Sometimes I let my enthusiasm get the best of me and I may come across as a bit odd.
With plans for dinner and a play, my date and I had just sat down at the bar at Amuse when I realized that next to us was a Jackson Ward neighbor. She immediately launched into praise for our alleys recently being cleared of all the leftover student debris and trash that had made our usually fine neighborhood look a little rundown at the heels lately.
Just as we were mulling who might've been responsible for the clean-up, I looked up to see Pru and company being led to a table nearby, so I went over to say hello. Everyone was in full-on Friday celebratory mode.
And since the trio was seated at a four-top, we saw no reason why a fifth couldn't be accommodated, so I was voted the one to take it up with the host.
Excitedly explaining to him that I was certain another chair could be added to the table, he asked which table my date and I wanted to glom on to. I pointed and continued to insist that one more chair wouldn't matter and how the table could easily fit five.
Looking at me with incredulity, the host asked, "Do they know you?"
Well, duh. Do I look like the kind of person who insinuates herself into the lives of strangers? Okay, of course I do, I am exactly that person, but in this case, I assured him, yes, I knew these people very well.
All of a sudden, our cozy dinner a deux was a round table dinner party for five (they were on the way to see the YSL exhibit), with views of the shades rolling up, down and up again as the photo-sensitive system tried to adjust for the rapidly-changing stormy skies outside.
A bottle of J. Mourat Rose was delivered and not long after, a second (Beau: Do we need another bottle? Me: Uh, yes Pru: Next time, don't ask, just order) as the conversation was derailed with a discussion of pigeon toes, knock knees and the problems of trying to vamp when you have both.
Not a good look and especially for a femme fatale.
Unable to narrow our preferences, my date and I shared two entrees - an earthy vegetable tajine and a special of exquisitely grilled New England cod with green beans and snap peas - so that we could taste both our food crushes. Beau was kind enough to share tastes of his shakshuka, even while wishing that there were more than two eggs on top of the eggplant and tomato stew.
"Or even just a few more yolks," he pined, not satisfied with the speed at which his arteries were closing. We helped that along with dessert, my choice of the salted chocolate bar being based on our server saying it was the darker of the two chocolate offerings but any fool knows I'd have eaten either one.
The skies opened up and torrent of rain began just as we asked for the check so we could make our curtain. Our server, who'd greeted me by name when we'd arrived, returned with two checks, her assumption being that I was alone as usual and not on a date.
Surprise! Sometimes I can dig up a date, especially these past few months. Now that everyone is firmly accustomed to me being solo all the time, I'm showing up as a couple all over the place. Who saw that coming?
We left our friends still finishing their desserts and dashed through the rain to the car, only to make it to Richmond Triangle Players' theater just as the pre-play announcements were being made.
Just this morning as I was out walking, I'd randomly run into the artistic director of a local theater company and in the course of chatting, told him which play I was seeing tonight. I could tell by his face that he had an opinion so I asked for it.
He thought the play, "The View Upstairs," had been unduly harsh on millennials and that while the acting and directing were strong, the story itself was not. He was also a millennial himself.
Naturally we two Baby Boomers wanted to decide for ourselves.
The premise was decidedly millennial, not a surprise given that the playwright was, too. A young Instagram-famous fashion designer buys an old building in New Orleans for a shop, only to go inside and encounter the occupants of the 1973-era gay club that once occupied the space.
And even if the program hadn't stated it was the early '70s, actor John Mincks' hairstyle, mustache and large-lensed glasses clearly stated the period. Ditto Luke Newsome's fitted, high-waisted jeans and Andrew Etheridge's fit and flare polyester bell bottoms.
The script was incredibly au courant - "Donald Trump is president, so anything is possible!" - even if the actors speaking it had to compete with the rolling thunder and pelting of rain on the theater's roof to be heard over it.
Where the script was brilliant, especially so for having been written by a guy born in 1988, was in its attempts at explaining the present reality to denizens of 1973.
You know, back when you'd judge if someone was cool or not with a few simple questions. Oscar Wilde or Arthur Miller? Sonny or Cher?
Puh-leeze.
It's tough to make dating apps and virtual reality sound appealing - because of course you'd want to see a picture of someone before you met them in real life, the better to decide if they were worth wasting your real life time on - to some of us (okay, me) today, so there's really no way to describe it to people with no frame of reference for our ceaseless connectivity married to a greater sense of unconnected humanity.
