Cool Girls Meet-up

Sometimes the best nights start with a question.

"On the unlikely chance that you don't have plans, I'm available for supper tonight."

The fact was, I did have plans tonight to meet up with my Style Weekly compatriots at Southern Railway Taphouse.

The new bar/restaurant in the former deli was tough to find a place to park, but easy to spot the group of writers and sales people.

And while I was late to the party, I arrived in time for the door prizes (I didn't win) and the trivia contest (my food editor did not go to Woodstock, despite many guesses that she had) and an over-priced Don Julio ($12).

At the bar, I ran into a man who recognized my name, remembered my byline and professed to be a regular reader of my work.

"I read you all the time, " he claimed. "And I recognize you!"

That's just creepy, sir. We've never met.

The good news was I had a blast getting to meet all sorts of people I knew only by name and heard stories of a Carver resident who never goes to the Camel and the real Woodstock attendee who saw a guy (tripping) waggling his member against a girl's nose.

The new hire who'd moved from Boston got a lecture from me about being more active in the scene.

I also heard details of several people's trip to Hopscotch, San Fermin being a decided highlight, and joined the discussion of what the Folk Fest coverage should be, at least ideally.

Until we get the Folk Fest right, we can't possibly begin to plan an alternative music festival a la Hopscotch.

And that's definitely one thing we need to do in order to put Richmond on the map.

In the mean time, I'm just trying to meet my co-workers and have some conversation.

"It's always the cool girls who get left behind," the music writer observed once the higher-ups had cleared out, leaving us to dish about discovering bands, ears ringing and day drinking.

Ain't that a shame?

The Story Thus Far

Once, on a hot day in August, I met a painter at Secco so we could talk about life and drink pink wine together.

The wine was Domaine de Fenouillet  Cotes du Ventoux Rose, a pale pink fruity gem with a nice mineral finish, and the painter was Josh George, a NYC transplant with a soft voice and an understated charm.

A retelling of that conversation appeared in "Style Weekly," here, this week, so when I went to Ghostprint Gallery for Josh's opening tonight, there it was laid out on the counter for all to see.

As a non-artist, I've never gotten so much attention at an art opening before and all I did was write about the talent.

And the fact is, I'd have been there to see "The Story Thus Far" whether I'd written the piece or not.

I rarely miss a Ghostprint preview; it's the only sane way to see a show given the crowds on art walk nights (at least back in the days before roving teenagers became an issue).

I'd seen Josh's last show and had been impressed enough to want to see his new work. I was a sure thing tonight.

Tonight's preview was very crowded, perhaps because others also prefer Thursdays and maybe because Josh is extremely talented and the local cognoscenti have picked up on that.

Many of the pieces were large scale works and all were a combination of paint, collage and layers of varnish, giving a depth of detail and intricacy that required slow and mindful viewing so as not to miss anything.

Walking in, I went over to the first painting where a guy was staring intently at the scene of a band performing.

When he saw me, he turned and said with awe, "That's Iron Maiden, you know!"

I hadn't known that, but I had known that Josh is a death metal fan, so I wasn't as surprised as this guy was.

His friend smiled at me as if to say, "Thanks for tolerating his enthusiasm," but I understood.

The rest of the show is full of domestic scenes and city scenes, some showing buildings much taller than anything in Richmond.

As I had discovered during my Secco interlude, Josh is a wine lover (the first thing he'd told me after saying hello tonight was to get a glass of the Italian sparkler because it was good) and wine made its presence known in more than a few paintings.

In "Carrot Chopper," a bottle of Vouvray sits on the women's cutting board, perhaps her reward once her chopping was finished.

Josh's dry wit came through in "Posso Avere il Conto Per Favore?" where a bottle of wine on the waiter's tray is labeled with "Masterpiece Musee Picasso."

A similar reinterpretation is seen in "Man's Best Soup" where one of the cans on the shelf behind the soup-eater has a label saying "Mastercard accepted in more than 6500 shops and restaurants in Belgium."

If the viewer didn't look closely at the wine glass or the can, though, they'd miss the subtle humor of both.

"Formidable Opponent" showed a woman taking down two men, one of whom she was holding by the feet upside down.

Formidable indeed.

During the reception, a woman I know came up and conspiratorially asked me about my blog.

"I can't tell from reading it if you have a man, or you're looking for a man or if you're not. Tell me, what's really going on?"

As I opened my mouth to answer her, a guy appeared behind her and asked me, "Didn't we meet before?"

It wasn't a line; we had met a Balliceaux a while back when he was considering moving from Brooklyn to RVA.

Last week he moved here, just in time for Hurricane Irene.

I got so busy talking to him about Sazeracs, antelope and Napoleon cabs that I never got a chance to get back to that other conversation.

