Some people are trouble.
Like the friend you haven't been out with at night for a couple of years.
You know the kind.
When her husband dropped her off at my house for an evening of debauchery, I asked when I should have her home.
Without missing a beat, he said, "Sun-up."
Well, that certainly gave us some wiggle room.
After much back and forth about where to spend our evening, we started fairly early at C'est le Vin since she'd never been there.
Given the choice of a table on the dining room side or on the bar side, we opted for the latter, taking a high wooden table near the bar.
Our affable server set the tone for the evening by telling us to take our time and order at our own pace.
We didn't need to be told twice.
It had been ages since we'd had a girls' night out and we only had about a hundred things to discuss.
Like who's opening new restaurants where. And why beagles are the best dogs ever. And how satisfying it is to make a mix CD and have people hear a song they love on it.
The Verdejo we ordered was out of stock until Friday, so we settled on a Spanish blend to whet our whistles and began ordering.
Since it was small plates, we justified ordering an endless stream of them.
Stuffed poquillo peppers with herbed goat cheese and toasted pine nuts, a dish I've had several times, were an immediate hit with my friend.
Peppered crab with asparagus and roasted corn delivered summer flavors.
Shrimp with roasted garlic aioli was as good as I remembered from my last visit.
Mid-meal, a train lumbered by on the track right behind Havana, making a picture-perfect view from where we sat.
The seared polenta with poblano peppers was crispy on the outside and creamy inside.
Sirloin and Chorizo meatballs with shaved Parmesan were so good we ended up ordering a second plate of them.
Broiled endive with Gorgonzola, orange candied walnuts and blueberry vinaigrette managed to be both light and rich at the same time.
As we sat there blathering away about men, day trips and exes, a gallery-owning friend came in with an antiques dealer.
Not long after, the tango crowd arrived and lessons were being given while other couples tangoed up and down the room.
Watching them tango almost made me want to try to learn but I'm not sure I could have talked my friend into dancing cheek to cheek with me.
I did mention to our server that I thought he looked like Luther Vandross in his young, skinny phase (coincidentally, not long before our server was born) and he was so intrigued that he immediately asked the owner to Google pictures of the singer so he could see.
As we walked out, he thanked us for coming in and gave me the thumbs up for the comparison.
Since we'd missed the Purple Martin Festival by four days, we decided to do a little bird watching on our own.
Heading down 17th Street toward the Bradford pear trees where the martins roost, we reluctantly admitted to ourselves that we should have come out at dusk to see their swooping sky maneuvers.
But although they were no longer airborne, they were still wide awake and the chattering of hundreds of birds in the trees above us made clear that no one had settled down for the night yet.
So we weren't the only ones.
Every branch was alive with purple martins nearly as numerous as leaves on the pear trees against the midnight-blue sky.
It was our own mini-martin festival.
Leaving the the birds in the Bottom, we headed back to Jackson Ward for a nightcap.
At the Belvidere at Broad, we found a full nearly full bar with two seats available.
Sliding into them, bartender Matt introduced a new bartender, saying, "This is Karen. She's been here longer than I have."
What do you expect for a place two blocks from my house?
While music from the '80s blared, we chatted with the owner about sailing (which I haven't done), painting (I can't imagine going home after a night out and getting out my brushes) and his new digs (not far from my own).
By the time we finished our drinks and conversation, we were the sole occupants of the restaurant.
Reluctantly, we ended our evening.
And it wasn't even sun-up.
But now that I look outside, I'm seeing a different story.
Debauching takes time. I'm thinking we shouldn't wait so long next time.
Showing posts with label the Belvidere at Broad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the Belvidere at Broad. Show all posts
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Something Comes from Nothing
Perhaps I should be concerned.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
It's gotten to the point where my birthday celebrating is being acknowledged by complete strangers.
But friends, too. And it was with a very good longtime friend that I spent a few cocktail hours at Rowland.
She came bearing a perfect gift: pink bubbles (Casas del Mar Rose) and loads of stories about her recent trip to NYC, the orgy going on in her backyard this past weekend and her legacy (not at all what she thinks it will be).
Over a nice dry white Bordeaux, we snacked on some of the $5 happy hour appetizers including the butterbean cake and the pork schnitzel with a soft-cooked egg and tomatillo sauce.
Since we weren't first-timers at Rowland's happy hour, I was pleased to see that they change up their happy hour offerings.
Well, except the signature butterbean cake which should never leave the menu, if you ask me.
As we went to leave, a white-haired woman at a table spoke to me. "Happy birthday! Keep celebrating!"
Don't worry, I assured her, I do this all month long.
"You should! Enjoy it!" she said grinning ear to ear as her companion nodded.
How did they even know?
Honestly, I get the best stranger talk.
From there I went to the Belvidere for burgers (my quintessential birthday meal) with a different crew and, this time the chatter revolved around music (Grimes, St. Vincent and new Sigur Ros) and old friends (like Ben, the master of the one-liner).
It was especially interesting because we had three Geminis at the table, so although only four chairs were occupied, there were at least seven personalities present.
Invite us and it's an instant party.
Eventually the birthday revelry ended and I made it to the Camel for music to finish out my evening.
The first person I saw was Matt from Goldrush and he had an amusing story to share about a mutual friend who had called him out about they way a classical piece was listed in the symphony's program.
Seems that after giving Matt, who plays with the symphony and is their librarian, a hard time (deservedly, he admitted) he brought up my name (to show they had something in common, I guess).
I was less interested in that than the cigarette Matt had behind his ear since he's a non-smoker.
Seems it was about their absent drummer. "It's my tribute to Greg Butler," he informed me.
I'd have asked what happened to Greg but Matt was off for a beer, so I made my way to the front.
I'd heard such good things about The Hill and Wood and I loved that they'd named their band after a Charlottesville funeral home.
It took no time at all for me to hear what the buzz was about.
TH&W straddled that line between folk and chamber pop with well-written songs, male/female harmonies, keyboards and, for a few songs, the lovely addition of a horn.
"This is such a special occasion that we brought along our trumpet player," lead singer Sam said.
As an unabashed fan of what horns add to chamber pop or electro-folk or whatever TH&W are, I was sorry when the trumpet player left the stage after a few songs.
"Is everyone okay?" Sam asked. "Can we get you anything?"
A longer set maybe? A crowd that shuts the hell up so people like me or the music-loving friends I ran into tonight could actually hear the beautiful music the band was making?
No such luck so I moved in closer for their outstanding cover of "The Good Thing" by Talking Heads.
A straight line exists between me and the good things
I have found the line and its direction is known to me
For their last song, Sam asked plaintively, "If it's possible, we would love for you to listen."
I know I'm spoiled by the Listening Room, but should a musician really have to say that?
Sadly, yes, but fortunately they'll be playing the Listening Room in July so at least I can count on hearing every note then.
After the break ("More violin in the monitor!" is not something you hear everyday), the lights dimmed and singer Prabir of Goldrush yelled, "Welcome to the future!" as they began their set with a different Greg drumming.
I watched as Matt's head bobbed frantically as he played upright bass, the cig never budging from its lodging behind his ear.
Now that's a professional.
Because I've seen Goldrush many times, I was happily surprised to hear lots of new material, although violinist Treesa (looking adorable in her cute skirt and sweater) admitted that playing so many new songs made her nervous.
Prabir cured his nervousness his way. "If I could just get a shot of tequila, that would help a lot," he said mid-set to no one in particular and it was delivered not long after.
And consumed in short order.
It must have helped because they were smooth as glass for "Kiss and Make Up" to close their set and end my evening.
Friends, food, wine, music.
What was I worried about? I've got no reason to be concerned.
It's a straight line to the good things.
Okay, as straight as a Gemini gets.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Tales from Urban Bohemia
Chapter 1: In which there is a reprieve
With news that Ettamae's was closing, my J-Ward buddy and I went to lunch with heavy hearts.
Our server greeted us by saying, "You know it's our last day?" I called dibs on the last shrimp BLT and we ate on the balcony where it was muggy, hazy and bittersweet.
By the time we were paying, it was announced that they'd be open through Mother's Day brunch.
It makes me sad that a favorite neighborhood spot isn't being supported. "Sorry about Ettamae's. You did the most to keep it going!" a friend writes.
And here I thought their house-made corned beef and fruit tarts were enough. Hang on, Ettamae's. We need your kind.
Chapter 2: In which thoughts turn to Girl Scout campouts
Holmes and his main squeeze wanted escorts for the First Fridays artwalk so I rounded up a fourth and we began with Michel Chiarlo Barbera d'Asti here before heading to Corporate Museum and Frame to see Holmes' friend's show.
"River Road" by John Henley encompassed all kinds of river views, some familiar and some not. The Belle Isle quarry was instantly recognizable (although not to all, sadly) but Huguenot Woods not so much.
A photograph of Dutch Gap reminded me of the last places I went kayaking and rowing.
I run into a handsome theater critic friend who gulps mid-conversation, saying, "My date just walked out the door!" before doing the same.
Ghostprint Gallery's show by Juan Perdiguero, "Perros Indalo," was captivating for the classically-posed, almost portrait-like drawings over photographs of dogs.
The Spanish artist was in the building, telling of how he photographed the stray dogs that wandered into his studio space and superimposed them over photographs of indigenous vegetation
At one of the G40 pop-up galleries, I couldn't help but notice "Saturday Night Soldiers," an image of people happily lost on a dance floor.
A girl came up behind me to look at it, turning to her companion and asking, "Do you have an extra $900 on you?" He did not.
In a basement (my first under Broad Street) at another G40 pop-up, I saw a Lichtenstein-like mixed media piece with the prophetic "The world is mine. Now what?" sentiment as its message.
My question exactly.
Dinner was at a back booth at the Belvidere with Vinho Verde, smoked salmon and beef tenderloin.
Pat Benetar ruled the women's bathroom and in the restaurant, it was Rolling Stones. Holmes claimed it was the best rice he'd had in Richmond.
Final stop of the evening was at Bistro 27 for cocktails, although mine consisted only of Cazadores with a large slow-melting cube.
The treat was $1 dessert, made by mixologist Bobby Kruger. Huge homemade marshmallows on sticks were rolled in dark chocolate and then graham cracker crumbs.
Nothing like it before tequila. Music was appropriately indie and non-restaurant like (hello, XX and Empire of the Sun) and conversation ensued over Death in the Afternoon and gin/dark rum Negronis.
Walking home, a magnificent moon foreshadows Saturday's super moon.
What else can a person do but play Pet Shop Boys and imagine domino dancing?
Chapter 3: In which we are not wristband-worthy
With RVA Beerfest at Gallery 5 and barely three blocks from my front door, the afternoon was all about bands and beer-slicked floors.
Paying our admission, we were asked for IDs. We'd not brought ours since we weren't drinking beer. We were allowed in without benefit of an identifying bracelet.
Who comes to Beerfest not to drink?
The New Belgians were playing their brand of funk/soul/jazz with Marcus Tenney doing triple duty on sax, tambourine and vocals.
Black Girls followed and the crowd increased exponentially, although not in that dance-y way they respond at Balliceaux.
Party in full swing, Beerfest immediately changed their end time from 6:00 to 7:00. I saw my favorite Beer Betty who marveled at seeing me in summer attire.
Fact is, in this kind of humidity and stickiness, everyone who possibly can settles for shorts and a tank top.
Even dress-wearers...when prodded.
I saw bags of Frozen Water being delivered to the kegs and people getting endless samples of beer.
One guy sampled and recommended it to his friend who demurred. "Aw, come on, try it," he cajoled. "Oh, wait, is that beer pressure?"
Groan. Some people's jokes remind me of corny uncle humor.
Chapter 4: In which there is no celebration of Cinqo de Mayo
Walking from 13th Street to Bistro Bobette, I pause at the door of La Grotta. Seeing it's raining, a well-maintained looking woman starts out and stops, turning to her group.
"Oh, it's raining. Our fireworks will be canceled."
I'm pretty much positive I will never utter those words in my life.
Inside the restaurant, I find one stool and an amiable bar crowd. I kiss the bartender's cheeks and later he introduces me to a guy apropos of nothing.
Turns out the guy had inquired about the source of the bartender's lip prints and I was being introduced as Exhibit A.
Meanwhile, the bar crowd yields a variety of people with whom I can chat.
There's a Brit currently building a house in the south of France.
There's a familiar dachshund owner raving about a Sichuan restaurant near Staples Mill.
There's a French gendarme ("It's like your C.I.D.") who has jurisdiction in any French territory in the world.
I eat off the bar specials menu, particularly enjoying hearts of artichoke over micro-greens.
The creamy texture of the hearts in ailoi makes for a rich indulgence. Swordfish bites with onion and tomato benefit from a dipping sauce.
The gendarme moves over and joins me, using his accented English to make small talk, or as small as you can get when discussing Spinoza or Alain.
After explaining where he has authority, I conclude that I can break the law in Bobette and he will be unable to do anything about it.
He says should that happen, he will advise me of my error and allow me to make my own mistakes.
I have ordered Kaffir lime ice cream based on the chef's recommendation and when it arrives, I offer the gendarme a bite.
"Francis says this is wonderful," I offer.
"Have you been to France?" he inquires.
"No," I admit.
"Then how can you say it's wonderful?" he asks.
"I said Francis says it's wonderful," I correct, pointing at the ice cream.
He grabs my face and kisses my cheek.
"You are honest. For that you get a kiss," he explains.
He orders a bottle of Moutard Pere et Fils Rose, presumably for its pink fruitiness but also because he is recently returned to this country after time in the Middle East.
I am happy to have a glass and talk about our favorite authors.
I run into a girlfriend who is stressed and make a joke that transforms her.
"That's the biggest smile I've had in weeks," she says. "Thank you for that."
Just doing my job.
Chapter 5: In which I do not see the whole of the moon
Leaving the restaurant, there is a sax player filling the air and the sidewalks of the Slip are bustling with people.
The temperature is just about perfect and the humidity is still curling my straight bangs.
A mile and I'm home where I linger outside hoping that the super moon will be visible, but alas.
I'll have to hope for something super tomorrow instead.
Chapter 6 should do just fine.
With news that Ettamae's was closing, my J-Ward buddy and I went to lunch with heavy hearts.
Our server greeted us by saying, "You know it's our last day?" I called dibs on the last shrimp BLT and we ate on the balcony where it was muggy, hazy and bittersweet.
By the time we were paying, it was announced that they'd be open through Mother's Day brunch.
It makes me sad that a favorite neighborhood spot isn't being supported. "Sorry about Ettamae's. You did the most to keep it going!" a friend writes.
And here I thought their house-made corned beef and fruit tarts were enough. Hang on, Ettamae's. We need your kind.
Chapter 2: In which thoughts turn to Girl Scout campouts
Holmes and his main squeeze wanted escorts for the First Fridays artwalk so I rounded up a fourth and we began with Michel Chiarlo Barbera d'Asti here before heading to Corporate Museum and Frame to see Holmes' friend's show.
"River Road" by John Henley encompassed all kinds of river views, some familiar and some not. The Belle Isle quarry was instantly recognizable (although not to all, sadly) but Huguenot Woods not so much.
