were for sale, mainly soda and water, but also chilled Miller High Life ponies. Can you imagine a more ideal brewed accompaniment for an outdoor lunch? Just a little beer to wet your whistle with your softshells; I thought it was brilliant and told our server so. She explained it by saying, "It's just what I'd want to drink with my lunch in the park."
So we were off to Scuffletown Park with our aromatic white bags to see what Dale had wrought. The sandwiches were large and on the most divine flour-dusted chewy roll you can imagine. The crab and slaw were arranged generously within that show-stopping bread. The housemade chips came in their own lined bag with just the right amount of saltiness. The cookie was molasses and rolled in sugar, providing the perfect sweet (but not too rich) ending to a lovely lunch.
I'm not so foolish as to wish that Acacia did bagged lunches all the time. But when a delicacy like softshells are in season, it's like a gift from the food gods to have someone willing to bag them up to be enjoyed in nature. And at only $10 (including tax, btw), it does border on too good to be true.
Luckily, some things (and people) are too good and true. Those are the things and the people I'm more than happy to experience.
The menu was simple: a softshell sandwich with slaw (say that three times fast), housemade potato chips and a cookie. The e-mail said, "Take Acacia home with you, to the office, or enjoy your bagged lunch in the park." There was never any question that we'd be eating ours anywhere but in the park.
Stopping at Acacia to claim our reserved bags, we were delighted to discover that a limited array of beverages were for sale, mainly soda and water, but also chilled Miller High Life ponies. Can you imagine a more ideal brewed accompaniment for an outdoor lunch? Just a little beer to wet your whistle with your softshells; I thought it was brilliant and told our server so. She explained it by saying, "It's just what I'd want to drink with my lunch in the park."
So we were off to Scuffletown Park with our aromatic white bags to see what Dale had wrought. The sandwiches were large and on the most divine flour-dusted chewy roll you can imagine. The crab and slaw were arranged generously within that show-stopping bread. The housemade chips came in their own lined bag with just the right amount of saltiness. The cookie was molasses and rolled in sugar, providing the perfect sweet (but not too rich) ending to a lovely lunch.
I'm not so foolish as to wish that Acacia did bagged lunches all the time. But when a delicacy like softshells are in season, it's like a gift from the food gods to have someone willing to bag them up to be enjoyed in nature. And at only $10 (including tax, btw), it does border on too good to be true.
Luckily, some things (and people) are too good and true. Those are the things and the people I'm more than happy to experience.
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