We pause now for a barely veiled tribute to our sponsor, Jackson Ward. Best Monday night 'hood ever.
Because, unless you have a recording studio/art gallery that does candle-lit micro-shows for 30 or fewer music lovers within a three-block walk - the Tiny Bar series at Black Iris - on the deadest night of the week, I seriously doubt you've got more going on where you live.
Swedish musician/Baltimore transplant Hanna Olivegreen was the draw on a night where fog and drizzle were battling it out for dominance, but my mod-looking new (old) raincoat was up to the challenge. Running into a friend, I complimented him on his leaner frame and he volleyed back with, "You're looking pretty fly, by the way."
Behold the power of a thrift store find and someone who appreciates that '60s Carnaby Street look.
Since the show hadn't begun, I paused to check out the art show up front, a collection of small works by various artists, full of bright colors and a lightness completely unlike Black Iris' usual aesthetic. More like 1708 Gallery next door, which, it turned out, is whose show it actually was, part of an upcoming fundraiser.
"No, these are definitely not my colors," laughed the gallerist when I asked about the uncharacteristic art on his walls. "Look, I'm even keeping the lights lower to offset the color," he said, turning the lights up to make his point.
One that attracted me that he'd have ignored was "Hostage," an image of a green potted cactus atop a pink cardboard box with a towering microphone pointed ominously at the poor, prickly thing and a massive recording device in the background, all set against sunny orange and white stripes.
Succulent as hostage, it was hilarious and ridiculously colorful at the same time.
The other piece that demanded my attention could've been a woodcut or a drawing and showed a monochromatic image of a large stylized bush, some geese and two multi-cultural looking people, both in elaborately multi-patterned coats, their faces reminiscent of Renaissance illustrations.
Its gradations of black would have been soothing to the gallerist's eye, but it was the modern interpretation of a classic construct that sucked me in.
Back at the tiny bar, I said hello to the few people I knew and settled in next to the vintage store owner across the street. She asked if I'd heard Hanna's voice and assured me I was going to be impressed when I did. I was already admiring the singer's long dirty blond braid and groovy red Indian-style shirt. So '70s.
Marveling at what we were about to see on a soggy Monday after the most depressing inauguration on record (really, he has to bring in "clappers" to assure a scripted response to his rantings?), I said I couldn't imagine anyone had anything more compelling to do in Richmond tonight than this show.
"Right?" she asked rhetorically. "Hello, McFly?"
Performing as HOW, Hanna and her Baltimore band - singer Iris, cellist Zack and drummer Mike - begin with the wooziest of piano sounds, instantly putting me in mind of Baltimore's Beach House and on board immediately.
From there, they proceed to take us deep into an atmosphere of experimental, world music and lounge, with the two women harmonizing like angels while trance-like rhythms and mad percussion pulled the audience along.
There was a break before the second set which allowed time for me to hear about a mutual friend and former bachelor extraordinaire who decided to ask his sweetie to move in by giving her a vintage ring, but he didn't have a box. That's how he showed up at my friend's store in search of the best possible ring box, which had to be chosen carefully because he was going to have to see it every day if she said yes.
We agreed this showed a level of foresight and consideration not often exhibited by his people.
People came and went before the second set, which registered as more neo-'70s pop/tribal/improvisation, some songs so raucous Ines was stamping her foot and playing tambourine, Mike was hitting every surface in sight while Zack was plucking the cello for all it was worth, his bow ignored.
Sucking in the room's energy, re-imagining it and continuously changing directions, the sound was irresistible.
It was the equivalent of being seduced and washed clean, all in a candlelit room over an hour and a half.
So I'm quite sure that hearing a killer band perform on a slow night alone would show up your neighborhood, but it was also the 3-year anniversary party for the Rogue Gentlemen, a few blocks away and also in J-Ward.
Selfishly since I'm going on 11 years here, I'm all for any business that puts down roots and stays.
Adding to the incentive to congratulate a neighbor business was the stupidly delicious Mean Bird fried chicken ("With sliced cucumber vinaigrette slices to make you feel better about yourself," I was assured), upbeat rap and slow jams thanks to Deejay Krispy Leek and a drink that delivered exactly what I asked for: complex and sassy. The sage leaf was pure bonus.
I congratulated the owner on his longevity and recent marriage and he hinted at plans in the works. Word is the big lot diagonally across is about to be developed with retail, a quantum leap from just three years ago when Jackson Street was considered the far reaches of the neighborhood. Yet they proved that wrong.
But although it works here, we agreed there would be no way of conveying the J-Ward vibe of Rogue Gentlemen to any other area. A new concept would be in order.
The place was packed with some celebratory types in birthday hats, a table full of bespectacled brunette nerd types (pre-med, dental?) who gave off a socially awkward vibe but are no doubt brilliant and clusters of beards licking chicken-greased fingers and sucking back cocktails.
Wiping my own greasy fingers, I can assure you it most definitely did not feel like just another wet Monday evening in a fascist state. The benefits of a lively, walkable neighborhood, no matter the night, can not be overstated.
Take me away, Jackson Ward, because you really are the best. All I can do is try to look fly enjoying it. Failing that, there's always complex and sassy.
Showing posts with label the rogue gentleman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the rogue gentleman. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Time to Play B-sides.
As my favorite man who wears high heels says, "The time is now. That's all you need to know."
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
The pre-game at Rogue Gentlemen involved J. Mourat Rose, a lamb Philly steak, fried chicken skins and three luscious cheddar chive biscuits with apple butter that my companion had professed to be uninterested in until I ordered them.
Three warm, seductive biscuits later, I was given my due for ordering such deliciousness while a couple at the other end of the bar acttually lifted off of their stools to ogle our repast, eventually ordering the same.
The main event was TheatreLAB's performance of "Venus in Fur," easily one of the most fascinating two-person plays I've ever seen and not because it's about sado-masochism, either.
What, doesn't everyone have a dog collar?
All the cool kids were there for opening night, and it's always pleasant to begin by hearing my name called and then, "Hey, gorgeous" to get my attention. It was the walker/play-lover I'd not seen recently, finally getting out of his house.
He'd picked an outstanding choice for his return to play-going.
Watching Maggie Roop as Vanda and James Ricks as Thomas was an exquisite 90 minutes of thrust and parry with the two actors playing an actor and director ("Young women can't even play feminine anymore!") who are bringing to life a play about a masochist looking for his dominatrix.
You know, that old chestnut.
If it sounds like a hall of mirrors, that''s exactly what playwright David Ives seems to have been going for and it's brilliant stuff onstage.
I'm not convinced that all women want to control men, as the play's Thomas insists, but where I did agree was that nobody has out-sized emotions anymore (and we're the worse for it, I might add).
We're all explicable. What we're not is extricable.
Assured direction by Matt Shofner and terrific performances by both actors ensured that everyone who walked out of there knew they'd seen something they wouldn't soon forget.
Just as I was finding Maggie's Vanda character simplistic and a bit too broad with the comedic bits ("Remind me...?" when the Austro-Hungarian empire is mentioned), she slid seamlessly into the role of the woman being groomed to be Thomas' dominatrix, totally commanding the stage and showing what she was made of, both challenging him and seducing him.
And what man doesn't like that? She even arrived with period costumes for both of them, showing a level of planning that speaks to those of us who tend to overthink everything.
James - still memorable as a blond Hamlet in the 2012 Bootleg Shakespeare production - "To be or...Line!" - was born to play the role of Thomas, the smugly arrogant director whose life has already settled into mediocrity without him noticing, but who can't help but be affected by the crass and sometimes contemptuous actress who's showed up in his office to read for the part in his play.
TheatreLAB never disappoints, but the combination of the brilliance in choosing this steamy play and casting and directing it to perfection already has me emailing friends to nudge them to get tickets.
Don't say I didn't tell you so, kids. You wouldn't want to miss the sound of zippering when a roomful of people hold their collective breath in complete silence as a pair of thigh-high black patent leather boots are zipped up two fabulous legs. Truth.