A photograph of Dutch Gap reminded me of the last places I went kayaking and rowing.
I run into a handsome theater critic friend who gulps mid-conversation, saying, "My date just walked out the door!" before doing the same.
Ghostprint Gallery's show by Juan Perdiguero, "Perros Indalo," was captivating for the classically-posed, almost portrait-like drawings over photographs of dogs.
The Spanish artist was in the building, telling of how he photographed the stray dogs that wandered into his studio space and superimposed them over photographs of indigenous vegetation
At one of the G40 pop-up galleries, I couldn't help but notice "Saturday Night Soldiers," an image of people happily lost on a dance floor.
A girl came up behind me to look at it, turning to her companion and asking, "Do you have an extra $900 on you?" He did not.
In a basement (my first under Broad Street) at another G40 pop-up, I saw a Lichtenstein-like mixed media piece with the prophetic "The world is mine. Now what?" sentiment as its message.
My question exactly.
Dinner was at a back booth at the Belvidere with Vinho Verde, smoked salmon and beef tenderloin.
Pat Benetar ruled the women's bathroom and in the restaurant, it was Rolling Stones. Holmes claimed it was the best rice he'd had in Richmond.
Final stop of the evening was at Bistro 27 for cocktails, although mine consisted only of Cazadores with a large slow-melting cube.
The treat was $1 dessert, made by mixologist Bobby Kruger. Huge homemade marshmallows on sticks were rolled in dark chocolate and then graham cracker crumbs.
Nothing like it before tequila. Music was appropriately indie and non-restaurant like (hello, XX and Empire of the Sun) and conversation ensued over Death in the Afternoon and gin/dark rum Negronis.
Walking home, a magnificent moon foreshadows Saturday's super moon.
What else can a person do but play Pet Shop Boys and imagine domino dancing?
Chapter 3: In which we are not wristband-worthy
With RVA Beerfest at Gallery 5 and barely three blocks from my front door, the afternoon was all about bands and beer-slicked floors.
Paying our admission, we were asked for IDs. We'd not brought ours since we weren't drinking beer. We were allowed in without benefit of an identifying bracelet.
Who comes to Beerfest not to drink?
The New Belgians were playing their brand of funk/soul/jazz with Marcus Tenney doing triple duty on sax, tambourine and vocals.
Black Girls followed and the crowd increased exponentially, although not in that dance-y way they respond at Balliceaux.
Party in full swing, Beerfest immediately changed their end time from 6:00 to 7:00. I saw my favorite Beer Betty who marveled at seeing me in summer attire.
Fact is, in this kind of humidity and stickiness, everyone who possibly can settles for shorts and a tank top.
Even dress-wearers...when prodded.
I saw bags of Frozen Water being delivered to the kegs and people getting endless samples of beer.
One guy sampled and recommended it to his friend who demurred. "Aw, come on, try it," he cajoled. "Oh, wait, is that beer pressure?"
Groan. Some people's jokes remind me of corny uncle humor.
Chapter 4: In which there is no celebration of Cinqo de Mayo
Walking from 13th Street to Bistro Bobette, I pause at the door of La Grotta. Seeing it's raining, a well-maintained looking woman starts out and stops, turning to her group.
"Oh, it's raining. Our fireworks will be canceled."
I'm pretty much positive I will never utter those words in my life.
Inside the restaurant, I find one stool and an amiable bar crowd. I kiss the bartender's cheeks and later he introduces me to a guy apropos of nothing.
Turns out the guy had inquired about the source of the bartender's lip prints and I was being introduced as Exhibit A.
Meanwhile, the bar crowd yields a variety of people with whom I can chat.
There's a Brit currently building a house in the south of France.
There's a familiar dachshund owner raving about a Sichuan restaurant near Staples Mill.
There's a French gendarme ("It's like your C.I.D.") who has jurisdiction in any French territory in the world.
I eat off the bar specials menu, particularly enjoying hearts of artichoke over micro-greens.
The creamy texture of the hearts in ailoi makes for a rich indulgence. Swordfish bites with onion and tomato benefit from a dipping sauce.
The gendarme moves over and joins me, using his accented English to make small talk, or as small as you can get when discussing Spinoza or Alain.
After explaining where he has authority, I conclude that I can break the law in Bobette and he will be unable to do anything about it.
He says should that happen, he will advise me of my error and allow me to make my own mistakes.
I have ordered Kaffir lime ice cream based on the chef's recommendation and when it arrives, I offer the gendarme a bite.
"Francis says this is wonderful," I offer.
"Have you been to France?" he inquires.
"No," I admit.
"Then how can you say it's wonderful?" he asks.
"I said Francis says it's wonderful," I correct, pointing at the ice cream.
He grabs my face and kisses my cheek.
"You are honest. For that you get a kiss," he explains.
He orders a bottle of Moutard Pere et Fils Rose, presumably for its pink fruitiness but also because he is recently returned to this country after time in the Middle East.
I am happy to have a glass and talk about our favorite authors.
I run into a girlfriend who is stressed and make a joke that transforms her.
"That's the biggest smile I've had in weeks," she says. "Thank you for that."
Just doing my job.
Chapter 5: In which I do not see the whole of the moon
Leaving the restaurant, there is a sax player filling the air and the sidewalks of the Slip are bustling with people.
The temperature is just about perfect and the humidity is still curling my straight bangs.
A mile and I'm home where I linger outside hoping that the super moon will be visible, but alas.
I'll have to hope for something super tomorrow instead.
Chapter 6 should do just fine.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Love Life Luck
I only had to be back in town for an hour and a half to regain my Richmond footing.
Which meant scraping the crab bits, sand and dust off of me in order to clean up and be at Steady Sounds by 6:00.
The occasion was the Diamond Center's 7" release show but the evening was starting with an Athens band.
Casper and the Cookies were apparently old friends of THDC and their power pop was energetic and immediate.
I found them just plain fun but someone with a far better music vocabulary then me mentioned their poly-rhythms.
Favorite into: "This song is about a guy who finds his love life luck in dating villianesses."
Not ashamed to say that the first person who came to mind was Cruella DeVille.
There were assorted mentions of drugs, French immigrants and body odor, making for the best kind of self-deprecating humor.
You could also tell they'd been playing together for a while.
One of the two drummers (always a good thing) said that the keyboard player had won them no fans when he opened up a recent show by asking, "So you're the people who voted for Santorum?"
I love clever stage banter.
They closed with "The Boys are Back in Town," especially satisfying for the female bassist/vocalist, never mind that the song is 36 years old.
As in, practically middle-aged.
After a break where I chatted with a Blood Brother, re-met a guy I'd met at a Hitchcock event a while back and rubbed the cheek of TDC's Kyle to appreciate the stubble of a beard he'd shaved off only this morning when the band returned from tour at 5 a.m., it was time for the main event.
The guy I'd re-met had come because he'd read that TDC was one of the ten best RVA bands and I affirmed that for him before their set began.
It was only my humble opinion, of course.
But then they launched into their distinctive, in the words of someone who makes his living with music, "psychedelic tribal goth." and I felt sure that the first-timer now understood their deserved place on the list.
I will never get tired of Kyle and his Rickenbaker (although I will continue to hope for the day when he has a 12-string Rickenbaker) or not enjoy Tim, the standing drummer.
The fact that half the band is female only adds to what I love because Brandi's voice and stage presence and Lindsay's keyboards are so integral to the experience.
They closed with the two songs on the new 7" (with a very vintage Decca-like looking label), "California" and "Bells," showing everyone in the room why they needed to buy this record.
You have to appreciate a band that gets home from tour at the crack of dawn and is playing a show fourteen hours later for the locals.
Not to mention a touring band who does an early show on an off night, making a Sunday a whole lot better for it.
Likewise, you have to appreciate having a record store that hosts music shows three block from home.
Or a neighborhood bar on the next block where a special of Asian pork is cooked to medium perfection and melts in my mouth like (spicy) butter.
Especially when it's followed by chocolate espresso pudding with white chocolate shavings.
Unlike my recent time in Annapolis, I didn't see any bikes parked under big boats in dry dock.
Just pop, psychedelia, Tomaresca and all kinds of people I know.
You are very Richmond if...
you can fall back into everything you enjoy about Richmond within 90 minutes of walking in the door.
Pshaw. Easy as falling off a log, even for this non-native.
Which meant scraping the crab bits, sand and dust off of me in order to clean up and be at Steady Sounds by 6:00.
The occasion was the Diamond Center's 7" release show but the evening was starting with an Athens band.
Casper and the Cookies were apparently old friends of THDC and their power pop was energetic and immediate.
I found them just plain fun but someone with a far better music vocabulary then me mentioned their poly-rhythms.
Favorite into: "This song is about a guy who finds his love life luck in dating villianesses."
Not ashamed to say that the first person who came to mind was Cruella DeVille.
There were assorted mentions of drugs, French immigrants and body odor, making for the best kind of self-deprecating humor.
You could also tell they'd been playing together for a while.
One of the two drummers (always a good thing) said that the keyboard player had won them no fans when he opened up a recent show by asking, "So you're the people who voted for Santorum?"
I love clever stage banter.
They closed with "The Boys are Back in Town," especially satisfying for the female bassist/vocalist, never mind that the song is 36 years old.
As in, practically middle-aged.
After a break where I chatted with a Blood Brother, re-met a guy I'd met at a Hitchcock event a while back and rubbed the cheek of TDC's Kyle to appreciate the stubble of a beard he'd shaved off only this morning when the band returned from tour at 5 a.m., it was time for the main event.
The guy I'd re-met had come because he'd read that TDC was one of the ten best RVA bands and I affirmed that for him before their set began.
It was only my humble opinion, of course.
But then they launched into their distinctive, in the words of someone who makes his living with music, "psychedelic tribal goth." and I felt sure that the first-timer now understood their deserved place on the list.
I will never get tired of Kyle and his Rickenbaker (although I will continue to hope for the day when he has a 12-string Rickenbaker) or not enjoy Tim, the standing drummer.
The fact that half the band is female only adds to what I love because Brandi's voice and stage presence and Lindsay's keyboards are so integral to the experience.
They closed with the two songs on the new 7" (with a very vintage Decca-like looking label), "California" and "Bells," showing everyone in the room why they needed to buy this record.
You have to appreciate a band that gets home from tour at the crack of dawn and is playing a show fourteen hours later for the locals.
Not to mention a touring band who does an early show on an off night, making a Sunday a whole lot better for it.
Likewise, you have to appreciate having a record store that hosts music shows three block from home.
Or a neighborhood bar on the next block where a special of Asian pork is cooked to medium perfection and melts in my mouth like (spicy) butter.
Especially when it's followed by chocolate espresso pudding with white chocolate shavings.
Unlike my recent time in Annapolis, I didn't see any bikes parked under big boats in dry dock.
Just pop, psychedelia, Tomaresca and all kinds of people I know.
You are very Richmond if...
you can fall back into everything you enjoy about Richmond within 90 minutes of walking in the door.
Pshaw. Easy as falling off a log, even for this non-native.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
In the Eye of the Beholder
The art was all about the breakup.
The meal was all about the date.
The music was all about the girl getting it.
I got the ball rolling at an empty Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Gatao Vinho Verde and a Todd S. Hale art show.
There were two distinct groups, the colorful one of acrylics with oil or enamel on wood panels and the black and white one of charcoal on paper.
The first group were larger and abstract with occasional recognizable features like leaves, bones and drips. There was a certain exuberance to them.
But it was the other six pieces, the charcoals, that really captured me.
The series, called "The Vegetable Mind," began with a feathery branch-looking image, morphing into something fuller and multi-branched.
By the fourth one, it was starting to look head-like. The fifth looked like a guy violently shaking his head, with hair flying everywhere.
In the last was a dark head portrait of a guy with the saddest eyes and mouth.
A server saw me studying them and we got to talking about the series. She said that the artist had said that he had been going through the aftermath of a breakup when he'd done them.
Now I got in. Well, I didn't just get it, I felt his pain.
It was right there for all to see, much like a lot of my writing for several years. Plain as the noses on our faces.
That information led to a discussion with her of art history in general.
It's her major and my degree, so we'd found kindred souls to geek out with about all things art.
And, believe me, that doesn't happen very often.
Let's just say I don't often find someone who wants to discuss German expressionism, so when I do, I'm all over it.
All of a sudden I looked up and realized that I'd promised to be somewhere and I wasn't there.
Somebody was in the mood for pizza, so we made the trek to Stuzzi and found stools at the bar.
Next to us were a couple on a date and she was especially eager to chat us up.
Frankly, she was offering up way more information than I wanted to hear, but there was a once-trapped, now free air to her and she was ready to over-share.
In a nutshell: married at nineteen, three sons in short order, years of boredom and decades later, escapee.
She mentioned that in one of her son's high school yearbooks, a friend of his had admitted that he wanted to have sex with her.
Her son also showed up at Stuzzi shortly thereafter. You know, because everyone wants their 27-year old son on their date.
It's times like that when a person appreciates that a margherita pizza only takes 90 seconds to arrive.
Not that she didn't try to restart the conversation again, but with wine and food now, we at least had an out.
We finished with a Nutella and banana-stuffed calzone as big as my head and oozing sweetly dark creaminess.
My favorite part of everything she was over-sharing came when she looked at me and said, "You're smarter than I am."
I can only hope. And a lot more discreet, too.
Balliceaux called to us next for the RVA Big Band, a seventeen-piece that half-filled the room with its sheer size.
It was my first time seeing this new project, sort of a Devil's Workshop for the new decade.
I recognized several familiar faces in the band (including two favorites, Jason Scott and Marcus Tenney) and even more in the crowd.
The music ranged from newer to classic selections and their rendition of "Back to the Apple" by Count Basie closed out the first set with a swing that could make a person's hips move involuntarily.
It was dance music, pure and simple. Hips should move.
They had a girl on baritone sax and the big, deep solos coming out of her slender form elicited comments like, "Get it, girl!" from fellow musicians and audience members.
During the break, I spoke to a couple of jazz lovers, a student of jazz studies who was playing in the band along with the pros and a music-loving friend who was as impressed with a Monday night show as I was.
I'm thrilled that they're trying it out as a weekly series since it's often tough to find live music on a Monday.
When we finally decided to leave, it was mainly because I'd been up since the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., something I never do and am not very good at.
Looking back at the evening, I was feeling pretty good about myself.
I don't have that sad broken-up look that Hale's art did, I didn't waste decades in a suffocating marriage, and a guy told me I had the legs of a sixteen-year old.
And all that was before I got to hear seventeen talented musicians play music for me while I lounged on a vintage love seat.
You just never know.
Monday, Monday, so good to me
Monday, Monday, it was all I'd hoped it would be.
The meal was all about the date.
The music was all about the girl getting it.
I got the ball rolling at an empty Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Gatao Vinho Verde and a Todd S. Hale art show.
There were two distinct groups, the colorful one of acrylics with oil or enamel on wood panels and the black and white one of charcoal on paper.
The first group were larger and abstract with occasional recognizable features like leaves, bones and drips. There was a certain exuberance to them.