The two of us laughed a lot about the contrasts of a time we vaguely recall with the "improved" present, rife with loneliness, isolation and, too often, an absence of social and interaction skills. How must it feel when your self-esteem is based on "likes" from people you may or may not know?
We weren't the ones to ask.
But we were the ones to leave the theater and head directly to my balcony for an in-depth discussion of the play's themes set to alternate periods of hard rain and warm breezes while listening to Joni Mitchell's chronicle of a relationship, her 2000 album "Both Sides Now." Then, going down a rabbit hole about the album's arrangements and that certain kind of early '60s movie soundtracks.
Doing so didn't get us a single like from anyone, except each other.
Score.
Showing posts with label thunderstorms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thunderstorms. Show all posts
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
These Are Days
After recently being told I'm an evangelical for the beach, I'm wearing the title as a badge of honor.
What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly my proselytizing would land me right back there, albeit it in a much different configuration, a more southerly location and under a thunder moon.
Windows were rolled down for the drive down which was broken up with a leisurely lunch on the waterfront at the Coinjock Marina. "You'd have to know about this place," my companion observed about the unlikely location. I did.
This time the beach setting was Surf Shack #6 in Nags Head at a cottage peopled by three other couples, an obscene amount of beer and wine and crowned by a crow's nest with impressive views to the horizon and the sound.
Where we were especially clever was in arriving mid-day Sunday when the other couples had checked in Saturday and done all the heavy lifting setting up the house and porches.
Since that job always falls to me on my own beach week, it was a treat to just show up, throw on a bathing suit and be, not just on the beach, but in the ocean less than 15 minutes after arrival.
That and being back at the beach only two weeks after I left it are the kind of summer indulgences an evangelist could get used to.
And while I'd optimistically brought two books, four couples mean it's an ongoing party and not the reading kind.
Headquarters would be established on the beach every morning like magic while we walked (either beyond Jennette's Pier or past the Outer Banks Pier), so we'd come back to find the rest of the group arranged under and around a canopy while all we had to do was add our chairs and beach bags and - voila! - another day at the beach was underway.
One morning, we got back from our walk - the last half an hour listening to rumbling thunder - just as a major storm was rolling in, so we high-tailed it up to the crow's nest for a lightening and thunder show of epic proportions.
One of the guys said there'd been a tornado warning while we were gone and given the odd swirling of some murderous looking clouds, we weren't surprised when torrential downpours followed. We made the best of it with books, naps and a picnic in bed with a view out the open window of the driving rain and the ocean beyond it.
One afternoon, we spotted a plane pulling a message that read, "Amanda May Pabst, will you marry me?" and bantered about whether it was a real proposal or just a brilliant idea put forth by the plane company to entice business.
The romantic in me prefers to believe it was the first.
One evening we decided to lose the crowd and went to dinner alone at Ocean Boulevard for a gorgeously dry and zippy Rose of Sangiovese by Barnard Griffin which we sipped with a summer gazpacho piled with lump crabmeat, creme fraiche and parsley oil.
And that was before diving headfirst into a special of beer-battered monkfish over a jambalaya of summer corn, red peppers and crowder peas that was to die for and polishing off grilled shrimp over cheddar grits and black pepper coleslaw, too.
Afterward, we walked across the Beach Road and took seats in the sand to watch the waning Thunder Moon rise over the ocean, but only after making its way through bands of black clouds as elaborate as burnt velvet, behind which heat lightening put on a show.
As a bonus, fireworks were being set off in the direction of the Avalon Pier, so everywhere we looked, there was a spectacle to behold.
The two of us took lunch one day outside at the Nags Head Fishing Pier's new tiki bar, where we watched surfers, ate local grilled tuna and pondered the angry-looking guy nearby with the small American flag stuck in the sand in front of his beach chair.
Because some of the house's occupants were talented, there was guitar playing on the beach. Because the winds were ideal for it, there was kite flying so high it seemed likely we'd never get it back down. Because there was a screened porch, we had breakfast there. Because there was a crow's nest even higher, we had happy hours and sunset-viewing there.
And because the ocean was a wonderfully warm 75 degrees (and clear as the Caribbean), we stayed in until our fingers and toes looked like prunes. Repeatedly.
Unlike the other couples, we were the renegades who slept in with windows open, a fan on and used the outdoor shower at the least provocation.
Because kicking it old school is just part of what I preach. Let's raise a glass of Rose and praise beach life.
Can I get an amen?