We barely made it to Comfort before the intricacies of the post-play discussion began, followed by long-delayed girl talk ("That old chestnut?" she asks, cracking me up with her dismissive take on my life) until we are the final customers and only the bartender is left to say goodnight.
Cue next day.
Talk about unlikely, I have been to Lowe's three times in 24 hours and that's a lifetime achievement record. Also, I was spending someone else's money, which makes it a whole lot more fun.
Over the course of the day together, I am mistaken repeatedly for my companion's wife, a highly unlikely occurrence given that he pitches for the other team, but he's more delighted with the mistaken identity every time it happens. Meanwhile, he digs, plants, spreads and sweeps as if I'd given him a Honey-Do list.
I only hope my garden represents me as well as the painting the jazz drummer created for me does. It certainly smells wonderful (the garden, not eh painting).
Tonight's Leap of Faith party for the upcoming Bijou Film Center was a thank-you to all of us who'd donated to get the arthouse theater off the ground (and hopefully in my neighborhood) as founding members.
Number 178, right here, folks.
After a full day outside working, even a hoppy-smelling brewery was a welcome change, as were the sounds of DJ Carlito spinning records, along with plenty of familiar faces and music lovers.
It was especially delightful to run into one half of the Blood Brothers, visiting from NYC and, I was happy to hear, cobbling together a satisfying life producing bands, delivering his wife's food to movie sets and playing music.
Hey, whatever combination works, that's my life philosophy.
Grass Panther - two guys who sound like a whole lot more- rocked everybody's faces off (a pink-clad five year old danced like a punk veteran, unable to stop herself), addressing the song "Stinky Pants" to the men in the room ("We'll have a group session later about that," singer/guitarist Michael says) and closing by saying, "Thanks for taking the journey with us."
No, thank you for a killer post-punk set. Just what I needed.
During the break, all the founding members were gathered for a group photo complete with Groucho Marx glasses/noses on each of us, destined to be come a classic...or Facebook blackmail
The highlight of the evening may have been when one of the Bijou's founders, James, got up to explain about the Bijou and what it will be. A 100-seat art house. A cafe and bar, with beers such as Hardywood on tap.
"We'll also serve wine for people like Karen who don't like beer," James announces from the stage, a stage in a brewery.
A guy near me leans over and whispers, "Did you see people step away from you when he said that?" Um, no, but I don't doubt it.
Despite that, when he'd said it, a DJ's wife had given me a thumbs up of support from across the floor. Later, a woman stopped me to tell me she didn't drink beer either.
The difference? She didn't get called out for it in front of a roomful of beer lovers.
But isn't that almost the point? Why does a non-beer drinker go to Hardywood? Because she gets to see terrific bands and support an artsy cause that's near and dear to her heart. Even better, the Bijou not only met its goal of 360 founding members, it beat it.
Turns out we are the movie town some of us thought we were.
Call it one of those perfect synchronicity moments when the Green Hearts took the stage, because off to the side was a guy I hadn't seen in years, but whose restaurant was the first place I ever saw the Green Hearts.
It's practically poetic, right?
The band got bonus points for doing several covers of songs used in movies, including a Cheap Trick song and Blue Oyster Cult's "Burnin' for You," a song I probably haven't heard this millennium.
I totally dug it, not gonna lie.
With their dark suits and energetic pop, they were well-suited to reminding the crowd that this was a party and at parties, people dance. Dancing in place, I was completely caught off guard when a founder and all-around great guy asked me to dance, inadvertently saying no out of sheer surprise instead of just jumping in.
What, a woman who loves to dance declining an invitation?
Perhaps we should have a group session about that later. The time is now and that should be enough.
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Righting the World's Wrongs
Sometimes the best date isn't even your own.
It's not like I had a date, unless you count my couple date, but he was a fantastic date, even if his devotion did lie elsewhere. He picked me up, took me to dinner, then a play, bought me a souvenir and ended the evening by taking me out for cocktails.
Sure, his actual date was there every step of the way, but I can live with that.
He'd never been to Secco, so that's where we started. He got a unique Secco experience because the restaurant wasn't crowded with a) women or b) west enders or c) really much of anyone at all. In my experience, this never happens.
I'd told him that the beauty of Secco was any wine by the glass (you know I started with bubbles, in this case the lovely Pinon Vouvray Brut "Petillant"), stellar small plates and an absolutely fabulous selection of cheeses and meats.
We covered all those bases, right down to ordering two separate cheese and meat plates.
The first ensured that we ordered the second, with wonderfully funky Roncal (cow), Red Witch (cow) and the divine Roquefort Societe "Bee" (sheep), jamon Serrano and Calabrese (I do so love my salamis, not matter what cancer they're going to give me) to start.
As creamy and stinky as the Roquefort was, my favorite part of it was its description, which I wouldn't mind having on my tombstone, not that I intend to be buried: classic, voluptuous and assertive, it rights the wrongs of the world in one bite.
I wouldn't mind being seen that way by the right person.
Then there was celery veloute soup (dreamy), fried chickpeas (he had to know), and smoked salmon spread (more black radishes and beet mostarda, please) to continue while we admired the staff's Halloween costumes.
They were so clever. One was all in sparkles and sequins (she was bubbly), another in shades of pink (hello, Rose) and a third in shades of burgundy (the red wine queen).
While awaiting the arrival of our second cheese and meat plate - more Roquefort, more Red Witch, VB & C ash rind "Bonne Bouche" (described as "looking like brains"), speck and Bresaola (yes, my choice again), we got on the subject of sailors crossing the equator.
It was my fault for mentioning having seen a student in a slutty sailor costume that in no way resembled an actual sailor. Hello, booty shorts are not the equivalent of bell bottoms, young lady.
Unbeknownst to me, there are traditions that mark a sailor's first trip across that magic line of latitude. You have to "kiss the baby" (the fattest sailor's belly), climb through the birth canal (a tunnel filled with garbage) and turn your clothes inside out.
Thank you, no. Good thing I never aspired to the sail the seas in the service of my country.
I got this information from the horse's mouth (Mr. Not-My-Date had been in the Navy and my friend had old black and white photographs of her grandfather doing the same) while sipping the gorgeous and fragrant Cherriere Pere vet Fils Sancerre.
Needless to say, the Secco virgin (his best line: "I'm not some ingenue from Ladysmith") was reveling in his food and wine options.
We left only because we had a curtain to make, dodging trick or treaters and tipsy parents on the way, at the VMFA for Quill Theater's annual Bootleg Shakespeare.
We weren't long in our reserved seats, not having had to stand in line for tickets (see what I mean about him being such a great date?) when we heard, "Without further nonsense, here's our director, Foster Solomon, " who told us to expect a '50s/'60s B-movie version of Macbeth complete with greasers and Elvis.
I was down for whatever happened, which included the three witches as a girl group, lots of New Jersey accents and white t-shirts, black leather jackets and Chuck Taylors. Macbeth had a magnificent black pompadour.
Much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery.
What I love about the Bootleg performances is their sense of spontaneity, hardly surprising given that they only have one day of rehearsal. But tonight's staging was pretty polished with loads of musical numbers interspersed in the Scottish play.
There's daggers in men's smiles.
There were knock knock jokes and a killer James Brown impersonator, but also some actors who just couldn't project far enough in a space the size of the Cheek Theater. Pelvises thrusted throughout and pop culture references were rampant.
It's always a safe bet that actors will forget their lines (most jogged their memory by calling "line!' but the funniest was "hit me!") and that the story will have modern-day additions, like when Macbeth says he's done the deed and Lady Macbeth throws off her robe to reveal a negligee, saying, "Tell me about it."
During intermission, my non-date even bought me a bootleg Shakespeare mug, if that gives you any idea how good he is at this.
The good news was that in the second act, Macbeth projected far better and was more easily heard than in the first. When Banquo gets killed, body parts came flying across the stage, cracking the audience up.
Thou art the best o' the cut throats.