But it was the other six pieces, the charcoals, that really captured me.
The series, called "The Vegetable Mind," began with a feathery branch-looking image, morphing into something fuller and multi-branched.
By the fourth one, it was starting to look head-like. The fifth looked like a guy violently shaking his head, with hair flying everywhere.
In the last was a dark head portrait of a guy with the saddest eyes and mouth.
A server saw me studying them and we got to talking about the series. She said that the artist had said that he had been going through the aftermath of a breakup when he'd done them.
Now I got in. Well, I didn't just get it, I felt his pain.
It was right there for all to see, much like a lot of my writing for several years. Plain as the noses on our faces.
That information led to a discussion with her of art history in general.
It's her major and my degree, so we'd found kindred souls to geek out with about all things art.
And, believe me, that doesn't happen very often.
Let's just say I don't often find someone who wants to discuss German expressionism, so when I do, I'm all over it.
All of a sudden I looked up and realized that I'd promised to be somewhere and I wasn't there.
Somebody was in the mood for pizza, so we made the trek to Stuzzi and found stools at the bar.
Next to us were a couple on a date and she was especially eager to chat us up.
Frankly, she was offering up way more information than I wanted to hear, but there was a once-trapped, now free air to her and she was ready to over-share.
In a nutshell: married at nineteen, three sons in short order, years of boredom and decades later, escapee.
She mentioned that in one of her son's high school yearbooks, a friend of his had admitted that he wanted to have sex with her.
Her son also showed up at Stuzzi shortly thereafter. You know, because everyone wants their 27-year old son on their date.
It's times like that when a person appreciates that a margherita pizza only takes 90 seconds to arrive.
Not that she didn't try to restart the conversation again, but with wine and food now, we at least had an out.
We finished with a Nutella and banana-stuffed calzone as big as my head and oozing sweetly dark creaminess.
My favorite part of everything she was over-sharing came when she looked at me and said, "You're smarter than I am."
I can only hope. And a lot more discreet, too.
Balliceaux called to us next for the RVA Big Band, a seventeen-piece that half-filled the room with its sheer size.
It was my first time seeing this new project, sort of a Devil's Workshop for the new decade.
I recognized several familiar faces in the band (including two favorites, Jason Scott and Marcus Tenney) and even more in the crowd.
The music ranged from newer to classic selections and their rendition of "Back to the Apple" by Count Basie closed out the first set with a swing that could make a person's hips move involuntarily.
It was dance music, pure and simple. Hips should move.
They had a girl on baritone sax and the big, deep solos coming out of her slender form elicited comments like, "Get it, girl!" from fellow musicians and audience members.
During the break, I spoke to a couple of jazz lovers, a student of jazz studies who was playing in the band along with the pros and a music-loving friend who was as impressed with a Monday night show as I was.
I'm thrilled that they're trying it out as a weekly series since it's often tough to find live music on a Monday.
When we finally decided to leave, it was mainly because I'd been up since the ungodly hour of 7 a.m., something I never do and am not very good at.
Looking back at the evening, I was feeling pretty good about myself.
I don't have that sad broken-up look that Hale's art did, I didn't waste decades in a suffocating marriage, and a guy told me I had the legs of a sixteen-year old.
And all that was before I got to hear seventeen talented musicians play music for me while I lounged on a vintage love seat.
You just never know.
Monday, Monday, so good to me
Monday, Monday, it was all I'd hoped it would be.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
What Lack of Love Does
Somehow I must have seemed like a good sipping partner.
Wine date #1: Cafe Caturra with a glass of Santa Julia Torrontes, a friend and her Baltimore beau and a roaring fire despite the open door and 50-degree temperature outside.
Suggested soundtrack: Animal Collective ("Walking around in our summertime clothes, nowhere to go while our bodies glow").
Wine date #2: The Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Prosecco, hordes of people headed to see "The Lion King" and a DJ telling me about his glorious walk in today's sunshine.
Suggested soundtrack: The XX ("Wanna find myself by the sea, in another's company").
Wine date #3: Ipanema with a glass of Analissa Primitivo, a friend in the cutest earrings and a discussion of being an independent woman when given no other choice.
Suggested soundtrack: The Helio Sequence ("Lately, I don't think of you at all, or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on").
The evening concludes at Strange Matter for music and a light show.
The crowd is good-sized but not packed, probably because there are several other good shows going on tonight.
First up is Airstrip out of North Carolina and when I ask a musician friend what they sound like, he responds, "You know that North Carolina indie band sound? Yea, that's what they sound like."
Damn if he wasn't right on. The Chapel Hill foursome's music covered the 80s and the 90s despite issues with broken guitar strings and being out of tune.
During the break, Matt of Snowy Owls asked me to help him carry shots to the stage and the imbibing of those shots began their set.
They covered Superdrag (a nod to Matt's Knoxville roots) and fuzzed out hard while continuing to win the crowd away from their drinking and talking.
The Cinnamon Band played last and they had a bunch ofdrunken die hard fans in the room singing along to almost every song.
They covered Nick Lowe's "What Lack of Love Has Done" as well as doing both the A and B sides of their upcoming single.
"Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone."
Hey, they said it, not me.
After their set, I chatted with friends, one of whom inquired what I thought of the Cinnamon Band.
"Her answer has nudity in it," my girlfriend said to much laughter.
Because I first saw the Cinnamon Band unplugged, I still get a kick out of hearing them full-on electric and I said so.
I did not so much as mention naked anything.
There was some discussion of which instrument can win a person's heart; I heard a case for pedal steel guitar and I know someone else who would say sax.
I'd be inclined to go with the vox as the irresistible instrument for me.
Words. It always comes down to words.
Wine date #1: Cafe Caturra with a glass of Santa Julia Torrontes, a friend and her Baltimore beau and a roaring fire despite the open door and 50-degree temperature outside.
Suggested soundtrack: Animal Collective ("Walking around in our summertime clothes, nowhere to go while our bodies glow").
Wine date #2: The Belvidere at Broad with a glass of Prosecco, hordes of people headed to see "The Lion King" and a DJ telling me about his glorious walk in today's sunshine.
Suggested soundtrack: The XX ("Wanna find myself by the sea, in another's company").
Wine date #3: Ipanema with a glass of Analissa Primitivo, a friend in the cutest earrings and a discussion of being an independent woman when given no other choice.
Suggested soundtrack: The Helio Sequence ("Lately, I don't think of you at all, or wonder what you're up to or how you're getting on").
The evening concludes at Strange Matter for music and a light show.
The crowd is good-sized but not packed, probably because there are several other good shows going on tonight.
First up is Airstrip out of North Carolina and when I ask a musician friend what they sound like, he responds, "You know that North Carolina indie band sound? Yea, that's what they sound like."
Damn if he wasn't right on. The Chapel Hill foursome's music covered the 80s and the 90s despite issues with broken guitar strings and being out of tune.
During the break, Matt of Snowy Owls asked me to help him carry shots to the stage and the imbibing of those shots began their set.
They covered Superdrag (a nod to Matt's Knoxville roots) and fuzzed out hard while continuing to win the crowd away from their drinking and talking.
The Cinnamon Band played last and they had a bunch of
They covered Nick Lowe's "What Lack of Love Has Done" as well as doing both the A and B sides of their upcoming single.
"Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone."
Hey, they said it, not me.
After their set, I chatted with friends, one of whom inquired what I thought of the Cinnamon Band.
"Her answer has nudity in it," my girlfriend said to much laughter.
Because I first saw the Cinnamon Band unplugged, I still get a kick out of hearing them full-on electric and I said so.
I did not so much as mention naked anything.
There was some discussion of which instrument can win a person's heart; I heard a case for pedal steel guitar and I know someone else who would say sax.
I'd be inclined to go with the vox as the irresistible instrument for me.
Words. It always comes down to words.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Jeff and Geoff Sling
I've eaten more deviled eggs since Pasture opened than I have in the past ten years.
For that matter, I thought I hated sweet tea until it met Pasture's trout. The beef brisket was out of this world. I had to explain pot liquor to my friend.
And once again, I had the fried chicken.
I hate to be that predictable, but if you fry a yard bird, I will eat it.
My dates for the evening were a happy couple whom I'll be seeing again at the end of the week. We caught up over a bottle or two of Elizabeth Spencer Sauvignon Blanc special cuvee and shared food.
At the moment, I am in love with their candy bar dessert.
They told me of a recent Christmas party where a guest tossed his cookies on the floor and I shared a similar story except it involved a club and a purse. And then there was the one who did it in her hair (I saw it, so I know it happened).
After a while, the bartender asked us how we'd managed to clear out the entire bar.
In my experience, talk of vomit does it every time.
What does it mean when both members of a couple you don't know compliment your legs?
My friends were on a tight schedule because they were going to pick up his nephew (Ken, the L.A. screenwriter) at the airport.
When we got up to go, the couple sitting at the table behind us both commented on my legs and tights. My friend bragged that he had even given me tights in the past (pre-girlfriend).
Excuse me, I'm right here.
Getting into my car outside, I heard my named called only to be greeted by James, my fellow nerd, for some sidewalk catch-up.
We covered that he wants to play in front of a Jason Mraz-sized crowd, we both take magazines as dates to restaurants and it's a slow time of year for the lectures we love.
Dropping the car at home, I headed to my neighborhood bar to meet up with an old friend and see a few neighbors
Gotta give the Belvidere credit for having house-made cider (my friend finished off the latest batch) and homemade eggnog.
Festive, indeed.
Several hours later, I have to conclude that nineteen years on, the more things change, the more they stay the same when it comes to certain people.
Funniest line of the night: "We've earned each other, Karen."
In its simplest form, it's all about the laughter. And...?
For that matter, I thought I hated sweet tea until it met Pasture's trout. The beef brisket was out of this world. I had to explain pot liquor to my friend.
And once again, I had the fried chicken.
I hate to be that predictable, but if you fry a yard bird, I will eat it.
My dates for the evening were a happy couple whom I'll be seeing again at the end of the week. We caught up over a bottle or two of Elizabeth Spencer Sauvignon Blanc special cuvee and shared food.
At the moment, I am in love with their candy bar dessert.
They told me of a recent Christmas party where a guest tossed his cookies on the floor and I shared a similar story except it involved a club and a purse. And then there was the one who did it in her hair (I saw it, so I know it happened).
After a while, the bartender asked us how we'd managed to clear out the entire bar.
In my experience, talk of vomit does it every time.
What does it mean when both members of a couple you don't know compliment your legs?
My friends were on a tight schedule because they were going to pick up his nephew (Ken, the L.A. screenwriter) at the airport.
When we got up to go, the couple sitting at the table behind us both commented on my legs and tights. My friend bragged that he had even given me tights in the past (pre-girlfriend).
Excuse me, I'm right here.
Getting into my car outside, I heard my named called only to be greeted by James, my fellow nerd, for some sidewalk catch-up.
We covered that he wants to play in front of a Jason Mraz-sized crowd, we both take magazines as dates to restaurants and it's a slow time of year for the lectures we love.
Dropping the car at home, I headed to my neighborhood bar to meet up with an old friend and see a few neighbors
Gotta give the Belvidere credit for having house-made cider (my friend finished off the latest batch) and homemade eggnog.
Festive, indeed.
Several hours later, I have to conclude that nineteen years on, the more things change, the more they stay the same when it comes to certain people.
Funniest line of the night: "We've earned each other, Karen."
In its simplest form, it's all about the laughter. And...?
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Out to Pasture
If you're one of those people who always leaves town for holiday weekends, you may not know this, but Thanksgiving Eve is a big bar night.
If you're around, there's a good chance you're going to head out to be around others who've stayed.
With that in mind, the new Pasture opened with a party tonight in its beautiful space on Grace Street, knowing the stay-heres would want to come out.
The last time I'd looked in the window was months ago when excavation was still going on, so it was a real treat to walk in to the spacious restaurant with its white walls, bright green accents and wooden accent walls in the back.
The first person I saw was a personable server from Balliceaux and he immediately made me feel welcome.
Next up was a favorite wine rep whom my friend and I invited to join us for the evening.
There were no seats at the bar available, but I knew bartenders so getting a bottle of Bordeaux (Chateau Jacquet de la Grave) was accomplished easily.
The wine list had a nice choice of well-priced New and Old World wines, including Virginia's own.
We set up camp at the end of a nearby table, ceding the other end to a large party who needed overflow seating.
Food was set up at a long table with constantly rotating plates of simple foods prepared in creative ways.
Fried Barcat oysters came with a dollop of celery slaw on them. A Brussels sprouts and winter squash and walnut dish was full of earthy flavors.
Lamb sausage with white beans was a big hit with all of us. Deviled eggs were better than Mom's.
Jason Alley's recent award-winning pimento cheese was served on a Ritz cracker. Fried chicken drummettes were perfectly crispy.
Since there's nothing better than bubbles to go with fried chicken, we had Thibaut-Janisson Blanc de Blanc, all of us holding its crisp bubbles with our slightly greasy fingers. Yum.
After a while, a trio vacated three prime stools at the end of the bar, offering us first dibs; we took them over without hesitation.
From there, we had fun greeting people as they arrived and I enjoyed conversations with a host of people I knew.
One of my favorite theater people was there and we discussed what a boon to Center Stage Pasture will be. Imagine being able to park once and party twice down there now.
I met a blogger I'd been told I would like who told me, "I think you're the only person who eats out more than me!"
With him and yet another wine rep, we discussed the recent flap about a local chef doing reviews.
The music, when it could be heard over the ebullient crowd, was stellar.
That may just mean that Jason Alley and I have similar music taste, but it's always great to hear thoughtfully-chosen music rather than mere background-appropriate music..
When Jason finally sat down, it was with a look of fatigue and satisfaction. The first night of his long-awaited baby had been an unqualified success.
He may not have had time to enjoy it nearly as much as we had, but his sense of accomplishment must have been huge.
We gathered our things and decided to make one last stop at the Belvidere, where things seemed unnaturally calm after the party vibe at Pasture.
But the bartender was willing, so we got a bottle of Micehel-Chiario "Le Orme" Barbera D'Asti, an elegant finish to our evening.
More fun began with the sharing of stories and since we were a first-time trio, we had entire lifetimes to cover amusing each other.
By the time we left, the city felt truly deserted.
As it is, my neighborhood's been cleared out for days, but even on a night known for people being out, by this point in the evening most have gone home to get a good night's sleep before the big day.
It didn't bother me. I don't need to rest up to eat.
And I certainly don't need to rest up before tomorrow night's party. Let the holidays begin.
If you're around, there's a good chance you're going to head out to be around others who've stayed.
With that in mind, the new Pasture opened with a party tonight in its beautiful space on Grace Street, knowing the stay-heres would want to come out.
The last time I'd looked in the window was months ago when excavation was still going on, so it was a real treat to walk in to the spacious restaurant with its white walls, bright green accents and wooden accent walls in the back.
The first person I saw was a personable server from Balliceaux and he immediately made me feel welcome.
Next up was a favorite wine rep whom my friend and I invited to join us for the evening.