What I hadn't anticipated was how quickly my proselytizing would land me right back there, albeit it in a much different configuration, a more southerly location and under a thunder moon.
Windows were rolled down for the drive down which was broken up with a leisurely lunch on the waterfront at the Coinjock Marina. "You'd have to know about this place," my companion observed about the unlikely location. I did.
This time the beach setting was Surf Shack #6 in Nags Head at a cottage peopled by three other couples, an obscene amount of beer and wine and crowned by a crow's nest with impressive views to the horizon and the sound.
Where we were especially clever was in arriving mid-day Sunday when the other couples had checked in Saturday and done all the heavy lifting setting up the house and porches.
Since that job always falls to me on my own beach week, it was a treat to just show up, throw on a bathing suit and be, not just on the beach, but in the ocean less than 15 minutes after arrival.
That and being back at the beach only two weeks after I left it are the kind of summer indulgences an evangelist could get used to.
And while I'd optimistically brought two books, four couples mean it's an ongoing party and not the reading kind.
Headquarters would be established on the beach every morning like magic while we walked (either beyond Jennette's Pier or past the Outer Banks Pier), so we'd come back to find the rest of the group arranged under and around a canopy while all we had to do was add our chairs and beach bags and - voila! - another day at the beach was underway.
One morning, we got back from our walk - the last half an hour listening to rumbling thunder - just as a major storm was rolling in, so we high-tailed it up to the crow's nest for a lightening and thunder show of epic proportions.
One of the guys said there'd been a tornado warning while we were gone and given the odd swirling of some murderous looking clouds, we weren't surprised when torrential downpours followed. We made the best of it with books, naps and a picnic in bed with a view out the open window of the driving rain and the ocean beyond it.
One afternoon, we spotted a plane pulling a message that read, "Amanda May Pabst, will you marry me?" and bantered about whether it was a real proposal or just a brilliant idea put forth by the plane company to entice business.
The romantic in me prefers to believe it was the first.
One evening we decided to lose the crowd and went to dinner alone at Ocean Boulevard for a gorgeously dry and zippy Rose of Sangiovese by Barnard Griffin which we sipped with a summer gazpacho piled with lump crabmeat, creme fraiche and parsley oil.
And that was before diving headfirst into a special of beer-battered monkfish over a jambalaya of summer corn, red peppers and crowder peas that was to die for and polishing off grilled shrimp over cheddar grits and black pepper coleslaw, too.
Afterward, we walked across the Beach Road and took seats in the sand to watch the waning Thunder Moon rise over the ocean, but only after making its way through bands of black clouds as elaborate as burnt velvet, behind which heat lightening put on a show.
As a bonus, fireworks were being set off in the direction of the Avalon Pier, so everywhere we looked, there was a spectacle to behold.
The two of us took lunch one day outside at the Nags Head Fishing Pier's new tiki bar, where we watched surfers, ate local grilled tuna and pondered the angry-looking guy nearby with the small American flag stuck in the sand in front of his beach chair.
Because some of the house's occupants were talented, there was guitar playing on the beach. Because the winds were ideal for it, there was kite flying so high it seemed likely we'd never get it back down. Because there was a screened porch, we had breakfast there. Because there was a crow's nest even higher, we had happy hours and sunset-viewing there.
And because the ocean was a wonderfully warm 75 degrees (and clear as the Caribbean), we stayed in until our fingers and toes looked like prunes. Repeatedly.
Unlike the other couples, we were the renegades who slept in with windows open, a fan on and used the outdoor shower at the least provocation.
Because kicking it old school is just part of what I preach. Let's raise a glass of Rose and praise beach life.
Can I get an amen?
Friday, July 29, 2016
All That Glitters is Not Gold, It's Heat
You know what the problem with tonight was? No eunuchs.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Grab My Alto Sax and I'm Back on the Road
First rule of Karen's storm plan: Always go out.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
After this afternoon's horizontal rain, epic wind and subsequent power outages (although not here in J-Ward), the only concession made to Mother Nature's fury was checking with the restaurant where I was meeting friends to ensure they still had power.
They did and even more importantly, my friend Holmes had made reservations for us.
And while a normal Monday night at Six Burner might not require a reservation, tonight was no ordinary Monday night.
The place was packed with lost souls trying to escape their powerless homes. In fact, the couple we were meeting was among them.
So the joint was mobbed.
Our quartet wrapped itself around the corner of the bar so as to be able to both see and hear each other.