Doo-wop and girl group songs dominated the play, including the "Monster Mash" (featuring everyone from a hilarious bride of Frankenstein to the Mummy to Wednesday from the Addams Family), and Aretha's "Think" with lyrics changed to sing about treason.
At one point, an actor called for a line and then a second time, sending the crowd into gales of laughter. "I can't hear it!" he said, laughing, too.
The final fight scene was set to "My Way," if that gives you any clue where this Macbeth was going.
After that tragedy, my non-date set out to take us out to meet his long-time friend (since third grade) and his wife for cocktails at the Rogue Gentlemen.
On the way, we stopped at a red light where three VCU students stood in costume. Rolling down the window, my friend pointed at the guy in glasses and a Hawaiian shirt.
"Hunter S. Thompson, right?" she asked.
"I knew someone would get it!" he said triumphantly while his pals - a fork and a banana- rolled their eyes. "I've read all his books!"
Sure you have, kid.
Once at the Gentlemen, we commandeered the corner of the bar, making do with four stools for five people and choosing our drinks from the Mad Lib books listing cocktails.
I chose the spicy and sweet (don't worry, I don't want that on my tombstone) Dracary, an Espolon-based gem with all kinds of ingredients, including toasted walnut orgeat, cream, egg white and dusted with cinnamon sugar.
When a Hall and Oates song came on, my friend blurted out that she'd seen them in 1993. "Don't y'all tell anyone that!" she said fiercely, but it wasn't long before my non-date admitted having seen Pat Benatar with his third grade buddy, so who's shaming whom?
Tasting each other's cocktails, we passed the time doing Mad Libs and reading them aloud, mainly because why have access to Mad Libs and not do them?
My non-date recalled fondly the first time I'd brought him here (sans his main squeeze) and said he'd preferred the Richard Gere drink menu of that time, not for its offerings, but for its theme.
"Maybe a Julia Roberts drink menu?" he suggested. Not likely, I explained to him, along with other important factoids he should already know by his age.
When a Whitney Houston song came on, the women reacted positively and the men acted superior, at least until "I Will Always Love You" began and then even they had to acknowledge the beauty of Dolly Parton's song.
All of a sudden, the song changed to something else entirely and the owner looked at the bartender askance. "You're fired, Paul!" he called from across the room. Paul kept on making drinks anyway.
I became unpopular when the subject of "The Princess Bride" came up because it's a movie I saw once and never bothered to see again, incidentally the same reaction the film got from Mr. Third Grade Friend's wife. We were summarily ridiculed for not appreciating this so-called classic.
Apparently, I am no longer getting cute shoes for Christmas, but a copy of the book from which the film was taken in order to show me the error of my ways. Buttercup who?
It was only after we'd each had a couple of cocktails and multiple Mad Libs had been completed with much innuendo that we realized how late it was and that we all had beds awaiting us. The good news was the extra hour of sleep tonight involves. Mine will be alone, of course.
Tell me about it. With any luck, eventually classic, voluptuous and assertive will get me otherwise.
It's not like I had a date, unless you count my couple date, but he was a fantastic date, even if his devotion did lie elsewhere. He picked me up, took me to dinner, then a play, bought me a souvenir and ended the evening by taking me out for cocktails.
Sure, his actual date was there every step of the way, but I can live with that.
He'd never been to Secco, so that's where we started. He got a unique Secco experience because the restaurant wasn't crowded with a) women or b) west enders or c) really much of anyone at all. In my experience, this never happens.
I'd told him that the beauty of Secco was any wine by the glass (you know I started with bubbles, in this case the lovely Pinon Vouvray Brut "Petillant"), stellar small plates and an absolutely fabulous selection of cheeses and meats.
We covered all those bases, right down to ordering two separate cheese and meat plates.
The first ensured that we ordered the second, with wonderfully funky Roncal (cow), Red Witch (cow) and the divine Roquefort Societe "Bee" (sheep), jamon Serrano and Calabrese (I do so love my salamis, not matter what cancer they're going to give me) to start.
As creamy and stinky as the Roquefort was, my favorite part of it was its description, which I wouldn't mind having on my tombstone, not that I intend to be buried: classic, voluptuous and assertive, it rights the wrongs of the world in one bite.
I wouldn't mind being seen that way by the right person.
Then there was celery veloute soup (dreamy), fried chickpeas (he had to know), and smoked salmon spread (more black radishes and beet mostarda, please) to continue while we admired the staff's Halloween costumes.
They were so clever. One was all in sparkles and sequins (she was bubbly), another in shades of pink (hello, Rose) and a third in shades of burgundy (the red wine queen).
While awaiting the arrival of our second cheese and meat plate - more Roquefort, more Red Witch, VB & C ash rind "Bonne Bouche" (described as "looking like brains"), speck and Bresaola (yes, my choice again), we got on the subject of sailors crossing the equator.
It was my fault for mentioning having seen a student in a slutty sailor costume that in no way resembled an actual sailor. Hello, booty shorts are not the equivalent of bell bottoms, young lady.
Unbeknownst to me, there are traditions that mark a sailor's first trip across that magic line of latitude. You have to "kiss the baby" (the fattest sailor's belly), climb through the birth canal (a tunnel filled with garbage) and turn your clothes inside out.
Thank you, no. Good thing I never aspired to the sail the seas in the service of my country.
I got this information from the horse's mouth (Mr. Not-My-Date had been in the Navy and my friend had old black and white photographs of her grandfather doing the same) while sipping the gorgeous and fragrant Cherriere Pere vet Fils Sancerre.
Needless to say, the Secco virgin (his best line: "I'm not some ingenue from Ladysmith") was reveling in his food and wine options.
We left only because we had a curtain to make, dodging trick or treaters and tipsy parents on the way, at the VMFA for Quill Theater's annual Bootleg Shakespeare.
We weren't long in our reserved seats, not having had to stand in line for tickets (see what I mean about him being such a great date?) when we heard, "Without further nonsense, here's our director, Foster Solomon, " who told us to expect a '50s/'60s B-movie version of Macbeth complete with greasers and Elvis.
I was down for whatever happened, which included the three witches as a girl group, lots of New Jersey accents and white t-shirts, black leather jackets and Chuck Taylors. Macbeth had a magnificent black pompadour.
Much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery.
What I love about the Bootleg performances is their sense of spontaneity, hardly surprising given that they only have one day of rehearsal. But tonight's staging was pretty polished with loads of musical numbers interspersed in the Scottish play.
There's daggers in men's smiles.
There were knock knock jokes and a killer James Brown impersonator, but also some actors who just couldn't project far enough in a space the size of the Cheek Theater. Pelvises thrusted throughout and pop culture references were rampant.
It's always a safe bet that actors will forget their lines (most jogged their memory by calling "line!' but the funniest was "hit me!") and that the story will have modern-day additions, like when Macbeth says he's done the deed and Lady Macbeth throws off her robe to reveal a negligee, saying, "Tell me about it."
During intermission, my non-date even bought me a bootleg Shakespeare mug, if that gives you any idea how good he is at this.
The good news was that in the second act, Macbeth projected far better and was more easily heard than in the first. When Banquo gets killed, body parts came flying across the stage, cracking the audience up.
Thou art the best o' the cut throats.
Doo-wop and girl group songs dominated the play, including the "Monster Mash" (featuring everyone from a hilarious bride of Frankenstein to the Mummy to Wednesday from the Addams Family), and Aretha's "Think" with lyrics changed to sing about treason.
At one point, an actor called for a line and then a second time, sending the crowd into gales of laughter. "I can't hear it!" he said, laughing, too.
The final fight scene was set to "My Way," if that gives you any clue where this Macbeth was going.
After that tragedy, my non-date set out to take us out to meet his long-time friend (since third grade) and his wife for cocktails at the Rogue Gentlemen.
On the way, we stopped at a red light where three VCU students stood in costume. Rolling down the window, my friend pointed at the guy in glasses and a Hawaiian shirt.