Really, what is going on?

My Words with Pictures

I'm old-school enough to still enjoy the print product.

So today's "Style Weekly," weighing in at a hefty 236 pages, is right up my alley as a reader.

As a writer, it was a lot of fun to work on, albeit in a ridiculously short period of time.

Did I mention that is was 236 pages?

As I read through the magazine, I was reminded of why I live here and blog in the first place.

Richmond has so much to offer and as one who is always out trying to avail myself of all that, it's nice to see that others acknowledge it, too.

Back in the Food and Drink section, my pieces on Buz Grossberg of Buz and Ned's Real Barbecue (my first time there, something I didn't mention at the interview), pricey wine (none of which I'll likely ever taste), fisherman "Cowboy" Smith (who paid me more than a few compliments on a bridge), and Man Most Likely to Be Dining Out (which is exactly how we met and bonded) were the most eye-catching, while some of my smaller submissions didn't garner pictures, but still represented work on my part.

Not that I'm complaining because I had loads of fun doing it.

Well, doing what I always do, but sharing it with an even wider audience this time.

And of course I always enjoy talking to strangers.

So if you're feeling at all old-school, check out "Style" in print.

It's a visual treat.

Spreading the Blog Hate

I was caught off guard by who came to my defense when negative and inaccurate comments about me started being tossed around in the online world, here. Let's just say I was impressed with the array of interesting people who had my back.

And to those people, all of whom named themselves, I extend a heartfelt thanks for the kind words. For those willing to blast me but not leave their real names, please allow me to address your concerns.

Ex-Chef: Sorry, but I am not, nor have I ever been, Karen Miller. I have never lived or worked in North Carolina or been a part of the hospitality industry. You can get snarky all you want, but there's no reason to trash another Karen and then point people to my blog. At least have the decency to hate me for me.

To A Lowely Line Cook: I have said repeatedly in my blog that I am NOT a food blogger. Mine is a lifestyle blog with occasional food references. And yet again I'll point out that I did not ask to be on eatingrichmond.com. Jason asked me to add my blog and I declined, citing specifically that I was not a food blogger. He persisted saying that I would be relevant on the site, I disagreed, he insisted and I finally relented. For the last time, I am NOT a food blogger (nor having sex in the city, if that was your implication; I don't watch TV so I'm not exactly sure).

And to Stop Eating at Chains: You certainly are a regular reader of my blog for someone who clearly doesn't enjoy what I write (and thinks my head is going to pop). Here's the thing, though. I don't for a moment believe that I'm great, as you seem to think. I do think I'm having a great time, all things considered. If that annoys you, so be it.

Better yet, lighten up.

Improvising Our Way to Can Can

There's two ways to look at an unexpected change in plans.

A favorite friend and I thought we were going to a lecture, except that one of us had the date wrong (totally my fault, but totally understandable if you saw all the stuff I keep track of on my calendar).

Since we already had planned to eat together afterwords, we just changed our plans to replace the lecture with a walk and then eat lunch at Bonvenu, as we'd talked about.

Except that Bonvenue only does lunch on Saturdays and Sundays; instead we admired the lunch menu and hope to make it back some weekend to try it.

No problem, my friend said, let's go to Can Can and have moules and frites.

Given the beautiful day, the fact that she was off and out for a change and that we now had a bonus hour in which to goof off, it sounded like the most wonderful lunch we could have hoped for.

Plans? What plans?

Noonish at CanCan apparently means a crowd out the door to get in, so we made a beeline to our favorite table, known as the bar.

The front windows were wide open and the sunny air was pouring in.

Since we'd already determined what we'd be eating, the only decision remaining was the broth (white wine and garlic, natch) and the beverage.

She looked at me and asked, "Should we have a glass of wine?" and before I could answer she qualified it with, "But I can only have one!"

You know, as opposed to the four or five glasses we usually have at lunch.

Kidding.

We usually go dry at lunch, she and I; it's dinner where we're less circumspect (see: Sunday at Ipanema).

So it was that I enjoyed a glass of rose (complimentary because they didn't have a full pour left and it was the last bottle) and she the chenin blanc with our mussels and fries.

I was a little disappointed that at the end of my bowl, five of my mussels were still closed and thus inedible, but I made up for it by eating every last perfectly-cooked fry.

I'm not ashamed to say I even emptied the last little salty bits of the paper cone into my hand to make sure I didn't miss any.

The pace of our walk after lunch was decidedly slower than beforehand, but why rush on a day like this?

True, we hadn't improved our minds any without the lecture, but the drawn-out pleasures of a leisurely girls' lunch out (and with Style's State of the Plate issue to dish over) can't be overstated.

Or as my friend said midway through our sunny lunch, "It feels like I'm on vacation!"