Naturally, everyone had arrived at the same moment, so the staff was scrambling to keep up with drink and food orders for so many hungry/thirsty patrons at once.
It didn't matter to us because we had the right attitude and nothing but time. Oh, yes, and Prosecco.
But it also meant that the trio of raw oysters was 86'd by 7:30, minutes after we arrived. So it wasn't going to be a local oyster night.
And since Six Burner recently switched to an all-small-plate menu, it also meant that whatever we ordered came out as it was ready.
We started with sugar snaps, English cucumber, and watermelon radish in Jean Marc citron vinegar, finding it as crunchy and satisfying as when we'd sampled it on opening night.
That was followed by one of tonight's specials, roasted King Mackerel with fiddleheads and baby carrots in an Asian-inspired sauce.
There's nothing like fiddleheads when you can get them.
By the time our panzanella salad of tomatoes,feta, mint and olives arrived, we were too full and it was boxed up to go.
Holmes was explaining that if his power didn't return, he was going to have a freezer party tomorrow night and cook up its contents.
All I heard was lobster tails before I agreed to be a guest should that happen.
When it came time for dessert, nothing on the sweet menu was calling our name, so we opted for dessert at Balliceaux, our next stop.
If it's Monday, it must be RVA Big Band night.
Lombardy was pretty dark when we arrived, but the chalkboard in front said, "We are open!" and we waltzed through the wide-open front doors.
But wait.
While there were a few of the overhead lights on, for the most part the place was candlelit.
As in, they had no power, either.
Waling toward us was a red-haired musician, instrument case in hand, talking into his phone. "So there's no gig," he informed the other end.
But they had a big cooler and a willing barkeep, so we agreed to stay put and make the best of it, even without dessert.
The cocktail list was limited because many of the needed ingredients were in the pitch-black back room and thus inaccessible.
But our group is a flexible one and Negronis and Old Old Fashioneds (New Old Fashioneds wouldn't do) took care of the group's needs.
It was as lovely a night weather-wise as anyone could have hoped for inside.
The wide-open front doors allowed the breeze to move through and escape through the big, open windows over the stairs.
"Man, I hope my house feels this breezy when I get home," Holmes observed.
I knew mine would; I'd made sure to leave every window open.
As we sat there talking about what constitutes pop music and how Italian words must be pronounced with passion, in walked another musician toting his case.
When he was informed that there was no show tonight, he looked surprised.
Turns out he wasn't part of the usual 17-piece but a visiting musician from Hartford, Connecticut in town for the evening.
As long as he was here, he'd hoped to stop by and sit in before he leaves for a three-month flute/sax gig aboard a Holland cruise ship to Alaska.
Not surprisingly, he looked a little bummed when he heard.
And that's when I kicked into storm mode.
"But it would be awesome if you'd play your sax for us anyway," I said in my most earnest voice.
When the devoted music fan in me takes over, she is as sincere as they come.
He smiled, ordered a drink and considered.
"I'll buy you a drink if you do," Holmes said, sweetening the pot, but Pete the sax player was already taking his instrument out and moistening the reed.
With nary an acknowledgement, he launched into Coltrane's "Mr. P.C."
I know that only because I had no shame about asking him what he played after each song.
There was a song called "Dig" (he said it had been done by Miles Davis) as well as Charlie Parker's "Scrapple for the Apple."
Despite the ingrates chattering around him, I savored every note from the impromptu performance.
He eventually settled into a slow burn of the jazz standard, "Body and Soul," much to the delight of Holmes' beloved.
"When's the last time you heard this live?" I asked mischievously as she swooned over the music.
"Never!" she exclaimed wide-eyed and clearly thrilled.
And why not?
We were sitting in a candlelit bar in a darkened neighborhood with a lovely breeze blowing over us while a visiting sax player serenaded us with vintage jazz.
My companion turned to me grinning.
"This kind of thing only happens when I'm with you," he said as if reluctant to state the obvious.
Correction: this kind of thing only happens when you ask for what you want.
I tell you I mean it
I'm all for you
Body and soul
That's the second rule of Karen's storm plan.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sparkler Salvation
It never ceases to amaze me that there are adults who are genuinely afraid of thunderstorms, but one such person is part of our little getaway group. This only became a problem when we started talking about going out and she informed us that she couldn't possibly go anywhere until the thunder and lightening subsided.