"Hunter S. Thompson, right?" she asked.
"I knew someone would get it!" he said triumphantly while his pals - a fork and a banana- rolled their eyes. "I've read all his books!"
Sure you have, kid.
Once at the Gentlemen, we commandeered the corner of the bar, making do with four stools for five people and choosing our drinks from the Mad Lib books listing cocktails.
I chose the spicy and sweet (don't worry, I don't want that on my tombstone) Dracary, an Espolon-based gem with all kinds of ingredients, including toasted walnut orgeat, cream, egg white and dusted with cinnamon sugar.
When a Hall and Oates song came on, my friend blurted out that she'd seen them in 1993. "Don't y'all tell anyone that!" she said fiercely, but it wasn't long before my non-date admitted having seen Pat Benatar with his third grade buddy, so who's shaming whom?
Tasting each other's cocktails, we passed the time doing Mad Libs and reading them aloud, mainly because why have access to Mad Libs and not do them?
My non-date recalled fondly the first time I'd brought him here (sans his main squeeze) and said he'd preferred the Richard Gere drink menu of that time, not for its offerings, but for its theme.
"Maybe a Julia Roberts drink menu?" he suggested. Not likely, I explained to him, along with other important factoids he should already know by his age.
When a Whitney Houston song came on, the women reacted positively and the men acted superior, at least until "I Will Always Love You" began and then even they had to acknowledge the beauty of Dolly Parton's song.
All of a sudden, the song changed to something else entirely and the owner looked at the bartender askance. "You're fired, Paul!" he called from across the room. Paul kept on making drinks anyway.
I became unpopular when the subject of "The Princess Bride" came up because it's a movie I saw once and never bothered to see again, incidentally the same reaction the film got from Mr. Third Grade Friend's wife. We were summarily ridiculed for not appreciating this so-called classic.
Apparently, I am no longer getting cute shoes for Christmas, but a copy of the book from which the film was taken in order to show me the error of my ways. Buttercup who?
It was only after we'd each had a couple of cocktails and multiple Mad Libs had been completed with much innuendo that we realized how late it was and that we all had beds awaiting us. The good news was the extra hour of sleep tonight involves. Mine will be alone, of course.
Tell me about it. With any luck, eventually classic, voluptuous and assertive will get me otherwise.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Choose Your Adjectives Carefully
Guys like treble. Girls like bass. It must be true because I heard it on public radio.
An early Christmas present means I now own a pair of sky-high black suede platform shoes with feathers on the outside and leopard print inside, appropriately made by Bettie Page Shoes. It's a thrill to be so tall.
Sometimes I need to keep my thoughts to myself. Spying a neighbor sporting a big, puffy jacket in today's 75-degree weather, I crack wise. "A jacket, really?" and he responds soberly, "I'm allergic to the sun." Awkward.
At the Rogue Gentlemen for dinner, Michael Jackson's "PYT" playing, my compadre and I meet a 25-year old celebrating her birthday.
Waiting for her friend to arrive, we begin filling in the Mad-Lib book, which also doubles as the cocktail list, in front of us. She is young, so her word choices are meant to show off her vocabulary (oscillating, expository) whereas my friend and I know how much funnier Mad-Libs are with raunch (spits, bends, lubricates).
Although practically strangers, we read them to each other to great effect until the food arrives.
Buttermilk-brined country-fried popcorn chicken sports a swipe of barbecue sauce with a serious kick, offset by pickle relish. I might take issue with that "country-fried" part, though.
My companion is dismayed when her Painted Hills strip steak arrives as a series of medallions and accompanied by too few butterbeans (are there ever enough butterbeans, really?), although we both get off on the toothsome baby carrots and red bliss potatoes.
The birthday girl's friend arrives and they order matching drinks and then pass one over to us to sniff, as if we're some sort of experts.
"It smells like an old book," she says, although my date finds it closer to Mercurochrome, a tincture this 25-year old has never even heard of. Given that, it's probably better that she missed our discussion of Madge Wildwood ("Timber!") in the party scene at "Breakfast at Tiffany's."
The way I figure it, my little apartment is an ideal place to replicate that iconic, overstuffed party, something that's been a goal of mine for several years now. And I bought a fabulous cocktail dress today that would be perfect for hostessing (and by hostessing, I mean offering up my abode for the revelry, nothing more), maybe even with those cute new shoes.
First I'll need a liquor store that delivers.
Laughs came courtesy of "Richmond Famous" at the Comedy Coalition Theater, where the guest of honor was Maat Free who told stories from her life and then let the improv troupe destroy them.
From Maat and the resulting hilarity, we gleaned several things.
Normal is boring, but it's accepted by society. Some people's biggest problem is missing their shows.
The reason so many chairs were unoccupied, Maat said, was because her friends weren't yet there. "It's because of CPT," she said. "Look it up in the Urban Dictionary when you get home." Did. It means colored people's time and the stereotype that they're usually late.
You see how educational "Richmond Famous" can be?
Also, gentlemen, don't piss off Maat Free. She has decked three different men - whom she refers to as "testosterits" - for various infractions, including a boyfriend for not washing the wok after making pork before preparing her vegan string beans. Another went down for looking at her across a crowded room.
I'd need far more serious infractions to attempt decking a man, I think.
And in a first for "Richmond Famous," the evening ended with a lecture about the difference in being called a slave (defining a person) and referring to them as enslaved (a reference to their condition). When everyone agrees with that distinction by a show of hands, she asks us all to make a fist with that raised hand, making for a rather cool moment in a crowd that was probably 85% white.
"In Richmond, yes!" she exclaims, clearly delighted at the show of solidarity.
It was a beautiful thing to witness: bass and treble united in their beliefs at RCC tonight. Of course, everyone knows it really is all about the bass.
An early Christmas present means I now own a pair of sky-high black suede platform shoes with feathers on the outside and leopard print inside, appropriately made by Bettie Page Shoes. It's a thrill to be so tall.
Sometimes I need to keep my thoughts to myself. Spying a neighbor sporting a big, puffy jacket in today's 75-degree weather, I crack wise. "A jacket, really?" and he responds soberly, "I'm allergic to the sun." Awkward.
At the Rogue Gentlemen for dinner, Michael Jackson's "PYT" playing, my compadre and I meet a 25-year old celebrating her birthday.
Waiting for her friend to arrive, we begin filling in the Mad-Lib book, which also doubles as the cocktail list, in front of us. She is young, so her word choices are meant to show off her vocabulary (oscillating, expository) whereas my friend and I know how much funnier Mad-Libs are with raunch (spits, bends, lubricates).
Although practically strangers, we read them to each other to great effect until the food arrives.
Buttermilk-brined country-fried popcorn chicken sports a swipe of barbecue sauce with a serious kick, offset by pickle relish. I might take issue with that "country-fried" part, though.
My companion is dismayed when her Painted Hills strip steak arrives as a series of medallions and accompanied by too few butterbeans (are there ever enough butterbeans, really?), although we both get off on the toothsome baby carrots and red bliss potatoes.
The birthday girl's friend arrives and they order matching drinks and then pass one over to us to sniff, as if we're some sort of experts.
"It smells like an old book," she says, although my date finds it closer to Mercurochrome, a tincture this 25-year old has never even heard of. Given that, it's probably better that she missed our discussion of Madge Wildwood ("Timber!") in the party scene at "Breakfast at Tiffany's."
The way I figure it, my little apartment is an ideal place to replicate that iconic, overstuffed party, something that's been a goal of mine for several years now. And I bought a fabulous cocktail dress today that would be perfect for hostessing (and by hostessing, I mean offering up my abode for the revelry, nothing more), maybe even with those cute new shoes.
First I'll need a liquor store that delivers.
Laughs came courtesy of "Richmond Famous" at the Comedy Coalition Theater, where the guest of honor was Maat Free who told stories from her life and then let the improv troupe destroy them.
From Maat and the resulting hilarity, we gleaned several things.
Normal is boring, but it's accepted by society. Some people's biggest problem is missing their shows.