There were no seats at the bar available, but I knew bartenders so getting a bottle of Bordeaux (Chateau Jacquet de la Grave) was accomplished easily.
The wine list had a nice choice of well-priced New and Old World wines, including Virginia's own.
We set up camp at the end of a nearby table, ceding the other end to a large party who needed overflow seating.
Food was set up at a long table with constantly rotating plates of simple foods prepared in creative ways.
Fried Barcat oysters came with a dollop of celery slaw on them. A Brussels sprouts and winter squash and walnut dish was full of earthy flavors.
Lamb sausage with white beans was a big hit with all of us. Deviled eggs were better than Mom's.
Jason Alley's recent award-winning pimento cheese was served on a Ritz cracker. Fried chicken drummettes were perfectly crispy.
Since there's nothing better than bubbles to go with fried chicken, we had Thibaut-Janisson Blanc de Blanc, all of us holding its crisp bubbles with our slightly greasy fingers. Yum.
After a while, a trio vacated three prime stools at the end of the bar, offering us first dibs; we took them over without hesitation.
From there, we had fun greeting people as they arrived and I enjoyed conversations with a host of people I knew.
One of my favorite theater people was there and we discussed what a boon to Center Stage Pasture will be. Imagine being able to park once and party twice down there now.
I met a blogger I'd been told I would like who told me, "I think you're the only person who eats out more than me!"
With him and yet another wine rep, we discussed the recent flap about a local chef doing reviews.
The music, when it could be heard over the ebullient crowd, was stellar.
That may just mean that Jason Alley and I have similar music taste, but it's always great to hear thoughtfully-chosen music rather than mere background-appropriate music..
When Jason finally sat down, it was with a look of fatigue and satisfaction. The first night of his long-awaited baby had been an unqualified success.
He may not have had time to enjoy it nearly as much as we had, but his sense of accomplishment must have been huge.
We gathered our things and decided to make one last stop at the Belvidere, where things seemed unnaturally calm after the party vibe at Pasture.
But the bartender was willing, so we got a bottle of Micehel-Chiario "Le Orme" Barbera D'Asti, an elegant finish to our evening.
More fun began with the sharing of stories and since we were a first-time trio, we had entire lifetimes to cover amusing each other.
By the time we left, the city felt truly deserted.
As it is, my neighborhood's been cleared out for days, but even on a night known for people being out, by this point in the evening most have gone home to get a good night's sleep before the big day.
It didn't bother me. I don't need to rest up to eat.
And I certainly don't need to rest up before tomorrow night's party. Let the holidays begin.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Changes not Cha-Cha's
It is a great karmic lesson to spend an evening with a friend who is going through the same thing you went through a while back.
Even if you're not over it, just further along.
By the same token, it is a pleasure to spend an evening with friends too infrequently seen.
Starting at the Belvidere, we allowed the bartender to tell us where we would hypothetically be going if he were part of our entourage tonight.
Charming as he was, attentive even to our Vinho Verde needs, any plan that involves Cha-Cha's has no relevance to my life.
On the other hand, the smoked salmon, stuffed mushrooms and hummus were all on point, underscoring what you can get at a place like the B @ B and not at Cha-Cha's.
And somehow I doubt that what happens at Cha-Cha's stays at Cha-Cha's.
But because Richmond is a small town, it's tough to remain when your past walks in, so before long we exited stage right to the relative anonymity of Balliceaux.
I say relative because the bartender immediately chided me for missing half-priced wine night on Tuesday.
For the record, I have only done half-price wine night twice in Balliceaux's history.
I was particularly enamored of the music mix tonight, including, as it did, Empire of the Sun, Phoenix and various Roxy Music, including "To Turn You On," possibly my favorite of their superb catalog.
I could show you in a word
If I wanted to
A window on a world
With a lovely view
We began with cocktails, if you can call my Hornitos on ice a cocktail, and major discussion of the validity of Meyers-Briggs (present were an INTP, an INFP and yours truly, an ENFP).
The Thinker among us had nothing but harsh words for the Feelers present, which made for some hilarious insults tossed our way.
She made up for it by insisting on a bottle of Dibon Cava, nutty and sparkling, to underscore the occasion of our overdue get-together and her recent change in status.
We indulged in a cheese plate, but the attention-getter was the spicy chickpea salad served in a chickpea flour shell that thrilled the gluten-intolerant among us.
Which was good, because she could use a little thrilling these days.
But then, who among us couldn't?
Even if you're not over it, just further along.
By the same token, it is a pleasure to spend an evening with friends too infrequently seen.
Starting at the Belvidere, we allowed the bartender to tell us where we would hypothetically be going if he were part of our entourage tonight.
Charming as he was, attentive even to our Vinho Verde needs, any plan that involves Cha-Cha's has no relevance to my life.
On the other hand, the smoked salmon, stuffed mushrooms and hummus were all on point, underscoring what you can get at a place like the B @ B and not at Cha-Cha's.
And somehow I doubt that what happens at Cha-Cha's stays at Cha-Cha's.
But because Richmond is a small town, it's tough to remain when your past walks in, so before long we exited stage right to the relative anonymity of Balliceaux.
I say relative because the bartender immediately chided me for missing half-priced wine night on Tuesday.
For the record, I have only done half-price wine night twice in Balliceaux's history.
I was particularly enamored of the music mix tonight, including, as it did, Empire of the Sun, Phoenix and various Roxy Music, including "To Turn You On," possibly my favorite of their superb catalog.
I could show you in a word
If I wanted to
A window on a world
With a lovely view
We began with cocktails, if you can call my Hornitos on ice a cocktail, and major discussion of the validity of Meyers-Briggs (present were an INTP, an INFP and yours truly, an ENFP).
The Thinker among us had nothing but harsh words for the Feelers present, which made for some hilarious insults tossed our way.
She made up for it by insisting on a bottle of Dibon Cava, nutty and sparkling, to underscore the occasion of our overdue get-together and her recent change in status.
We indulged in a cheese plate, but the attention-getter was the spicy chickpea salad served in a chickpea flour shell that thrilled the gluten-intolerant among us.
Which was good, because she could use a little thrilling these days.
But then, who among us couldn't?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Cat and Mouse Jazz
There's just no telling where the madness will end.
When the Listening Room began two years ago, it was a simple evening of acoustic music.
Then after a while, there were bands with electric instruments. Next thing we knew there were drums! Oh, my!
Well, they went and did it tonight. Or maybe I should say Antonia Begonia did it tonight.
Because she was the brilliant one who curated the first Listening Room devoted to jazz. There wasn't a folkie in sight (on the stage, anyway).
The Marcus Tenney Trio officially broke the ice, indoctrinating the crowd into this brave new world with his own songs as well as some by the bass player and drummer, whose "I'm Allergic to My Cat" proved that well-executed jazz doesn't require pompous titling.
The rock bassist sitting next to me couldn't help but drop his jaw over the bass player's nimble fingers flying over those fat strings.
Although I've seen this trio before, never had I had the pleasure of hearing them in a silent room.
Later, offstage, Tenney said that it was amazing to play for an attentive audience. "I was a little nervous," he admitted.
The audience was smaller than usual tonight and none of the regulars could figure out why.
Was it because the date fell earlier in the month? There were two kinds of brownies; there should have been hordes of people.
Don't make me go on a rant about people being close-minded about musical genres.
Smalltown was a sextet comprised of some of RVA's best jazz musicians from all kinds of bands: Fight the Big Bull, Glows in the Dark, SCUO, Jason Scott Quintet, Ilad, Bio Ritmo and probably others I don't know or are forgotting.
It was like watching a master class because of the serious talent (Clark, Burton, Ralston, Miller and Scott) on stage, including vibes by Matt Coyle who seems to be showing up a lot these days. Clearly we were a town in need of a vibes man.
Their music was penned by saxophonist/clarinetist Scott, including a song about the mouse infestation in his NYC apartment, a lively piece that made it easy to conjure up scurrying rodents.
The music was big, at times almost cinematic, and engaging enough to pull in any jazz-phobic types who may have been in the audience.
Actually, after the performance I spoke to several people who said that after what they'd heard, they felt jazz should be a recurring feature of the Listening Room from here on out.
With next month starting Year Three, there's no telling what might happen.The only guarantee at the Listening Room is that there won't be any talking while there's music.
I did get my talking fix, though, with those smart enough to show up for the music and afterwards when the scientist suggested I join him for a bite since he was starved.
Since we don'tusually ever eat together, I questioned his motive.
"Well, I figured you're always up for going out," he explained, "And I haven't eaten all day."
Why not? We headed to the Belvidere and a full bar so I sat at a table for the first time probably since my initial visit there.
While he enjoyed his first meal of the day (I'd have been dead by then), I got a tour of the art show hanging in the restaurant from the artist himself.
I was taken with what I saw and hope to be the recipient of one of his symbolic and angst-filled pieces soon.
Returning to the table, the scientist and I chatted about his memories of seeing people having sex on a tony New Orleans front yard, the savvy uses of Facebook (I, at least, use it to my social advantage) and the pleasures of an expanded vocabulary.
Walking outside to discover we'd missed a light rain, I commented on the fragrant and warm damp air and he began to explain the physics of relative humidity.
No, really.
Why spend time with a scientist if you're not going to learn something?
Why go to the Listening Room if you're not open to any kind of good music?
When the Listening Room began two years ago, it was a simple evening of acoustic music.
Then after a while, there were bands with electric instruments. Next thing we knew there were drums! Oh, my!
Well, they went and did it tonight. Or maybe I should say Antonia Begonia did it tonight.
Because she was the brilliant one who curated the first Listening Room devoted to jazz. There wasn't a folkie in sight (on the stage, anyway).
The Marcus Tenney Trio officially broke the ice, indoctrinating the crowd into this brave new world with his own songs as well as some by the bass player and drummer, whose "I'm Allergic to My Cat" proved that well-executed jazz doesn't require pompous titling.
The rock bassist sitting next to me couldn't help but drop his jaw over the bass player's nimble fingers flying over those fat strings.
Although I've seen this trio before, never had I had the pleasure of hearing them in a silent room.
Later, offstage, Tenney said that it was amazing to play for an attentive audience. "I was a little nervous," he admitted.
The audience was smaller than usual tonight and none of the regulars could figure out why.
Was it because the date fell earlier in the month? There were two kinds of brownies; there should have been hordes of people.
Don't make me go on a rant about people being close-minded about musical genres.
Smalltown was a sextet comprised of some of RVA's best jazz musicians from all kinds of bands: Fight the Big Bull, Glows in the Dark, SCUO, Jason Scott Quintet, Ilad, Bio Ritmo and probably others I don't know or are forgotting.
It was like watching a master class because of the serious talent (Clark, Burton, Ralston, Miller and Scott) on stage, including vibes by Matt Coyle who seems to be showing up a lot these days. Clearly we were a town in need of a vibes man.
Their music was penned by saxophonist/clarinetist Scott, including a song about the mouse infestation in his NYC apartment, a lively piece that made it easy to conjure up scurrying rodents.
The music was big, at times almost cinematic, and engaging enough to pull in any jazz-phobic types who may have been in the audience.
Actually, after the performance I spoke to several people who said that after what they'd heard, they felt jazz should be a recurring feature of the Listening Room from here on out.
With next month starting Year Three, there's no telling what might happen.The only guarantee at the Listening Room is that there won't be any talking while there's music.
I did get my talking fix, though, with those smart enough to show up for the music and afterwards when the scientist suggested I join him for a bite since he was starved.
Since we don't
"Well, I figured you're always up for going out," he explained, "And I haven't eaten all day."
Why not? We headed to the Belvidere and a full bar so I sat at a table for the first time probably since my initial visit there.
While he enjoyed his first meal of the day (I'd have been dead by then), I got a tour of the art show hanging in the restaurant from the artist himself.
I was taken with what I saw and hope to be the recipient of one of his symbolic and angst-filled pieces soon.
Returning to the table, the scientist and I chatted about his memories of seeing people having sex on a tony New Orleans front yard, the savvy uses of Facebook (I, at least, use it to my social advantage) and the pleasures of an expanded vocabulary.
Walking outside to discover we'd missed a light rain, I commented on the fragrant and warm damp air and he began to explain the physics of relative humidity.
No, really.
Why spend time with a scientist if you're not going to learn something?
Why go to the Listening Room if you're not open to any kind of good music?
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Sporting a Drip Dry Dress for Irene
So today I broke almost all the rules of hurricane behavior.
Stay away from windows.
I can't recall a day when I spent so much time looking out the open windows.
The rain and the wind and the trees they were abusing made for such a show that it was irresistible not to just stand there transfixed by what was happening.
Every time I heard the distinctive crack of a branch breaking, I rushed to the window to see where it had landed on Clay Street.
Stay tuned to local TV.
Oops, don't have a box, so I couldn't obsess over the Weather Channel like so many of my friends were.
Stay tuned to a local radio station.
No can do. I can't abide any station in this town, so I listen to a public radio station in Charlottesville, where they made a point of saying all afternoon that it wasn't even raining.
Plan to be self-sustaining for three days.
While I have oatmeal, bread, cashews and plenty of fruit (clementines, cantaloupe and bananas), my main protein sources are Boars Head hot dogs and eggs. Lame, I know.
Have extra batteries.
By the time I heeded the hurricane warnings, there wasn't a "D" battery for sale within the entire Mid-Atlantic, but at last night's dinner party, my good friend had slipped me two "Ds" so that at least I have a working flashlight.
Stay inside.
That's easier said than done. When you live alone, it's inevitable that you go a bit stir crazy after a day like today.
I read for hours. I took a nearly two-hour nap. But after a while, I needed conversation in the worst way.
Throwing caution to the (60 mph) winds, I felt compelled to head out of here before 7:00, hoping like hell there'd be other people at the bar closest to me.
It was a dark walk. With the city having turned off the street lights for the evening (frayed wires and all), I put on my rain jacket, took the biggest umbrella I own and soldiered the two blocks to the Belvidere.
My umbrella threatened to turn itself inside out every third step. The lower third of my dress was soaked.
Must. Find. Other. Humans.
Besides the staff of four, there was only one person at the Belvidere when I arrived., but I was hopeful.
Before long, the owner delivered another (who knew they had pick-up service?).
I ordered a glass of Gatao Vinho Verde and settled in to meet some new neighbors.
One was a sous chef whose restaurant in my former neighborhood was closed tonight and the other a long-time firefighter who now works as a corporate drone for Capital 1.
Before long, a couple came in. And then two more. A three-top called before showing up. It was enough.
I was not shy about joining the other escapees, insinuating myself into their conversations and finding plenty to talk about.
Favorite quote: "The difference between boys and men is that men figure out a solution." Uttered by a man, of course.
The owner decided to document the occasion, shooting video of the storm on Broad Street and doing some slow pans through the bar while we drank and talked about today's endless sirens.
For my hurricane supper, I chose the Belvidere's stellar burger, knowing it was better than anything I had at home.
Smothered in caramelized onions and cheddar, the half pound burger was way more than I needed after a day of doing virtually nothing, but I was trying to store up for Irene's aftermath.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
For that matter, it's not like I know any of the post-hurricane rules.