The reason so many chairs were unoccupied, Maat said, was because her friends weren't yet there. "It's because of CPT," she said. "Look it up in the Urban Dictionary when you get home." Did. It means colored people's time and the stereotype that they're usually late.
You see how educational "Richmond Famous" can be?
Also, gentlemen, don't piss off Maat Free. She has decked three different men - whom she refers to as "testosterits" - for various infractions, including a boyfriend for not washing the wok after making pork before preparing her vegan string beans. Another went down for looking at her across a crowded room.
I'd need far more serious infractions to attempt decking a man, I think.
And in a first for "Richmond Famous," the evening ended with a lecture about the difference in being called a slave (defining a person) and referring to them as enslaved (a reference to their condition). When everyone agrees with that distinction by a show of hands, she asks us all to make a fist with that raised hand, making for a rather cool moment in a crowd that was probably 85% white.
"In Richmond, yes!" she exclaims, clearly delighted at the show of solidarity.
It was a beautiful thing to witness: bass and treble united in their beliefs at RCC tonight. Of course, everyone knows it really is all about the bass.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Lucky Me
The first rule of the Down Home Family Reunion is you don't leave.
That is, if you live in Jackson Ward, you don't want to risk giving up your parking space because chances are, you won't easily find a replacement in the neighborhood all day and night today.
Fair enough. After a wildly busy week (I was away five of the last seven days), it didn't take much incentive to keep me in the 'hood for food and music.
All afternoon long, cars had been driving down Clay Street, music blaring into my open windows, for the most part classic R & B such as Roberta Flack and Rick James.
People were gearing up for the show.
Bound for the Rogue Gentlemen down Leigh Street, I got a backside view of the stage and Proverbs Reggae Band giving it their all for the crowd.
Walking down St. Peter Street past endless lines of cars circling the block for non-existent parking spaces, I saw a cop at the end near where the street was blocked off.
Pointing out that at least he could hear the band despite not being able to see it, he said, "I've been working this festival for ten years and I like it fine from right here."
Amen, brother.
At the Rogue Gentlemen, I found the bar empty and took a stool at the end where the music (Killers, Black Keys, Kooks) was easy to hear.
Starving after this morning's nearly seven mile hike, part of it along the Northbank trail, I proceeded to order far too much food.
Lemon verbena tomato gazpacho with pressed melon, pine nuts and buttermilk got me started on solid footing with the exquisitely melded flavors of summer.
A man came in and sat down at the bar around the time my pork crepinette - a good-sized flattened sausage patty - was delivered.
Vermouth-soaked cherries complemented the saltiness of the sausage and a soft-cooked quail egg added richness.
On the side was frisee with speck and pistachios, making for a decadent plate of food.
Midway through tucking into it, my sweet corn agnolotti showed up and I immediately switched over to that for fear of overindulging in pig and not being able to fully appreciate the little dumplings.
Floating in a pale orange sea of paprika butter and ringed with heirloom yellow cherry tomatoes and sprinkled with Pecorino Toscano and bits of guanciale (cured pork jowls), wonderful flavors all, it was the purity and sweetness of the summer corn in the agnolotti that was the undisputed flavor star of the dish.
As it should be.
Like the tomatoes and melon in my soup, there is no better time to be savoring them.
Walking home, I saw that people were arriving in droves to add to the already teeming crowd, so I went to get my chair and join the other music lovers in the park.
It was between sets so Al Green was blasting from the speakers and I found a place to set up with an unobstructed view.
People watching was great because so many people were styling for the festival and despite it being held in a field, there were lots of high heels.
After a while, a guy came over and asked if I was ready for the show.
Telling him I was, he said, "You look comfortable. I like to see that!"
Not long after, a woman came by passing out fliers reminding people to vote (not that I ever forget).
Then the guy came back to ask if I was alone and although I told him I was waiting for a date, he took that as a cue to stand behind me and tell his friend what a terrific singing voice he had.
To prove it, he began singing.
You must be a special lady
And a very exciting girl
The Elegba Folklore Society's dancers and drummers performed next and then there was an unexpected lag for Ray, Goodman and Brown.
After all kinds of delay tactics, MC Micah "Boom Boom" White admitted that there had been some mis-communication and that the band, who had been here earlier, had thought they were due at a much later time than they actually were.
The good news was they were just arriving, but with set -up and sound checking, it was practically 11 when they took the stage.
Their set had supposed to run from 9:30 to 11. Oops.
"It's been a long time since we played Richmond," singer Billy "Get Down" Brown told the crowd. "We used to play DJ's Supper Club!"
A woman in the crowd corrected him. "TJ's Supper Club. And I was your waitress!"
With a full band behind the three singers, they took us back to the days of love songs, even doing the synchronized hand gestures and dance steps to every song.
They'd been introduced as the band who were originally called as The Moments and known for their incredibly tight harmonies.
Their mouths were barely open before it was clear that all three voices were still spot on.
Referring to Barry White-like songs that women love, Billy said, "All you gotta do is sit on the bed and drop the needle on the record and let Barry sing. Then I say, take it off, baby. Well, we got a song just like that for the ladies here."
He wasn't lying. From "With You" ("loving you is easier than breathing") to "Look at Me" ("I'm in love") to "Lovely Way She Loves," it was music made for scoring.
When someone in the golden circle yelled out a request, he said, "Yes, honey, we're gonna do that. We're gonna do two way street and three way street."
Given the band's late start, I think everyone in the crowd was worried that they'd have to cut their set short.
The woman nearest me about lost it when they kicked into "I Don't Wanna Go," but everyone seemed to have their favorites.
"Special Lady," the song the guy had been serenading me with earlier, got the full singalong treatment with men and women doing separate parts.
Things got groovy when all three singers were introduced by name, zodiac sign and birth city,
I was impressed that Kevin used to sing with Luther Vandross but also bowled over that Billy's voice still hit those notes on the hits I recognized.
The crowd, meanwhile, danced and even sang along like they were back in high school.
Of course, the most reaction came for "Love on a Two-Way Street" and people began singing at the top of their lungs.
"It's the Richmond Tabernacle Choir!" Billy said as we sang and an extended arrangement took the song long past the three-minute mark.
It was a shame we only got a 45 minute set, but life's not always fair. Killer harmonies helped make up for fewer songs.
As I made my way toward home among clusters of people dragging chairs, I heard more than one ask a companion, "Where did we park?"
Happily, some of us didn't have that concern. We'd never left the 'hood.
Down home is right here.
That is, if you live in Jackson Ward, you don't want to risk giving up your parking space because chances are, you won't easily find a replacement in the neighborhood all day and night today.
Fair enough. After a wildly busy week (I was away five of the last seven days), it didn't take much incentive to keep me in the 'hood for food and music.
All afternoon long, cars had been driving down Clay Street, music blaring into my open windows, for the most part classic R & B such as Roberta Flack and Rick James.
People were gearing up for the show.
Bound for the Rogue Gentlemen down Leigh Street, I got a backside view of the stage and Proverbs Reggae Band giving it their all for the crowd.
Walking down St. Peter Street past endless lines of cars circling the block for non-existent parking spaces, I saw a cop at the end near where the street was blocked off.
Pointing out that at least he could hear the band despite not being able to see it, he said, "I've been working this festival for ten years and I like it fine from right here."
Amen, brother.
At the Rogue Gentlemen, I found the bar empty and took a stool at the end where the music (Killers, Black Keys, Kooks) was easy to hear.
Starving after this morning's nearly seven mile hike, part of it along the Northbank trail, I proceeded to order far too much food.
Lemon verbena tomato gazpacho with pressed melon, pine nuts and buttermilk got me started on solid footing with the exquisitely melded flavors of summer.
A man came in and sat down at the bar around the time my pork crepinette - a good-sized flattened sausage patty - was delivered.
Vermouth-soaked cherries complemented the saltiness of the sausage and a soft-cooked quail egg added richness.
On the side was frisee with speck and pistachios, making for a decadent plate of food.
Midway through tucking into it, my sweet corn agnolotti showed up and I immediately switched over to that for fear of overindulging in pig and not being able to fully appreciate the little dumplings.
Floating in a pale orange sea of paprika butter and ringed with heirloom yellow cherry tomatoes and sprinkled with Pecorino Toscano and bits of guanciale (cured pork jowls), wonderful flavors all, it was the purity and sweetness of the summer corn in the agnolotti that was the undisputed flavor star of the dish.
As it should be.
Like the tomatoes and melon in my soup, there is no better time to be savoring them.
Walking home, I saw that people were arriving in droves to add to the already teeming crowd, so I went to get my chair and join the other music lovers in the park.
It was between sets so Al Green was blasting from the speakers and I found a place to set up with an unobstructed view.
People watching was great because so many people were styling for the festival and despite it being held in a field, there were lots of high heels.
After a while, a guy came over and asked if I was ready for the show.
Telling him I was, he said, "You look comfortable. I like to see that!"
Not long after, a woman came by passing out fliers reminding people to vote (not that I ever forget).
Then the guy came back to ask if I was alone and although I told him I was waiting for a date, he took that as a cue to stand behind me and tell his friend what a terrific singing voice he had.
To prove it, he began singing.
You must be a special lady
And a very exciting girl
The Elegba Folklore Society's dancers and drummers performed next and then there was an unexpected lag for Ray, Goodman and Brown.
After all kinds of delay tactics, MC Micah "Boom Boom" White admitted that there had been some mis-communication and that the band, who had been here earlier, had thought they were due at a much later time than they actually were.
The good news was they were just arriving, but with set -up and sound checking, it was practically 11 when they took the stage.
Their set had supposed to run from 9:30 to 11. Oops.
"It's been a long time since we played Richmond," singer Billy "Get Down" Brown told the crowd. "We used to play DJ's Supper Club!"
A woman in the crowd corrected him. "TJ's Supper Club. And I was your waitress!"
With a full band behind the three singers, they took us back to the days of love songs, even doing the synchronized hand gestures and dance steps to every song.
They'd been introduced as the band who were originally called as The Moments and known for their incredibly tight harmonies.
Their mouths were barely open before it was clear that all three voices were still spot on.
Referring to Barry White-like songs that women love, Billy said, "All you gotta do is sit on the bed and drop the needle on the record and let Barry sing. Then I say, take it off, baby. Well, we got a song just like that for the ladies here."
He wasn't lying. From "With You" ("loving you is easier than breathing") to "Look at Me" ("I'm in love") to "Lovely Way She Loves," it was music made for scoring.
When someone in the golden circle yelled out a request, he said, "Yes, honey, we're gonna do that. We're gonna do two way street and three way street."
Given the band's late start, I think everyone in the crowd was worried that they'd have to cut their set short.
The woman nearest me about lost it when they kicked into "I Don't Wanna Go," but everyone seemed to have their favorites.
"Special Lady," the song the guy had been serenading me with earlier, got the full singalong treatment with men and women doing separate parts.
Things got groovy when all three singers were introduced by name, zodiac sign and birth city,
I was impressed that Kevin used to sing with Luther Vandross but also bowled over that Billy's voice still hit those notes on the hits I recognized.
The crowd, meanwhile, danced and even sang along like they were back in high school.
Of course, the most reaction came for "Love on a Two-Way Street" and people began singing at the top of their lungs.
"It's the Richmond Tabernacle Choir!" Billy said as we sang and an extended arrangement took the song long past the three-minute mark.
It was a shame we only got a 45 minute set, but life's not always fair. Killer harmonies helped make up for fewer songs.
As I made my way toward home among clusters of people dragging chairs, I heard more than one ask a companion, "Where did we park?"
Happily, some of us didn't have that concern. We'd never left the 'hood.
Down home is right here.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Not at My Dive Bar You Don't
It was time for vacation debriefing.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Pru had also been away last week so we needed to meet up and compare notes. But first, it was l'Chaim time.
Because of scheduling conflicts, I'd yet to make it to any of the Anderson Gallery's happy hours, always one of my favorite summer series.
Nothing was going to prevent me tonight from seeing My Son the Doctor, a Klezmer/Balkan band I hadn't seen in years at the Anderson. And nothing did.
Their set was already in progress when I arrived, so I found a space and settled in for gypsy and Jewish songs of love and longing with lots of percussion.
During the break, I mingled with the baby-toting singer (her band would be wonderful on a bill with My Son), the Chicago sculptor ("Of course we're both here, it's free!") and the fiber artist (looking glamorous and offering a hug) before heading outside to chat with Te Frenchman who'd recently sold his house and joined the swells at Rockett's Landing.
Chatting outside in the garden, the post-rain air was so thick and humid, it had a life of its own.
When I departed there, dewy but happy after the energetic eastern European music, it was to meet Pru at the new Continental Divide and see what kind of Mexican comfort food this Charlottesville restaurant had to offer Richmond.
Their "Get in here" neon (with an arrow) had already made me a bit wary.
I should have known by how far away I had to park that the place would be mobbed. Inside, I found friends clustered around the bar and a nice, big tequila menu on the chalkboard at the end of the bar.
It was noisy, so noisy that I could only hear two songs and one was by CCCR, one of my least favorite bands, but I ordered Cazadores reposado and hoped for the best.
Pru introduced me to some of her friends after informing me that we would not be staying to eat because she'd found the menu underwhelming.
Me, I'd given the Divide points simply for their menu attitude. Lines such as, "Give everyone a break. If your baby is crying, take it outside," and "Come on, don't even ask for separate checks" called to mind other chefs who don't hesitate to lay down their house rules.
Once we started into catch-up mode, it quickly became apparent that the din was far too loud to allow any real conversation, so despite her friend's invitation to join their 12-top, we declined and beat feet.
It's not a dis. I'll go back to check out the red hot blues or maybe assess their nacho capabilities once the frenzy dies down.
Walking out of the madness, Pru asked where we were headed. After a moment's consideration, I told her we were headed for my neck of the woods. The Rogue Gentleman.
The rain had ceased not long before, but we still found a moat on Jackson Street and side-stepped it to make it inside.
Taking the end stools at the bar, I continued with tequila - Espolon this time- while Pru stayed true to France with Rose.
"I didn't eat lunch and I'm starving," she said, encouraging me as we looked at the menu.
With a cover of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" playing overhead (to our mutual great delight), we ordered pork belly rillette with pickled onion, wedges of radish (Pru is a certified radish fiend and I'm not far behind), sea salt and crostini; chicken liver pate with roasted beets, arugula and vin cotto; and, to mitigate the offal (and may I just say how much pleasure it gives me to see "offal" as a menu category), a salad of curly endive, peaches, baby heirloom tomatoes ('tis the season), turnip creme fraiche, and salmon roe.
As we dove into these three dishes, all beautifully balanced, I heard her vacation woes and shared my own (too many people, same as hers).
If I was forced to pick a favorite (because they were all stellar), I'd have to go with the pork belly rillette because how can you go wrong with pig belly cooked in fat? That's right, you can't.
And, as usual, Jackson Ward's street theater did not disappoint.
A white hearse drove by and a woman walking a dog waved at me.
Meanwhile, a bike rickshaw pulled up waiting for a couple and when they emerged, the driver quickly sat down on the seat, moving his butt across it to absorb any raindrops before letting them sit down.
A young couple came in, ordered two glasses of bubbly and inquired about the tasting menu before moving to a table so they could woo in private (he kept kissing her neck).
Pru wondered whether or not we needed dessert, but I suggested instead that we indulge in a digestif, namely the Fernet Branca the Rogue Gentleman has on tap. When in Rome and all.
Midway through our Fernet, three guys came in, all out-of-towners, and chose stools next to us.
Next came the arduous task of deciding what they wanted to drink from the creatively-conceived cocktail menu.