Or that I'd likely follow them either.
Stay away from windows.
I can't recall a day when I spent so much time looking out the open windows.
The rain and the wind and the trees they were abusing made for such a show that it was irresistible not to just stand there transfixed by what was happening.
Every time I heard the distinctive crack of a branch breaking, I rushed to the window to see where it had landed on Clay Street.
Stay tuned to local TV.
Oops, don't have a box, so I couldn't obsess over the Weather Channel like so many of my friends were.
Stay tuned to a local radio station.
No can do. I can't abide any station in this town, so I listen to a public radio station in Charlottesville, where they made a point of saying all afternoon that it wasn't even raining.
Plan to be self-sustaining for three days.
While I have oatmeal, bread, cashews and plenty of fruit (clementines, cantaloupe and bananas), my main protein sources are Boars Head hot dogs and eggs. Lame, I know.
Have extra batteries.
By the time I heeded the hurricane warnings, there wasn't a "D" battery for sale within the entire Mid-Atlantic, but at last night's dinner party, my good friend had slipped me two "Ds" so that at least I have a working flashlight.
Stay inside.
That's easier said than done. When you live alone, it's inevitable that you go a bit stir crazy after a day like today.
I read for hours. I took a nearly two-hour nap. But after a while, I needed conversation in the worst way.
Throwing caution to the (60 mph) winds, I felt compelled to head out of here before 7:00, hoping like hell there'd be other people at the bar closest to me.
It was a dark walk. With the city having turned off the street lights for the evening (frayed wires and all), I put on my rain jacket, took the biggest umbrella I own and soldiered the two blocks to the Belvidere.
My umbrella threatened to turn itself inside out every third step. The lower third of my dress was soaked.
Must. Find. Other. Humans.
Besides the staff of four, there was only one person at the Belvidere when I arrived., but I was hopeful.
Before long, the owner delivered another (who knew they had pick-up service?).
I ordered a glass of Gatao Vinho Verde and settled in to meet some new neighbors.
One was a sous chef whose restaurant in my former neighborhood was closed tonight and the other a long-time firefighter who now works as a corporate drone for Capital 1.
Before long, a couple came in. And then two more. A three-top called before showing up. It was enough.
I was not shy about joining the other escapees, insinuating myself into their conversations and finding plenty to talk about.
Favorite quote: "The difference between boys and men is that men figure out a solution." Uttered by a man, of course.
The owner decided to document the occasion, shooting video of the storm on Broad Street and doing some slow pans through the bar while we drank and talked about today's endless sirens.
For my hurricane supper, I chose the Belvidere's stellar burger, knowing it was better than anything I had at home.
Smothered in caramelized onions and cheddar, the half pound burger was way more than I needed after a day of doing virtually nothing, but I was trying to store up for Irene's aftermath.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
For that matter, it's not like I know any of the post-hurricane rules.
Or that I'd likely follow them either.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Bacon Starts the Day Right
"Excuse me, miss, could we have a plate of bacon to start?"
Sometimes nothing but a side of pig will get you through an arduous task like trying to decide what to order for brunch.
A friend had to work today so we'd made plans to sandwich brunch between his morning client meeting and his afternoon filing a brief.
I, on the other hand, planned to sandwich it between getting up and taking a nap.
Sure, I felt a little bad about the discrepancy in our plans until he told me that his normal Sunday routine is to get up, eat breakfast and go back to bed.
At least I got dressed and went out in between quality time spent between the sheets.
But I didn't go far. To his e-mail this morning of "Where, princess?" I responded with the closest possible place for me: The Belvidere at Broad.
And since we arrived minutes after they opened, it was just us and the staff for a while.
We sat under a large-scale painting of Byrd Lake done by Paul Steinberg, part of a show that included other local places of note.
Techno music played on the sound system reminding us that we weren't all that far removed from Saturday night.
We were having a tough time deciding what we wanted, which is how he ended up ordering a mound of bacon to enjoy while we discussed our options.
Once I told my friend that they smoke their salmon in-house, his decision was made: bagel and lox with chived cream cheese, chopped red onion, chopped egg and capers.
I did the same, as much out of laziness as anything. The bacon was satisfying me so nicely that I would have been happy with anything on the menu at that point.
I did opt for fresh fruit on the side while he got home-fried potatoes, large chunks with the skin on that he raved about.
Part way through my bagel, our server showed up with additional cream cheese for me. Wondering how she'd known I'd need more, she said, "Well, if I ate cream cheese, I know I'd need more than they gave you."
That's service with a capital "S."
Sadly, our bacon appetizer meant that our bagels defeated us, maybe because we both got very generous servings of the melt-in-your-mouth smoked salmon.
We only wished we'd saved room for the dessert special, a chocolate espresso pudding.
Walking back to his car and my house, we stopped to admire a charming Louisiana-style raised cottage that caught his eye.
Standing across the street from it, we discussed the abomination of siding and bad brick planter additions but got reverential about its gingerbread trim and narrow two-sided porch.
If we hadn't both had things to do, I'd have taken him on a walking tour of other Jackson Ward architectural gems.
But bacon and bagel behind us, brief and bed were calling.
Sometimes nothing but a side of pig will get you through an arduous task like trying to decide what to order for brunch.
A friend had to work today so we'd made plans to sandwich brunch between his morning client meeting and his afternoon filing a brief.
I, on the other hand, planned to sandwich it between getting up and taking a nap.
Sure, I felt a little bad about the discrepancy in our plans until he told me that his normal Sunday routine is to get up, eat breakfast and go back to bed.
At least I got dressed and went out in between quality time spent between the sheets.
But I didn't go far. To his e-mail this morning of "Where, princess?" I responded with the closest possible place for me: The Belvidere at Broad.
And since we arrived minutes after they opened, it was just us and the staff for a while.
We sat under a large-scale painting of Byrd Lake done by Paul Steinberg, part of a show that included other local places of note.
Techno music played on the sound system reminding us that we weren't all that far removed from Saturday night.
We were having a tough time deciding what we wanted, which is how he ended up ordering a mound of bacon to enjoy while we discussed our options.
Once I told my friend that they smoke their salmon in-house, his decision was made: bagel and lox with chived cream cheese, chopped red onion, chopped egg and capers.
I did the same, as much out of laziness as anything. The bacon was satisfying me so nicely that I would have been happy with anything on the menu at that point.
I did opt for fresh fruit on the side while he got home-fried potatoes, large chunks with the skin on that he raved about.
Part way through my bagel, our server showed up with additional cream cheese for me. Wondering how she'd known I'd need more, she said, "Well, if I ate cream cheese, I know I'd need more than they gave you."
That's service with a capital "S."
Sadly, our bacon appetizer meant that our bagels defeated us, maybe because we both got very generous servings of the melt-in-your-mouth smoked salmon.
We only wished we'd saved room for the dessert special, a chocolate espresso pudding.
Walking back to his car and my house, we stopped to admire a charming Louisiana-style raised cottage that caught his eye.
Standing across the street from it, we discussed the abomination of siding and bad brick planter additions but got reverential about its gingerbread trim and narrow two-sided porch.
If we hadn't both had things to do, I'd have taken him on a walking tour of other Jackson Ward architectural gems.
But bacon and bagel behind us, brief and bed were calling.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Celebrating Someone Else
What's the best way to say happy birthday to another Gemini?
I have no idea, but here's my strategy. I walked up to the Belvidere at Broad with a quick stop at the Rite-Aid.
There, a neighbor I know grabbed me, reminded me that we hadn't had lunch for a year (I fear she's correct) and insisted that we meet up soon. Okay, I'm not getting out enough.
At the Belvidere at Broad, I immediately ran into a wine friend from Secco, who called me out for being in my own neighborhood.
After taking a seat at the bar, yet another neighbor with whom I'd worked the census, came over and reminded me that it had been too long.
Since losing the beagle, clearly I am not out and about on the streets of Jackson Ward enough. This needs to be corrected.
Starting with the Gatao vino verdhe, I moved on to the ahi tuna tacos while trying to discern the source of the music being played. Finally, I gave up and asked what was playing.
"Elton Jon," the bartender blithely responded. Duh. What station were we listening to, I questioned, asking what I really wanted to know.
A bar sitter gave the right response. "You mean, not what is this crazy rock and roll music?" Right.
"Classic Vinyl," she responded, explaining the Led Zeppelin, Kinks. Beatles, the Band and Derek and the Dominoes soundtrack that was assaulting my ears.
Sigh. Really?
But the vino verdhe was good, the tacos superb and the music to be tolerated, so I soldiered on. Even a classic rock hater like me can appreciate the heroin-fueled passion of a song like "Layla."
When 9:00 rolled around, I excused myself to go to a friend's birthday soiree at Ballcieaux.
There, the crowd was gathering for the Chris Pureka show (he/she's gender-neutral) while we gathered for Kevin's birthday celebration.
I met a handsome theater critic who gave me great conversation about RVA's theater scene past and present.
Best of all, he's newly arrived from Chicago, so his opinion is that of a come-here, always my favorite. I may have a guaranteed theater date from here on out.
I met an interior decorator who expressed interest in getting his hand on my 1876 apartment (slowly, friend, slowly). Coffee blogger was there as well as Style's new calendar editor (your work is cut out for you, friend).
I drank Hornitas to add to the festivities (and because the bartender Sean automatically poured it).
When the birthday boy was presented with an unexpected shot of tequila, I coached him on proper methodology. Gin and tonic is not a proper tequila back,
My birthday card summed up my philosophy: Work less, play more. He laughed but acknowledged the truth of it
I could only say that to another Gemini. As he would know, life is too short.
I have no idea, but here's my strategy. I walked up to the Belvidere at Broad with a quick stop at the Rite-Aid.
There, a neighbor I know grabbed me, reminded me that we hadn't had lunch for a year (I fear she's correct) and insisted that we meet up soon. Okay, I'm not getting out enough.
At the Belvidere at Broad, I immediately ran into a wine friend from Secco, who called me out for being in my own neighborhood.
After taking a seat at the bar, yet another neighbor with whom I'd worked the census, came over and reminded me that it had been too long.
Since losing the beagle, clearly I am not out and about on the streets of Jackson Ward enough. This needs to be corrected.
Starting with the Gatao vino verdhe, I moved on to the ahi tuna tacos while trying to discern the source of the music being played. Finally, I gave up and asked what was playing.
"Elton Jon," the bartender blithely responded. Duh. What station were we listening to, I questioned, asking what I really wanted to know.
A bar sitter gave the right response. "You mean, not what is this crazy rock and roll music?" Right.
"Classic Vinyl," she responded, explaining the Led Zeppelin, Kinks. Beatles, the Band and Derek and the Dominoes soundtrack that was assaulting my ears.
Sigh. Really?
But the vino verdhe was good, the tacos superb and the music to be tolerated, so I soldiered on. Even a classic rock hater like me can appreciate the heroin-fueled passion of a song like "Layla."
When 9:00 rolled around, I excused myself to go to a friend's birthday soiree at Ballcieaux.
There, the crowd was gathering for the Chris Pureka show (he/she's gender-neutral) while we gathered for Kevin's birthday celebration.
I met a handsome theater critic who gave me great conversation about RVA's theater scene past and present.
Best of all, he's newly arrived from Chicago, so his opinion is that of a come-here, always my favorite. I may have a guaranteed theater date from here on out.
I met an interior decorator who expressed interest in getting his hand on my 1876 apartment (slowly, friend, slowly). Coffee blogger was there as well as Style's new calendar editor (your work is cut out for you, friend).
I drank Hornitas to add to the festivities (and because the bartender Sean automatically poured it).
When the birthday boy was presented with an unexpected shot of tequila, I coached him on proper methodology. Gin and tonic is not a proper tequila back,
My birthday card summed up my philosophy: Work less, play more. He laughed but acknowledged the truth of it
I could only say that to another Gemini. As he would know, life is too short.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Til Death Do Us Part
Given my love of music from a cave, I would probably marry it, except it would undoubtedly leave me at the altar in a haze of fuzzy reverb. After a rebound period, I would then marry post-rock, secure in its dynamic shifts, swelling soundscapes and implied but unsung words.
But before I gave myself over to post-rock tonight, I walked up to the Belvidere at Broad for dinner. Moments after sitting down, co-owner Dave walked over and asked, "So what show are you going to tonight?" I don't know what made him presume I was going to a show. Then I told him which one.
His wife Julie told me that since the weather got warm, people have stopped drinking red wine, so I pulled the perverse card and got a glass of Penfolds Thomas Hyland Adelaide Shiraz. As a good neighbor, I was merely helping to work down the dark fruit inventory.
But I did let the weather dictate my food and ordered the hearty Nicoise salad (roasted red peppers, marinated artichokes, grilled asparagus, new potatoes, shallots, grilled portabella, hard-boiled eggs, fresh mozzarella and olives over mesclun in a balsamic vinaigrette),
It was the only salad on their menu I hadn't had before and I can't believe it took me this long to try such a satisfying and savory combination. I almost got it with rare ahi tuna, but decided to give it a try the way the chef had designed it first. A smart move because it was a perfect balance of flavors.
I stayed longer than I intended because Julie joined me for some girl talk and gossip, always a treat when I expect a solo meal. She even went so far as to consider some guys she knows as possible set-ups for me ("They've got to be smart or you won't be interested, I know") now that I've shifted into available mode. There are so many benefits to dining with neighbors.
After a quick and breezy walk home to get the car, I drove to the National for Explosions in the Sky. The usual wristband guy greeted me with a hug and another ID guy I didn't recognize asked where I'd been. Maybe I do go to the National a little too often.
Scratch that.
I walked in just as the Octopus Project was taking the stage and found my friend in the Karen spot and he was as excited as I was about the show. Their sound was a hybrid of pop, experimental and in parts almost post-rock for its infrequent vocals.
Electronica meshed with guitars and drums and the occasional vocal and, in one of my favorite band moves, they switched instruments. I can't help but admire the multi-talented.
I told my (multi-talented) friend afterwards how much I'd liked these guys, although, unlike EITS, they didn't elicit the same emotional reaction. It was really well-done music, though.
I first saw Explosions in the Sky three years ago at the Norva and I missed two-thirds of the show (it's a tragic story, one I prefer to forget) so I felt I was overdue to finally see an entire performance. Tres Generations in hand, sold-out mostly male crowd emitting body heat all around me, I was ready for my delayed musical reward.
They took the stage and welcomed us to "a rock performance" before launching into their non-stop musical symphonies with varying volumes (there were lots of earplugs) and dramatic, intricate guitars over hard-hitting drums. No lyrics, no between-song banter. And when they're finished, like last time, no encore.
I wouldn't presume to speak for other people, but it's the emotional response they elicit when I hear them that is most unique about their sound. It's impossible not feel caught up in feeling what they're playing.I wouldn't try; that's why I'm there. Maybe I just need that kind of catharsis.
Post rock, I do.
But before I gave myself over to post-rock tonight, I walked up to the Belvidere at Broad for dinner. Moments after sitting down, co-owner Dave walked over and asked, "So what show are you going to tonight?" I don't know what made him presume I was going to a show. Then I told him which one.
His wife Julie told me that since the weather got warm, people have stopped drinking red wine, so I pulled the perverse card and got a glass of Penfolds Thomas Hyland Adelaide Shiraz. As a good neighbor, I was merely helping to work down the dark fruit inventory.
But I did let the weather dictate my food and ordered the hearty Nicoise salad (roasted red peppers, marinated artichokes, grilled asparagus, new potatoes, shallots, grilled portabella, hard-boiled eggs, fresh mozzarella and olives over mesclun in a balsamic vinaigrette),
It was the only salad on their menu I hadn't had before and I can't believe it took me this long to try such a satisfying and savory combination. I almost got it with rare ahi tuna, but decided to give it a try the way the chef had designed it first. A smart move because it was a perfect balance of flavors.
I stayed longer than I intended because Julie joined me for some girl talk and gossip, always a treat when I expect a solo meal. She even went so far as to consider some guys she knows as possible set-ups for me ("They've got to be smart or you won't be interested, I know") now that I've shifted into available mode. There are so many benefits to dining with neighbors.
After a quick and breezy walk home to get the car, I drove to the National for Explosions in the Sky. The usual wristband guy greeted me with a hug and another ID guy I didn't recognize asked where I'd been. Maybe I do go to the National a little too often.
Scratch that.
I walked in just as the Octopus Project was taking the stage and found my friend in the Karen spot and he was as excited as I was about the show. Their sound was a hybrid of pop, experimental and in parts almost post-rock for its infrequent vocals.
Electronica meshed with guitars and drums and the occasional vocal and, in one of my favorite band moves, they switched instruments. I can't help but admire the multi-talented.
I told my (multi-talented) friend afterwards how much I'd liked these guys, although, unlike EITS, they didn't elicit the same emotional reaction. It was really well-done music, though.
I first saw Explosions in the Sky three years ago at the Norva and I missed two-thirds of the show (it's a tragic story, one I prefer to forget) so I felt I was overdue to finally see an entire performance. Tres Generations in hand, sold-out mostly male crowd emitting body heat all around me, I was ready for my delayed musical reward.
They took the stage and welcomed us to "a rock performance" before launching into their non-stop musical symphonies with varying volumes (there were lots of earplugs) and dramatic, intricate guitars over hard-hitting drums. No lyrics, no between-song banter. And when they're finished, like last time, no encore.
I wouldn't presume to speak for other people, but it's the emotional response they elicit when I hear them that is most unique about their sound. It's impossible not feel caught up in feeling what they're playing.I wouldn't try; that's why I'm there. Maybe I just need that kind of catharsis.
Post rock, I do.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
This Wooing is Too Urgent
You don't want to be late for a three-century old play long regarded as a hoax and just last year authenticated as based on a Shakespeare original. Or at least nerds like me don't.
Which presented a problem since I got home from gallivanting late and didn't walk out the door until almost 6:30; curtain time at CenterStage was 7:30. What to do?
To the rescue was my nearest neighborhood joint, the Belvidere. Two short blocks and I was in my usual stool (the one from which I've met and talked to so many people), explaining my predicament. No problem, I was assured.
Tonight's soup was their spectacular vegetarian French onion, although I scoffed when told, "We can make it vegan if you want." No cheese on French onion soup? No, thanks. Full cheese, please.
It's such a well-made soup with a surprising depth of flavor for being animal-free. I suspect that they wave a hunk o' beef over the pot while they're making it, much the way my friend waves a bottle of vermouth around the room when he's making a martini.
Following the soup were roasted red and golden beets with Maytag bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens, always a filling and satisfying dish. Because my mother never gave me beets growing up, I continue to seek them out as an adult to compensate for that gross childhood omission.
I was fed, paid and climbing into my car by 7:10, a remarkable feat considering I'd enjoyed a fair amount of conversation with owner Dave before leaving.
Aside from an always excellent evening of comedy or drama, there are two delights of Richmond Shakespeare's' staged readings. The price of admission includes a glass of wine (I chose the Cab) and there's a dessert bar (I had the chocolate eclair). Not that I need enticements to see Shakespeare, but it's icing on the (chocolate) cake, so to speak.
Tonight's staged reading of "Double Falsehood or the Distrest Lovers" marks the first production in this country; Richmond slipped in under the wire as it's about to be produced in NYC and was done in London in January. First Picasso and now "Double Falsehood." This city's coolness meter just burst its bulb.
Who is it that woos at this late hour?
The play, written in the early 18th century is an adaptation of a lost play called "Cardenio," written by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. It included many of Shakespeare's usual devices, girls dressed as boys, lovers kept apart, as well as the distinctive meter and vocabulary.
Passion in women is short in waking and strong in effort.
What was particularly noticeable were the 18th century updates intended to appeal to a different audience than Shakespeare's, like the rape of the humble, but virtuous country girl. And unlike the master's plays, there were bad people in the bucolic country.
Love is contagious and it hurts my brain.
Because it was a reading and not a full production, the actors were working with scripts and even stands for the scripts, the first time I'd seen that. They used them to good effect, though, raising and lowering the stands as suited what they were doing as they spoke or if they were trying to be hidden.
I can't get this false man's memory out of my head.
A staged reading means limited props and interaction, but there's always enough to captivate. During the shepherd scene, the actors wore shearling caps with ear flaps and the head shepherd, (who salaciously licked the young shepherd's hand to demonstrate his lust), had a fake shearling piece over his shoulder.
Let them alone. They're almost starved for kisses.
Music was courtesy of the actor who could simulate a beat box and speeches from windows and balconies above were delivered by actors standing on their chairs.
Will you be ruled by me? Kill yourself!
How could the authenticity of the origins of this play ever have been doubted? By the end, the good and noble brother brings everyone together: the distraught fathers who thought they'd lost their children and the two sets of lovers who could now be joined in nuptials. All's well that ends well.
Being a hopeless romantic, I admit to getting great satisfaction from seeing distrest love resolved. Not so the epilogue, which opined, "Heaven defend us from these moral plays."
Heavenly defense not necessary.
Which presented a problem since I got home from gallivanting late and didn't walk out the door until almost 6:30; curtain time at CenterStage was 7:30. What to do?
To the rescue was my nearest neighborhood joint, the Belvidere. Two short blocks and I was in my usual stool (the one from which I've met and talked to so many people), explaining my predicament. No problem, I was assured.
Tonight's soup was their spectacular vegetarian French onion, although I scoffed when told, "We can make it vegan if you want." No cheese on French onion soup? No, thanks. Full cheese, please.
It's such a well-made soup with a surprising depth of flavor for being animal-free. I suspect that they wave a hunk o' beef over the pot while they're making it, much the way my friend waves a bottle of vermouth around the room when he's making a martini.
Following the soup were roasted red and golden beets with Maytag bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens, always a filling and satisfying dish. Because my mother never gave me beets growing up, I continue to seek them out as an adult to compensate for that gross childhood omission.
I was fed, paid and climbing into my car by 7:10, a remarkable feat considering I'd enjoyed a fair amount of conversation with owner Dave before leaving.
Aside from an always excellent evening of comedy or drama, there are two delights of Richmond Shakespeare's' staged readings. The price of admission includes a glass of wine (I chose the Cab) and there's a dessert bar (I had the chocolate eclair). Not that I need enticements to see Shakespeare, but it's icing on the (chocolate) cake, so to speak.
Tonight's staged reading of "Double Falsehood or the Distrest Lovers" marks the first production in this country; Richmond slipped in under the wire as it's about to be produced in NYC and was done in London in January. First Picasso and now "Double Falsehood." This city's coolness meter just burst its bulb.
Who is it that woos at this late hour?
The play, written in the early 18th century is an adaptation of a lost play called "Cardenio," written by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. It included many of Shakespeare's usual devices, girls dressed as boys, lovers kept apart, as well as the distinctive meter and vocabulary.
Passion in women is short in waking and strong in effort.
What was particularly noticeable were the 18th century updates intended to appeal to a different audience than Shakespeare's, like the rape of the humble, but virtuous country girl. And unlike the master's plays, there were bad people in the bucolic country.
Love is contagious and it hurts my brain.
Because it was a reading and not a full production, the actors were working with scripts and even stands for the scripts, the first time I'd seen that. They used them to good effect, though, raising and lowering the stands as suited what they were doing as they spoke or if they were trying to be hidden.
I can't get this false man's memory out of my head.
A staged reading means limited props and interaction, but there's always enough to captivate. During the shepherd scene, the actors wore shearling caps with ear flaps and the head shepherd, (who salaciously licked the young shepherd's hand to demonstrate his lust), had a fake shearling piece over his shoulder.
Let them alone. They're almost starved for kisses.
Music was courtesy of the actor who could simulate a beat box and speeches from windows and balconies above were delivered by actors standing on their chairs.
Will you be ruled by me? Kill yourself!
How could the authenticity of the origins of this play ever have been doubted? By the end, the good and noble brother brings everyone together: the distraught fathers who thought they'd lost their children and the two sets of lovers who could now be joined in nuptials. All's well that ends well.
Being a hopeless romantic, I admit to getting great satisfaction from seeing distrest love resolved. Not so the epilogue, which opined, "Heaven defend us from these moral plays."
Heavenly defense not necessary.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Shiny, Deep and Ears Ringing
A friend had invited me to meet her for drinks and then join her for "The Color Purple" at the Landmark Theater.
That wasn't going to work because I had plans to see a music show at 9:00, but we decided to meet for drinks anyway.
Conveniently for me, she chose the Belvidere at Broad at 5:45. Foolishly, neither of us had considered the number of people who would be there at 5:30 for a pre-theater meal.
It's not like we had a tough time getting bar stools because we didn't, but the hustle and bustle around us was non-stop for the harried staff. On the plus side, they knew it would mostly go away by 7:45.
Except that it didn't. Oh, sure, plenty of people left to make the curtain, including my friend, but even more showed up looking for food and drink on a Saturday night. No one had any idea what the craziness was about.
My friend and I enjoyed the Hahn Cabernet Sauvignon as we chatted about our upcoming trips. In the blink of an eye, it was time for her to leave and I was left with half a glass of wine and no one to talk to. Luckily that didn't last long.
Friends of a friend came in, and took the table behind me, so with a swivel of the hips, I had two friendly faces and eager conversationalists while they ate their burgers and downed their beer flight.
To taunt our mutual friend, we took a picture of me and one of the guys and sent it off to him, saying we were on the way to the Girl Talk show at the National (he detests Girl Talk and would undoubtedly wonder how in the world we ended up together). Simple pleasures.
I enjoyed the Belvidere's house applewood-smoked salmon (they do it so well) after their departure and tried to keep up with the rotating cast of characters in the stools nearest me. They seemed to be the staging area for the next available table.
I was soon joined at the bar by a West End foursome waiting for a table. They asked me if I'd eaten there before, launching a 20-minute discussion of where else in the city they should try.
They apologized for living in Short Pump, but now that they're empty-nesters, they're committed to doing all their dining in the city and broadening their horizons. But they needed help.
They eagerly asked for some of my favorite places and dishes and I happily shared my opinions. "Boy, did we talk to the right person," one of the husbands gushed to his wife. "You're a goldmine of information!" he told me. That's me, shiny and deep.
Once they'd moved tableside, I ordered the dark chocolate brownie with vanilla bean gelato, Bailey's dark chocolate whipped cream and a dark chocolate ganache sauce.
When it arrived, a nearby girl grabbed her husband's arm and asked, "What's that? I need that!" They had just arrived. Down, girl. She watched me eat until I pushed the rest away; you could almost see her wondering why I hadn't finished.
When I left, there were close to ten people waiting for tables at the front and it was going on 9:00. I wished owner Julie luck with that (she was as perplexed by it as I was) and walked home to get my car and head to Gibson's.
Tonight's show there was further complicated because of the Girl Talk show at the National. Walking by to get in Gibson's, I passed a lot of kids in shiny clothes, their underage hands marked with a big "X," all ready for a dance party, which Girl Talk would no doubt deliver.
Down in the bowels of Gibson's it was much more civilized. The show began with Dave Watkins on dulcitar, looping himself for layers of sound. At one point, a friend acknowledged, "Ah, the ever-capable Dave Watkins. He's got three loops going at once!"
Before one song in which he'd also be playing drums, he told the crowd, "I'm going to lose my glasses on this one." Before long, they were sliding down his nose and he finally pulled them off and tossed them to the floor. It was an excellent set.
Lobo Mario played next, putting on their best mic'd show ever (since they frequently play without mics) and infusing their folky songs with an enthusiastic energy that engaged the diverse crowd.
At one point Jameson introduced "Laney on accordion" after a particularly robust accordion piece. "Yea, that was me shredding," she said self-deprecatingly. Their down-tempo cover of Elvis' "Can't Help Falling in Love" brought the house down.
DC's The Orchid headlined and, as a big fan of post-rock, I was thrilled to hear these guys perform. Like all post-rock groups, there was the serious wall of guitar sound (three) plus a drummer, with no vocals playing big, beautiful soundscapes alternately loud and quiet.
Unlike most post-rock groups, however, they had an amplified violin player (he doubled on keyboards), making for quite an interesting addition to their sound.
Unfortunately, during his solos (and between songs) the thumping bass of the Girl Talk show rattled the ceiling of the room. Fortunately, when they were all playing, their bold sound pushed right back.
When their stellar set was over, I said my farewells to my friends and headed over to Sprout, hoping to catch some of the show going on there.
Owner Laurie's band Catnip Dreams was playing and I hadn't seen them since last summer's Jonny Z Fest show where they absolutely shone on Shields Street.
As soon as I walked in the door, a friend came up to tell me I'd miss their terrific set. Drat the luck.
I headed to the back room for Green Hearts to find the room was packed. Finally a guy took pity on my abbreviated stature and gave me his step, where I could at least see lead singer (and WRIR DJ) Paul Ginder and some of the other band members rocking out.
Their sound was pure 60s/70s and most of the band had on skinny ties. They played tambourine, maracas and cowbell in addition to the usual suspects.
Songs were short and high energy and the crowd was moving non-stop during every 3-minute burst. Sadly, I also saw no less than four people with their fingers in their ears. Tragic, kids, absolutely tragic.
When they finished, the audience clamored for one more and Paul begged off, saying "We can't. We're old." The crowd refused to accept such an un-rock and roll sentiment and they played one more.
Afterwards, I went up to Sprout owner Jamie just before he began DJ'ing vintage vinyl, saying, "Sprout, always reliable for revisiting the past."
"Not a problem, is it?" he grinned.
Would I have been there again if it was? Not to mention that there's always the hope of meeting a like-minded soul over a sixties or seventies groove.
That wasn't going to work because I had plans to see a music show at 9:00, but we decided to meet for drinks anyway.
Conveniently for me, she chose the Belvidere at Broad at 5:45. Foolishly, neither of us had considered the number of people who would be there at 5:30 for a pre-theater meal.