Two were rum drinkers and marveled at the kitchy glasses that their Sol y Sombra and Fu Manchu arrived in (worthy of the best tiki bars), while the third was a devotee of bourbon, choosing the 12 Parsecs, with the menu notation, "a parsec is a measure of distance not time."
I admit, I was curious about how three guys in town for a convention at the raceway had managed to find an obscure Jackson Ward bar, so I asked and they claimed it had been a cinch.
God bless the internet, I suppose.
What they'd decided they wanted on their next stop was some Pappy Van Winckle, and the bartender suggested McCormack's Whiskey Grill to scratch their itch, sending them to their phones to see if McCormack's carried it.
Forget a sense of adventure, forget going over there to find out for themselves, they had to call just in case.
As luck would have it, none of their phones provided the telephone number. Guess they were going to have to chance it.
"What dive bar should we go to that's good but a little dangerous?" the handsome Floridian inquired.
Whoa. Do I look like the kind of local who's going to spill those kind of beans to a conventioneer?
Come on, don't even ask for insider information. Give everyone a break.
Monday, March 10, 2014
With Baited Hook
We lost an hour over the weekend, but it felt like a whole lot more.
Between finishing up several assignments Saturday, I made it over to the Blue Bee Cidery tasting briefly, along with scads of people, including a favorite Museum District couple, clutching bottles of Aragon 1904 and Mill Race Bramble, listening to the sounds of Poisoned Dwarf (great band name, right?) and eating lamb (my choice) or pork sandwiches in the sunshine facing the downtown skyline.
It was to laugh when a guy led some friends across the parking lot and pointed to the buildings on the other side of the river, extending his arm in a "ta-da!" moment as if they'd had to wind through a forest to come to the view when it's in plain sight no matter where you are there.
Hours later, dinner ended up being in almost the exact same spot when Holmes and his beloved suggested I join them at Camden's for a United Nations-worthy evening of pink bubbles- Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, Graham Beck Brut Rose and a hearty bright pink Cava with a name too long to remember by the time I got home - along with succulent pork belly festooned with the Christmas colors of cranberries and sauteed spinach.
Knowing we were destined to lose an hour, we probably shouldn't have stayed up so late chatting and sipping but it had been ages since I'd seen them and there was so much to talk about.
When Sunday dawned clear and warm, it seemed a shame not to walk somewhere for brunch and the Rogue Gentleman got the nod for its proximity.
We were the first to arrive even though they'd been open for two hours at that point, but given my last visit on a mobbed opening night, it was kind of nice to have the place to ourselves.
Well, that's a stretch because between the kitchen staff and wait staff, there were easily four times as many of them as us, but with the sun on our backs in bar stools up front, who was counting?
Punkt sparkling Gruner Veltliner gave way to eggs and bacon and a dish of polenta and eggs, a stellar layering of flavors with preserved lemon under polenta topped by harissa tomato sauce, two fried eggs and pickled thyme.
Since some of us require something sweet for breakfast, I also got brioche doughnut holes rolled in pistachio dust, my only complaint being that they weren't hot.
Not that I said that out loud.
After a stroll through the Hebrew Cemetery and Shockoe Hill cemetery to check on Henrietta Guggenheim and Dr. Norton's grave sites (my pebbles still in place), we headed for the November theater to see Virginia Rep's final production of Moliere's "Tartuffe."
As to be expected, the audience was a seasoned one, but the older couple who sat next to us and immediately began chatting were delightful.
When I told her it was my first time seeing this play (although I've seen "School for Wives"), she recalled that the last time she'd seen "Tartuffe" had been at the Old Vic in London.
The closest I could come was having once seen "Batboy" in London, but no Moliere.
I was expecting fabulous and funny language but was just as taken with the commentary on relationship foibles ("When we're forgotten by a woman's heart our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget; or, if we cannot, must at least pretend to"), not to mention the glorious sight of (Ryan Bechard as) Tartuffe's bare bottom. Twice.
There really aren't enough naked male parts on view in Richmond theater.
Beauty without intelligence is like a hook without bait.
Since it was the last performance, the cast was spot on, completely comfortable in their roles and playing them to the hilt. Add to that a gloriously French interior set, lavish costumes and it made for a slapstick, witty and sharp commentary on hypocrisy and religion.
The heathen in me ate it up.
Spilling out of the theater a couple of hours later, it took a few minutes to realize why it was still so sunny and bright out. That lost hour was repaying us now with some bonus time to enjoy a promenade on a beautiful day and talk about the play.
Happily, my date suggested exactly that.
Public scandal is what makes the offense; sinning in private is not sinning at all.
Don't I know it. And, incidentally, not because I went to the school for wives.
Between finishing up several assignments Saturday, I made it over to the Blue Bee Cidery tasting briefly, along with scads of people, including a favorite Museum District couple, clutching bottles of Aragon 1904 and Mill Race Bramble, listening to the sounds of Poisoned Dwarf (great band name, right?) and eating lamb (my choice) or pork sandwiches in the sunshine facing the downtown skyline.
It was to laugh when a guy led some friends across the parking lot and pointed to the buildings on the other side of the river, extending his arm in a "ta-da!" moment as if they'd had to wind through a forest to come to the view when it's in plain sight no matter where you are there.
Hours later, dinner ended up being in almost the exact same spot when Holmes and his beloved suggested I join them at Camden's for a United Nations-worthy evening of pink bubbles- Lucien Albrecht Brut Rose, Graham Beck Brut Rose and a hearty bright pink Cava with a name too long to remember by the time I got home - along with succulent pork belly festooned with the Christmas colors of cranberries and sauteed spinach.
Knowing we were destined to lose an hour, we probably shouldn't have stayed up so late chatting and sipping but it had been ages since I'd seen them and there was so much to talk about.
When Sunday dawned clear and warm, it seemed a shame not to walk somewhere for brunch and the Rogue Gentleman got the nod for its proximity.
We were the first to arrive even though they'd been open for two hours at that point, but given my last visit on a mobbed opening night, it was kind of nice to have the place to ourselves.
Well, that's a stretch because between the kitchen staff and wait staff, there were easily four times as many of them as us, but with the sun on our backs in bar stools up front, who was counting?
Punkt sparkling Gruner Veltliner gave way to eggs and bacon and a dish of polenta and eggs, a stellar layering of flavors with preserved lemon under polenta topped by harissa tomato sauce, two fried eggs and pickled thyme.
Since some of us require something sweet for breakfast, I also got brioche doughnut holes rolled in pistachio dust, my only complaint being that they weren't hot.
Not that I said that out loud.
After a stroll through the Hebrew Cemetery and Shockoe Hill cemetery to check on Henrietta Guggenheim and Dr. Norton's grave sites (my pebbles still in place), we headed for the November theater to see Virginia Rep's final production of Moliere's "Tartuffe."
As to be expected, the audience was a seasoned one, but the older couple who sat next to us and immediately began chatting were delightful.
When I told her it was my first time seeing this play (although I've seen "School for Wives"), she recalled that the last time she'd seen "Tartuffe" had been at the Old Vic in London.
The closest I could come was having once seen "Batboy" in London, but no Moliere.
I was expecting fabulous and funny language but was just as taken with the commentary on relationship foibles ("When we're forgotten by a woman's heart our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget; or, if we cannot, must at least pretend to"), not to mention the glorious sight of (Ryan Bechard as) Tartuffe's bare bottom. Twice.
There really aren't enough naked male parts on view in Richmond theater.
Beauty without intelligence is like a hook without bait.
Since it was the last performance, the cast was spot on, completely comfortable in their roles and playing them to the hilt. Add to that a gloriously French interior set, lavish costumes and it made for a slapstick, witty and sharp commentary on hypocrisy and religion.
The heathen in me ate it up.
Spilling out of the theater a couple of hours later, it took a few minutes to realize why it was still so sunny and bright out. That lost hour was repaying us now with some bonus time to enjoy a promenade on a beautiful day and talk about the play.
Happily, my date suggested exactly that.
Public scandal is what makes the offense; sinning in private is not sinning at all.
Don't I know it. And, incidentally, not because I went to the school for wives.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Risking and Receiving
A new spot opens in the neighborhood, of course I'm going to go.
I've watched the renovation as I pass The Rogue Gentleman on my daily walk for months now, but nothing I had seen there was resembling the "professor's study-meets-cocktail bar" look the owners were touting nine months ago.
So when a bartender friend recently moved to the Ward and I made plans to hang out tonight, my suggestion was naturally to check out the new kid on the block.
Twenty minutes before meeting him, I got an e-mail from a good friend who prides himself on always being right.
Should have e-mailed you earlier. Thought about it. Didn't. We are at Rogue Gentleman. Last minute decision. Sure you have some other plans.
It's the exception that proves the rule this time, friend.
I walked in to find all three of them already at the bar surrounded by a lively crowd.
Mr. Always Right kissed me on the cheek, part of his 2014 resolution to try to be more sensitive and less cynical.
But checking out the interior, we had to wonder. Nowhere in sight was anything professorial-looking and it was much brighter and more open than any of us had expected for a pre-prohibition era cocktail bar.
Ah, well, the best laid plans of mice and men and all that rot.
Since I'm not a cocktail drinker, I allowed myself to be wooed by Fernet Branca on tap despite never having tasted the bitter, aromatic spirit.
Perhaps the bartender sensed that I was a Fernet virgin because after ordering, he strongly suggested a ginger chaser.
It must not have been obvious to him that my only spirits are absinthe and tequila, both sans chasers and accoutrements.
Never mind, I sipped the digestif and nibbled on Pecorino gougeres while my friends tried a variety of cocktails. Then I had a second Fernet to make sure my first impression was correct.
A charcuterie board featured Olli salame and bresola, chicken liver mousse, pistachio-studded pate, Pecorino and a triple creme along with mustards and pickled veggies and must have been a popular item on the menu because we saw it going out to a lot of tables.
The vintage glassware was a highlight, unique and attractive, right down to the punch cups used for the spicy island rum punch on tap.
There were so many people there and so much gabbing going on that we were probably two plus hours into our evening before we ever heard the first note of music.
Hopefully, that will change, too.
I give the bartenders credit, though, they kept up a smiling facade even when it was close to a madhouse in there, no easy job.
Finally managing to convince my friends to join me for music at Balliceaux, we left in separate cars, me with the Jackson Ward contingent, for another kind of crowd.
The kind where a guy is wearing a t-shirt saying, "Risk and you shall receive" and a girl is wearing a sleeveless, backless top despite tit being 19 degrees outside.
You know, the pretty people.
My first order of business after arrival was ordering skewered roasted pork belly over cranberries and pears, a welcome, fatty and piquant snack to fortify myself.
In the back room, R & B legend the Hi-Steps were getting set up so we found a spot near the bar.
A steady stream of people kept arriving, which I hope means that word is out that these guys put on a good show.
After the first couple of soulful songs, bandleader Jason leaned into the microphone, exhorting the crowd to come closer, to come into the light nearest the stage.
"My friend Karen always asks me if I told the crowd we're a dancing band," he announced to the room. "So you should move up and start dancing."
It took about ten seconds of "Signed, Sealed and Delivered" for my girlfriend to start dancing in front of me. And not because of what he said I'd said, either.
It took even less for my bartender friend to grab her hand and lead her to the dance floor, saying over his shoulder, "Someone's got to."
Meanwhile, I kept her boyfriend company as he stood next to me alternately grooving and yawning. To be fair, he had been up about four hours earlier than I had this morning.
I think it was some time after "Soul Man" or maybe "Move On Up" that the dancing friends rejoined us, the bartender saying, "I have four dance moves and she exhausted them all in the first minute."
I'm sure he was exaggerating.
The crowd kept growing and since they all had to pass me to get to the bar, I had a chance to say hi to the violinist, the handsome server, the percussionist, the biker as the room continued to heat up.
And while I stayed over by the bar with the newly-sensitive one, there was definitely some in-place dancing going on the whole time.
Someone's got to. Because they definitely are a dancing band.
I've watched the renovation as I pass The Rogue Gentleman on my daily walk for months now, but nothing I had seen there was resembling the "professor's study-meets-cocktail bar" look the owners were touting nine months ago.
So when a bartender friend recently moved to the Ward and I made plans to hang out tonight, my suggestion was naturally to check out the new kid on the block.
Twenty minutes before meeting him, I got an e-mail from a good friend who prides himself on always being right.
Should have e-mailed you earlier. Thought about it. Didn't. We are at Rogue Gentleman. Last minute decision. Sure you have some other plans.
It's the exception that proves the rule this time, friend.
I walked in to find all three of them already at the bar surrounded by a lively crowd.
Mr. Always Right kissed me on the cheek, part of his 2014 resolution to try to be more sensitive and less cynical.
But checking out the interior, we had to wonder. Nowhere in sight was anything professorial-looking and it was much brighter and more open than any of us had expected for a pre-prohibition era cocktail bar.
Ah, well, the best laid plans of mice and men and all that rot.
Since I'm not a cocktail drinker, I allowed myself to be wooed by Fernet Branca on tap despite never having tasted the bitter, aromatic spirit.
Perhaps the bartender sensed that I was a Fernet virgin because after ordering, he strongly suggested a ginger chaser.
It must not have been obvious to him that my only spirits are absinthe and tequila, both sans chasers and accoutrements.
Never mind, I sipped the digestif and nibbled on Pecorino gougeres while my friends tried a variety of cocktails. Then I had a second Fernet to make sure my first impression was correct.
A charcuterie board featured Olli salame and bresola, chicken liver mousse, pistachio-studded pate, Pecorino and a triple creme along with mustards and pickled veggies and must have been a popular item on the menu because we saw it going out to a lot of tables.
The vintage glassware was a highlight, unique and attractive, right down to the punch cups used for the spicy island rum punch on tap.
There were so many people there and so much gabbing going on that we were probably two plus hours into our evening before we ever heard the first note of music.
Hopefully, that will change, too.
I give the bartenders credit, though, they kept up a smiling facade even when it was close to a madhouse in there, no easy job.
Finally managing to convince my friends to join me for music at Balliceaux, we left in separate cars, me with the Jackson Ward contingent, for another kind of crowd.
The kind where a guy is wearing a t-shirt saying, "Risk and you shall receive" and a girl is wearing a sleeveless, backless top despite tit being 19 degrees outside.
You know, the pretty people.
My first order of business after arrival was ordering skewered roasted pork belly over cranberries and pears, a welcome, fatty and piquant snack to fortify myself.
In the back room, R & B legend the Hi-Steps were getting set up so we found a spot near the bar.
A steady stream of people kept arriving, which I hope means that word is out that these guys put on a good show.
After the first couple of soulful songs, bandleader Jason leaned into the microphone, exhorting the crowd to come closer, to come into the light nearest the stage.
"My friend Karen always asks me if I told the crowd we're a dancing band," he announced to the room. "So you should move up and start dancing."
It took about ten seconds of "Signed, Sealed and Delivered" for my girlfriend to start dancing in front of me. And not because of what he said I'd said, either.
It took even less for my bartender friend to grab her hand and lead her to the dance floor, saying over his shoulder, "Someone's got to."
Meanwhile, I kept her boyfriend company as he stood next to me alternately grooving and yawning. To be fair, he had been up about four hours earlier than I had this morning.
I think it was some time after "Soul Man" or maybe "Move On Up" that the dancing friends rejoined us, the bartender saying, "I have four dance moves and she exhausted them all in the first minute."
I'm sure he was exaggerating.
The crowd kept growing and since they all had to pass me to get to the bar, I had a chance to say hi to the violinist, the handsome server, the percussionist, the biker as the room continued to heat up.
And while I stayed over by the bar with the newly-sensitive one, there was definitely some in-place dancing going on the whole time.
Someone's got to. Because they definitely are a dancing band.
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