It's not like we had a tough time getting bar stools because we didn't, but the hustle and bustle around us was non-stop for the harried staff. On the plus side, they knew it would mostly go away by 7:45.
Except that it didn't. Oh, sure, plenty of people left to make the curtain, including my friend, but even more showed up looking for food and drink on a Saturday night. No one had any idea what the craziness was about.
My friend and I enjoyed the Hahn Cabernet Sauvignon as we chatted about our upcoming trips. In the blink of an eye, it was time for her to leave and I was left with half a glass of wine and no one to talk to. Luckily that didn't last long.
Friends of a friend came in, and took the table behind me, so with a swivel of the hips, I had two friendly faces and eager conversationalists while they ate their burgers and downed their beer flight.
To taunt our mutual friend, we took a picture of me and one of the guys and sent it off to him, saying we were on the way to the Girl Talk show at the National (he detests Girl Talk and would undoubtedly wonder how in the world we ended up together). Simple pleasures.
I enjoyed the Belvidere's house applewood-smoked salmon (they do it so well) after their departure and tried to keep up with the rotating cast of characters in the stools nearest me. They seemed to be the staging area for the next available table.
I was soon joined at the bar by a West End foursome waiting for a table. They asked me if I'd eaten there before, launching a 20-minute discussion of where else in the city they should try.
They apologized for living in Short Pump, but now that they're empty-nesters, they're committed to doing all their dining in the city and broadening their horizons. But they needed help.
They eagerly asked for some of my favorite places and dishes and I happily shared my opinions. "Boy, did we talk to the right person," one of the husbands gushed to his wife. "You're a goldmine of information!" he told me. That's me, shiny and deep.
Once they'd moved tableside, I ordered the dark chocolate brownie with vanilla bean gelato, Bailey's dark chocolate whipped cream and a dark chocolate ganache sauce.
When it arrived, a nearby girl grabbed her husband's arm and asked, "What's that? I need that!" They had just arrived. Down, girl. She watched me eat until I pushed the rest away; you could almost see her wondering why I hadn't finished.
When I left, there were close to ten people waiting for tables at the front and it was going on 9:00. I wished owner Julie luck with that (she was as perplexed by it as I was) and walked home to get my car and head to Gibson's.
Tonight's show there was further complicated because of the Girl Talk show at the National. Walking by to get in Gibson's, I passed a lot of kids in shiny clothes, their underage hands marked with a big "X," all ready for a dance party, which Girl Talk would no doubt deliver.
Down in the bowels of Gibson's it was much more civilized. The show began with Dave Watkins on dulcitar, looping himself for layers of sound. At one point, a friend acknowledged, "Ah, the ever-capable Dave Watkins. He's got three loops going at once!"
Before one song in which he'd also be playing drums, he told the crowd, "I'm going to lose my glasses on this one." Before long, they were sliding down his nose and he finally pulled them off and tossed them to the floor. It was an excellent set.
Lobo Mario played next, putting on their best mic'd show ever (since they frequently play without mics) and infusing their folky songs with an enthusiastic energy that engaged the diverse crowd.
At one point Jameson introduced "Laney on accordion" after a particularly robust accordion piece. "Yea, that was me shredding," she said self-deprecatingly. Their down-tempo cover of Elvis' "Can't Help Falling in Love" brought the house down.
DC's The Orchid headlined and, as a big fan of post-rock, I was thrilled to hear these guys perform. Like all post-rock groups, there was the serious wall of guitar sound (three) plus a drummer, with no vocals playing big, beautiful soundscapes alternately loud and quiet.
Unlike most post-rock groups, however, they had an amplified violin player (he doubled on keyboards), making for quite an interesting addition to their sound.
Unfortunately, during his solos (and between songs) the thumping bass of the Girl Talk show rattled the ceiling of the room. Fortunately, when they were all playing, their bold sound pushed right back.
When their stellar set was over, I said my farewells to my friends and headed over to Sprout, hoping to catch some of the show going on there.
Owner Laurie's band Catnip Dreams was playing and I hadn't seen them since last summer's Jonny Z Fest show where they absolutely shone on Shields Street.
As soon as I walked in the door, a friend came up to tell me I'd miss their terrific set. Drat the luck.
I headed to the back room for Green Hearts to find the room was packed. Finally a guy took pity on my abbreviated stature and gave me his step, where I could at least see lead singer (and WRIR DJ) Paul Ginder and some of the other band members rocking out.
Their sound was pure 60s/70s and most of the band had on skinny ties. They played tambourine, maracas and cowbell in addition to the usual suspects.
Songs were short and high energy and the crowd was moving non-stop during every 3-minute burst. Sadly, I also saw no less than four people with their fingers in their ears. Tragic, kids, absolutely tragic.
When they finished, the audience clamored for one more and Paul begged off, saying "We can't. We're old." The crowd refused to accept such an un-rock and roll sentiment and they played one more.
Afterwards, I went up to Sprout owner Jamie just before he began DJ'ing vintage vinyl, saying, "Sprout, always reliable for revisiting the past."
"Not a problem, is it?" he grinned.
Would I have been there again if it was? Not to mention that there's always the hope of meeting a like-minded soul over a sixties or seventies groove.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Don't Eat Me. Let's Mate.
The Gallery 5 after 5 series may have reached a new high tonight with more people, a bigger spread of free food (courtesy of Cous Cous), discounted memberships to Gallery 5 (just so you know, you are looking at the legs of a new member) and, wait for it, a lecture on tarantulas.
Believe it or not, this combination happy hour/lecture series is not just for nerds (although that's certainly why I go).
It's about mixing and mingling, checking out G5's exhibits in case you missed First Friday and listening to one of Richmond's talented DJs playing music (tonight it was Kenneth).
And tonight it was also about scorpions in cages (alive and glowing under a black light) and in frames (dead, but great for Christmas presents).
I kid you not; organizer Prabir bought four and another guy two.
"They're for my nephews," he claimed. Yea, right.
Wade Harrell, president of the American Tarantula Society, gave a great talk about arachnids, complete with full-screen visuals of these not-so deadly creatures.
The title of this post comes from his explanation of mating rituals, if that tells you how unscientific yet fascinating he was.
The strength of his talk was that he spoke like a non-scientist about a fairly scientific topic (my friend the biologist was impressed with this) so as not to lose those of us who aren't in to the whole species/habitat thing.
I'd taken a seat in the second row with no one around me, but that soon changed.
First the head of Culture Works picked my row after his introduction speech.
Next the Frenchman I'd met at the Renoir movie recently, here, came in and sat down next to me.
He was followed shortly by a friend, another Frenchman, necessitating me moving over next to Culture Works.
I'd gone from being alone in my row to completely sandwiched in by men in bulky coats.
But given the weather and the concrete floor, I was more than happy to have all that body heat nearby.
After the talk, the serious socializing began and for the next few hours, it was a lot like a party, with people drinking, eating, making new friends and chatting up the old.
The Frenchman provided some helpful connections to a couple of friends who are soon leaving for nine months in Europe.
Four hours into the happy "hour" it was time for me to excuse myself and go eat dinner.
At that point, I knew I was staying in the 'hood, so the Belvidere at Broad was the logical stop, being so close to home.
Owner David flagged me down as soon as I approached the bar, motioning to his end and saying, "Come on, met me halfway!"
He'd come in to help out the dishwasher (does a heart good to hear that, doesn't it?) and stayed for some Ommegang Adoration out of the cask.
Plenty of others seemed to be there for the same reason.
I quickly decided on the grilled ahi tuna with spicy sriracha aioli on a crusty baguette with mixed greens, tomato, cucumber and red onion, with a side of Asian slaw.
I'd never had this sandwich, although I still recall the one bite I'd had of a friend's many months ago.
Tonight's was every bit as memorable as that bite (tuna rare and aioli just hot enough) and the slaw was the perfect cooling complement to it.
David saw me tearing into the baguette and asked if it was too chewy.
No such thing, I told him.
I like my bread to require some work.
We talked about buying local art (something we both do), how VCU needs to step it up sculpturally (one of my many soapboxes), offering growlers (I'm a big supporter of the idea despite not being a beer drinker) and parties where everyone else is a musician (he'd recently been to one and was raving about it).
Th new art show is photography by John Fralin and the atmospheric shots of underpasses, buildings and landscapes were beautifully composed.
I couldn't get a good look at a couple of them because they were over top of occupied tables and, for some reason, people don't appreciate having someone lean over them while they're eating, even for art's sake.
Luddites.
Dessert was a sundae with double chocolate ganache and a glass of Pinot Noir while discussing Anthony Bourdain with a neighbor and the alternate bartender, Matt.
Having just finished the underwhelming Medium Raw today, I was far less enthusiastic about the man than they were.
Or maybe it was just that after the high of hearing about the mating rituals of scorpions everything else paled in comparison.
Because as pick-up lines go, don't eat me/let's mate is not only brilliant, but crystal clear.
Two qualities this non-scorpion much admires.
Believe it or not, this combination happy hour/lecture series is not just for nerds (although that's certainly why I go).
It's about mixing and mingling, checking out G5's exhibits in case you missed First Friday and listening to one of Richmond's talented DJs playing music (tonight it was Kenneth).
And tonight it was also about scorpions in cages (alive and glowing under a black light) and in frames (dead, but great for Christmas presents).
I kid you not; organizer Prabir bought four and another guy two.
"They're for my nephews," he claimed. Yea, right.
Wade Harrell, president of the American Tarantula Society, gave a great talk about arachnids, complete with full-screen visuals of these not-so deadly creatures.
The title of this post comes from his explanation of mating rituals, if that tells you how unscientific yet fascinating he was.
The strength of his talk was that he spoke like a non-scientist about a fairly scientific topic (my friend the biologist was impressed with this) so as not to lose those of us who aren't in to the whole species/habitat thing.
I'd taken a seat in the second row with no one around me, but that soon changed.
First the head of Culture Works picked my row after his introduction speech.
Next the Frenchman I'd met at the Renoir movie recently, here, came in and sat down next to me.
He was followed shortly by a friend, another Frenchman, necessitating me moving over next to Culture Works.
I'd gone from being alone in my row to completely sandwiched in by men in bulky coats.
But given the weather and the concrete floor, I was more than happy to have all that body heat nearby.
After the talk, the serious socializing began and for the next few hours, it was a lot like a party, with people drinking, eating, making new friends and chatting up the old.
The Frenchman provided some helpful connections to a couple of friends who are soon leaving for nine months in Europe.
Four hours into the happy "hour" it was time for me to excuse myself and go eat dinner.
At that point, I knew I was staying in the 'hood, so the Belvidere at Broad was the logical stop, being so close to home.
Owner David flagged me down as soon as I approached the bar, motioning to his end and saying, "Come on, met me halfway!"
He'd come in to help out the dishwasher (does a heart good to hear that, doesn't it?) and stayed for some Ommegang Adoration out of the cask.
Plenty of others seemed to be there for the same reason.
I quickly decided on the grilled ahi tuna with spicy sriracha aioli on a crusty baguette with mixed greens, tomato, cucumber and red onion, with a side of Asian slaw.
I'd never had this sandwich, although I still recall the one bite I'd had of a friend's many months ago.
Tonight's was every bit as memorable as that bite (tuna rare and aioli just hot enough) and the slaw was the perfect cooling complement to it.
David saw me tearing into the baguette and asked if it was too chewy.
No such thing, I told him.
I like my bread to require some work.
We talked about buying local art (something we both do), how VCU needs to step it up sculpturally (one of my many soapboxes), offering growlers (I'm a big supporter of the idea despite not being a beer drinker) and parties where everyone else is a musician (he'd recently been to one and was raving about it).
Th new art show is photography by John Fralin and the atmospheric shots of underpasses, buildings and landscapes were beautifully composed.
I couldn't get a good look at a couple of them because they were over top of occupied tables and, for some reason, people don't appreciate having someone lean over them while they're eating, even for art's sake.
Luddites.
Dessert was a sundae with double chocolate ganache and a glass of Pinot Noir while discussing Anthony Bourdain with a neighbor and the alternate bartender, Matt.
Having just finished the underwhelming Medium Raw today, I was far less enthusiastic about the man than they were.
Or maybe it was just that after the high of hearing about the mating rituals of scorpions everything else paled in comparison.
Because as pick-up lines go, don't eat me/let's mate is not only brilliant, but crystal clear.
Two qualities this non-scorpion much admires.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Getting Comfort in the 'Hood
Sometimes you haven't been to a restaurant in a really long time and then when you finally go, you can't quite remember why you had stopped going in the first place.
I'm talking about Comfort, a mere five blocks from my apartment, and yet I haven't been there for dinner in eons.
Pity, too, because I ran into an artistic music buddy with graphite all over his hands, met a charming man who knows what he's talking about when it comes to men and got reacquainted with a bartender who remembered me from a music discussion in another bar.
Why exactly did I stop frequenting Comfort?
I arrived before my perennially late friend and my backside had barely grazed my bar stool when a friend motioned me over from the other side of the bar. "Come sit with me!"
It was Austin, my talented furniture-making friend and fellow Marionette/Beach House fan.
Knowing my friend wouldn't show up anytime soon, I accepted his offer to sit down and visit for a while.
He was drinking the Crispin Cider and insisted I taste its 6.9 % goodness.
He said it wasn't as good as the Honey Crisp hot cider with shots of rum and brandy, but how could it be without those additions?
Still, it was very fall-like.
The late one finally showed up and planted herself between me and a nearby bar sitter.
We ordered a bottle of 2008 Verona Romeo and Juliet White (garanega and sauvginon blanc blend) and I went back to Austin while she took on the newcomer.
It was her first time to Comfort, so she took a while with the menu, but I went ahead and ordered the soup (pork and corn) and the Surry sausage.
Our bartender Sean had already brought me out a taste cup of the soup, and I'd been impressed enough with all the pig and veggies to order it.
Foolishly, I'd ordered a bowl instead of a cup and wound up with an enormous bowl of pig soup competing with my pig in casings.
Friend finally decided on the pulled pork barbecue, mac and cheese, green beans and squash casserole.
I shared my sausage with Austin because the serving was so generous and because sausage with such perfectly crisp skin needs to be shared and savored with a friend.
It was after our devouring that Austin finally had to leave and we turned our full attention to the newcomer.
Ready or not, he rose to the challenge.
And he was delightful.
Confident, opinionated and extroverted, he was the perfect foil for two females looking for talkative company.
We covered it all; the definition of men, the best way to impress the opposite sex and the irrelevance of age.
If ever we'd met our conversational match, he was all that and a bag of chips.
The music was enjoyable if repetitive, so after the second time I heard Spoon's "Don't You Evah" I was compelled to ask Sean the source of the music (iTunes), which jarred his memory about where we'd first met (the B @ B after the Silversun Pickups show we'd both attended) and led to a discussion of music and neighborhood bars, not to mention another bottle of Romeo and Juliet.
While my friend was sharing the details of her recent relationship with our new compadre, I ordered the chocolate mousse for a diversion, since I had no intention of sharing anything about my own dating adventures (which are necessarily already cutting into my blogging frequency since kissing and telling is not my thing).
Sorry, I'm too busy getting my chocolate fix to spill the beans just now.
After three and a half hours, we were the sole occupants of the room and I realized it was perhaps time to vacate the premises before "Don't You Evah" came on again.
I'm thinking I shouldn't have evah written off a restaurant capable of providing such pleasurable company and abundance of pig.
That I can blog about.
I'm talking about Comfort, a mere five blocks from my apartment, and yet I haven't been there for dinner in eons.
Pity, too, because I ran into an artistic music buddy with graphite all over his hands, met a charming man who knows what he's talking about when it comes to men and got reacquainted with a bartender who remembered me from a music discussion in another bar.
Why exactly did I stop frequenting Comfort?
I arrived before my perennially late friend and my backside had barely grazed my bar stool when a friend motioned me over from the other side of the bar. "Come sit with me!"
It was Austin, my talented furniture-making friend and fellow Marionette/Beach House fan.
Knowing my friend wouldn't show up anytime soon, I accepted his offer to sit down and visit for a while.
He was drinking the Crispin Cider and insisted I taste its 6.9 % goodness.
He said it wasn't as good as the Honey Crisp hot cider with shots of rum and brandy, but how could it be without those additions?
Still, it was very fall-like.
The late one finally showed up and planted herself between me and a nearby bar sitter.
We ordered a bottle of 2008 Verona Romeo and Juliet White (garanega and sauvginon blanc blend) and I went back to Austin while she took on the newcomer.
It was her first time to Comfort, so she took a while with the menu, but I went ahead and ordered the soup (pork and corn) and the Surry sausage.
Our bartender Sean had already brought me out a taste cup of the soup, and I'd been impressed enough with all the pig and veggies to order it.
Foolishly, I'd ordered a bowl instead of a cup and wound up with an enormous bowl of pig soup competing with my pig in casings.
Friend finally decided on the pulled pork barbecue, mac and cheese, green beans and squash casserole.
I shared my sausage with Austin because the serving was so generous and because sausage with such perfectly crisp skin needs to be shared and savored with a friend.
It was after our devouring that Austin finally had to leave and we turned our full attention to the newcomer.
Ready or not, he rose to the challenge.
And he was delightful.
Confident, opinionated and extroverted, he was the perfect foil for two females looking for talkative company.
We covered it all; the definition of men, the best way to impress the opposite sex and the irrelevance of age.
If ever we'd met our conversational match, he was all that and a bag of chips.
The music was enjoyable if repetitive, so after the second time I heard Spoon's "Don't You Evah" I was compelled to ask Sean the source of the music (iTunes), which jarred his memory about where we'd first met (the B @ B after the Silversun Pickups show we'd both attended) and led to a discussion of music and neighborhood bars, not to mention another bottle of Romeo and Juliet.
While my friend was sharing the details of her recent relationship with our new compadre, I ordered the chocolate mousse for a diversion, since I had no intention of sharing anything about my own dating adventures (which are necessarily already cutting into my blogging frequency since kissing and telling is not my thing).
Sorry, I'm too busy getting my chocolate fix to spill the beans just now.
After three and a half hours, we were the sole occupants of the room and I realized it was perhaps time to vacate the premises before "Don't You Evah" came on again.
I'm thinking I shouldn't have evah written off a restaurant capable of providing such pleasurable company and abundance of pig.
That I can blog about.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Anti-Nouveau Beaujolais Thursday
Here's one more way the French have it over us. We make a holiday of the fourth Thursday to overeat and watch football. They make a holiday of the third Thursday and drink new wine. Can you say "way more fun"?
Today's event at Barrel Thief was a two-fer: the wine shop was doing a 2010 Beaujolais Cru tasting and the guys at SausageCraft were there doing an anti-Nouveau Beaujolais tasting. How great was it having gamay and pig competing for my attention? Luckily I had plenty for both.
The purpose of the tasting was to experience something other than the usual supermarket swill which has become synonymous with Beaujolais Nouveau. To that end, they were sampling Beaujolais Nouveaus from each of the ten Crus of the region.
The crowd was comprised of lots of wine geeks, one from a wine shop in Williamsburg even, and wine-lovers like yours truly. Flying the company colors and sipping away were the Boathouse, Ellwood Thompson and Secco.
The couple next to me provided a lot of entertainment value, mostly him and his corny jokes, so I had company from the start. My friend was late arriving, so I tasted the first five wines while waiting for him (only because the manager told me to start without him and I always do what I'm told).
Finally he arrived and we could taste together. To allow him time to catch up on his tasting, I strolled over to the SausageCraft table where Brad was cooking up pork belly sausage made with Beaujolais and made just today. New wine, new sausage, it was a relationship for the ages.
The sausage was full-flavored with just a trace of herbs and wine. Cooked up hot and smelling so good it made it tough to focus on the wine at times, it was the clear star of the evening. No one could agree on which wine was best, but everyone was raving about the incredible sausage.
And, not that I know anything about wine (other than I like to drink it), but my votes for best go to the Domaine Cheveau 2008 Saint Amour (from the smallest and most rare of the ten Cru villages) and the Jean-Paul Thevenet 2009 Morgon, a wine so to my taste that I took one sip and said to my friend, "Taste this now."
As we were walking out, I picked up my pace because I was running behind to meet friends. "Triple-booked tonight?" he asked. "Just double," I told him. But still late. What if my date thought I stood them up? I wouldn't be able to live with myself.
Stop #2 was the Belvidere to meet one of my very favorite couples for a catch-up session. Unbelievably, we hadn't seen each other since Folk Fest because of their crazy work schedules. Imagine, people who put work ahead of play; I like them anyway.
I ordered the house-smoked salmon, always perfectly executed at the Belvidere and, because I knew I couldn't top the Morgon, a Don Julio for sipping. Now we could talk.
This is a couple who eats out as much as I do, so we ran through a comparative chat about places we'd all been since our last rendezvous. Even when we don't eat together, we seem to share the same opinion of how a restaurant is doing. We talked about their plans to spirit me to the West End soon (and not against my will it should be noted).
They too asked me about my big news and I shared how that was going. They're polite enough that they didn't make any snide remarks about my slow-moving progress like some friends I could mention (you know who you are).
We ended with a discussion of how so many people they know at work go through the motions of Thanksgiving only because they feel it's expected of them, not because they enjoy any of it.
See, that's my point exactly. Wouldn't it be whole lot easier to get behind a wine drinking Thursday holiday and avoid all that dysfunctional family holiday stuff entirely?
My only problem would be giving up the stuffing, but only because it has sausage in it.
When it comes right down to it, it's always about the sausage, isn't it?
Rhetorical question, mind you.
Today's event at Barrel Thief was a two-fer: the wine shop was doing a 2010 Beaujolais Cru tasting and the guys at SausageCraft were there doing an anti-Nouveau Beaujolais tasting. How great was it having gamay and pig competing for my attention? Luckily I had plenty for both.
The purpose of the tasting was to experience something other than the usual supermarket swill which has become synonymous with Beaujolais Nouveau. To that end, they were sampling Beaujolais Nouveaus from each of the ten Crus of the region.
The crowd was comprised of lots of wine geeks, one from a wine shop in Williamsburg even, and wine-lovers like yours truly. Flying the company colors and sipping away were the Boathouse, Ellwood Thompson and Secco.
The couple next to me provided a lot of entertainment value, mostly him and his corny jokes, so I had company from the start. My friend was late arriving, so I tasted the first five wines while waiting for him (only because the manager told me to start without him and I always do what I'm told).
Finally he arrived and we could taste together. To allow him time to catch up on his tasting, I strolled over to the SausageCraft table where Brad was cooking up pork belly sausage made with Beaujolais and made just today. New wine, new sausage, it was a relationship for the ages.
The sausage was full-flavored with just a trace of herbs and wine. Cooked up hot and smelling so good it made it tough to focus on the wine at times, it was the clear star of the evening. No one could agree on which wine was best, but everyone was raving about the incredible sausage.
And, not that I know anything about wine (other than I like to drink it), but my votes for best go to the Domaine Cheveau 2008 Saint Amour (from the smallest and most rare of the ten Cru villages) and the Jean-Paul Thevenet 2009 Morgon, a wine so to my taste that I took one sip and said to my friend, "Taste this now."
As we were walking out, I picked up my pace because I was running behind to meet friends. "Triple-booked tonight?" he asked. "Just double," I told him. But still late. What if my date thought I stood them up? I wouldn't be able to live with myself.
Stop #2 was the Belvidere to meet one of my very favorite couples for a catch-up session. Unbelievably, we hadn't seen each other since Folk Fest because of their crazy work schedules. Imagine, people who put work ahead of play; I like them anyway.
I ordered the house-smoked salmon, always perfectly executed at the Belvidere and, because I knew I couldn't top the Morgon, a Don Julio for sipping. Now we could talk.
This is a couple who eats out as much as I do, so we ran through a comparative chat about places we'd all been since our last rendezvous. Even when we don't eat together, we seem to share the same opinion of how a restaurant is doing. We talked about their plans to spirit me to the West End soon (and not against my will it should be noted).
They too asked me about my big news and I shared how that was going. They're polite enough that they didn't make any snide remarks about my slow-moving progress like some friends I could mention (you know who you are).
We ended with a discussion of how so many people they know at work go through the motions of Thanksgiving only because they feel it's expected of them, not because they enjoy any of it.
See, that's my point exactly. Wouldn't it be whole lot easier to get behind a wine drinking Thursday holiday and avoid all that dysfunctional family holiday stuff entirely?
My only problem would be giving up the stuffing, but only because it has sausage in it.
When it comes right down to it, it's always about the sausage, isn't it?
Rhetorical question, mind you.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
From the Congo to Boston
The best thing about being back from the beach is that I can put my brain back into gear again. That meant starting at the Anderson Gallery for the panel discussion on "Collecting African Music," something I have no intention of doing but every desire to learn more about.
The discussion was yet another tie-in to the current South African shows, specifically Siemon Allen's record collection at the Anderson. Besides the collector, Bill Lupoletti and David Noyes of WRIR were on the panel to add their music geek perspectives.
The talk was interesting, what with two DJs and the collector himself. The first point of contention was Paul Simon's Graceland. It seemed that while the DJs liked the African rhythms of it, Paul Simon not so much.
On the other hand, Simon's controversial decision to ignore the cultural boycott against performing with South African musicians got widespread approval since it allowed South African musicians to be heard at a time when it was not the norm.
Bill said that, "The album opened a market. It was a synthesis of what Simon did before as well as the South African music that inspired him." He saw this as positive, as did the others.
One thing the talk made clear was that it is no longer possible to just go to your local record store and find the latest in African (or world) music. The Internet and e-Bay have replaced the record store as the places to procure the latest, mainly because there are fewer independent distributors than there used to be.
Bill said, "World music is a term nobody likes and everybody uses," because it means so little. But WRIR's Congolese program gets listeners from all over the world because it is the only broadcast program of Congolese music in the entire country. There goes that WRIR, making us proud again.
The takeaway from the panel was Siemon Allen's directive, "Don't let the collection become an end into itself." Hoarders of music help no one but themselves.
By the end of the talk, it had been a long time since the herring roe breakfast, so I went on over to the Belvidere at Broad for dinner and perhaps some company and ended up with both.
Tonight's soup was vegetarian onion soup gratin, fortunately not vegan, so it had a lovely cheese layer melted on top. Vegetable stock works beautifully instead of beef stock and I am here to attest to that.
Next up was the golden and red beet salad with Maytag Bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens. After that filling soup course (necessary due to the damp coolness of all this rain), I filled up quickly on the beet course.
My neighbors at the bar were business associates in town from Boston and while she didn't last long (8:12), he stayed and chatted for four hours, unexpectedly providing great company with all kinds of literary leanings. How often can a stranger show you e-mails referencing Yeats, Keats and Nirvana?
His extensive travels, his long-time concert-going habit (King Crimson and Devotchka? Damn.)and his sarcasm made him a worthy conversational partner and I was thrilled to have lucked onto someone so interesting and willing to chat up a stranger.
By the time we got ready to leave, the only other person at the bar was using a yellow highlighter to annotate his non-fiction book on love (he was a masseuse and a nutritionist). I wished him luck at book-learning about love.
I dropped the Bostonian (like me, a lapsed Irish-Catholic) at the Doubletree and made my way home in the pouring rain.
Although I like beach rain so much better (lots warmer and I can still hear the ocean), there's nothing like getting home and back into the swing of things.
I can do this. I can do this.
The discussion was yet another tie-in to the current South African shows, specifically Siemon Allen's record collection at the Anderson. Besides the collector, Bill Lupoletti and David Noyes of WRIR were on the panel to add their music geek perspectives.
The talk was interesting, what with two DJs and the collector himself. The first point of contention was Paul Simon's Graceland. It seemed that while the DJs liked the African rhythms of it, Paul Simon not so much.
On the other hand, Simon's controversial decision to ignore the cultural boycott against performing with South African musicians got widespread approval since it allowed South African musicians to be heard at a time when it was not the norm.
Bill said that, "The album opened a market. It was a synthesis of what Simon did before as well as the South African music that inspired him." He saw this as positive, as did the others.
One thing the talk made clear was that it is no longer possible to just go to your local record store and find the latest in African (or world) music. The Internet and e-Bay have replaced the record store as the places to procure the latest, mainly because there are fewer independent distributors than there used to be.
Bill said, "World music is a term nobody likes and everybody uses," because it means so little. But WRIR's Congolese program gets listeners from all over the world because it is the only broadcast program of Congolese music in the entire country. There goes that WRIR, making us proud again.
The takeaway from the panel was Siemon Allen's directive, "Don't let the collection become an end into itself." Hoarders of music help no one but themselves.
By the end of the talk, it had been a long time since the herring roe breakfast, so I went on over to the Belvidere at Broad for dinner and perhaps some company and ended up with both.
Tonight's soup was vegetarian onion soup gratin, fortunately not vegan, so it had a lovely cheese layer melted on top. Vegetable stock works beautifully instead of beef stock and I am here to attest to that.
Next up was the golden and red beet salad with Maytag Bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens. After that filling soup course (necessary due to the damp coolness of all this rain), I filled up quickly on the beet course.
My neighbors at the bar were business associates in town from Boston and while she didn't last long (8:12), he stayed and chatted for four hours, unexpectedly providing great company with all kinds of literary leanings. How often can a stranger show you e-mails referencing Yeats, Keats and Nirvana?
His extensive travels, his long-time concert-going habit (King Crimson and Devotchka? Damn.)and his sarcasm made him a worthy conversational partner and I was thrilled to have lucked onto someone so interesting and willing to chat up a stranger.
By the time we got ready to leave, the only other person at the bar was using a yellow highlighter to annotate his non-fiction book on love (he was a masseuse and a nutritionist). I wished him luck at book-learning about love.
I dropped the Bostonian (like me, a lapsed Irish-Catholic) at the Doubletree and made my way home in the pouring rain.
Although I like beach rain so much better (lots warmer and I can still hear the ocean), there's nothing like getting home and back into the swing of things.
I can do this. I can do this.
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