No problem, we accommodated, we'll do a happy hour until the storm passes. But not everyone had their beverage of choice in house, so we sent a duo out on a hunting and gathering mission (one needed cigarettes, so that was part of it) with instructions to be quick.
They were not quick. They did not remember to get the vermouth, either. They made a side trip and brought back fudge, saltwater taffy and rock candy. They were still backslapping each other about the Brew-Thru. Fail, but not epic.
On a happier note, during their absence the storm had moved on and we were able to leave for dinner. Our destination had been chosen by a vote (I lost) so we went to the Red Drum, a place that touts its 18 beers on tap. "Nuff said.
I can't complain, though, because my rockfish topped with a saute of applewood-smoked bacon, shrimp and tomato in a roasted garlic basil butter was outstanding. The taste I had of storm girl's flounder with artichokes, crab meat and capers in a lemon butter sauce was almost as good.
But even well-prepared fish can't compensate for large family groups and small children banging cups and hollering. When one little girl sitting on her grandfather's lap began rubbing his chest, her mother demanded,"What are you doing, feeling him up?" in a voice that carried across the room.
There is no hope for future generations.
And on that note, we are headed down to the beach to set off fireworks and contemplate a hopeless future. Glasses will necessarily be raised.
But not until storm girl changes into something with no metal zippers. Give me strength.
No problem, we accommodated, we'll do a happy hour until the storm passes. But not everyone had their beverage of choice in house, so we sent a duo out on a hunting and gathering mission (one needed cigarettes, so that was part of it) with instructions to be quick.
They were not quick. They did not remember to get the vermouth, either. They made a side trip and brought back fudge, saltwater taffy and rock candy. They were still backslapping each other about the Brew-Thru. Fail, but not epic.
On a happier note, during their absence the storm had moved on and we were able to leave for dinner. Our destination had been chosen by a vote (I lost) so we went to the Red Drum, a place that touts its 18 beers on tap. "Nuff said.
I can't complain, though, because my rockfish topped with a saute of applewood-smoked bacon, shrimp and tomato in a roasted garlic basil butter was outstanding. The taste I had of storm girl's flounder with artichokes, crab meat and capers in a lemon butter sauce was almost as good.
But even well-prepared fish can't compensate for large family groups and small children banging cups and hollering. When one little girl sitting on her grandfather's lap began rubbing his chest, her mother demanded,"What are you doing, feeling him up?" in a voice that carried across the room.
There is no hope for future generations.
And on that note, we are headed down to the beach to set off fireworks and contemplate a hopeless future. Glasses will necessarily be raised.
But not until storm girl changes into something with no metal zippers. Give me strength.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Reading for Lust, Letting Go of Heat
I've been coming down to this beach since I was seven years old and, hands down, today is the hottest day I can ever recall.
The radio says that with the heat index, it feels like 105 degrees, which is really saying something in a place with non-stop wind.
When Thing 2 and I walked this morning around 10, it was already unbearably hot on the beach, so hot in fact, that we came back and took morning naps.
Or maybe that was for other reasons.
Checking the sign on the lifeguard's chair walking back, I had to laugh about their water warning: H2O temp: Future Navy SEALS only! 55
That would be even colder than it was yesterday, but with the increased heat, it felt about the same to us and we're no future Navy anythings.
After our late morning siestas, we decided lunch was in order, specifically a retro lunch from John's Drive-in, a low-slung concrete hole in the wall on the beach road (sign in window: Owned and operated by the same family since 1980).
We couldn't bear the thought of eating in that asphalt parking lot, understandably, so we ordered and took our goodies back to the porch to enjoy lunch in the shade overlooking the ocean.
Thing 2 wanted that classic John's dolphin sandwich boat with a chocolate malted, but I couldn't resist the rockfish sandwich (but with a chocolate shake).
Besides the dolphin sandwich, John's is renowned for its variety of milkshake flavors, but I'm happy with the basics at least when it comes to shakes.
And calling either of our 10" long fish/roll combinations a sandwich is a gross understatement; it was the size of a sub.
John's retro vibe is further enhanced by the old-school crinkle-cut fries served in a red and white cardboard boat.
Served with a generous sprinkling of salt, all we needed was catsup.
And some downtime afterwards to digest.
I started my second beach read, Moll Flanders (written after Robinson Crusoe), ready for some harlotry and repentance, although I may have to take issue with a book written in 1722 by a man, but as the memoir of a lusty woman.
"I was so confounded, and driven to such extremity as the like was never known; at least not to me."
I know what you mean, sister.
Perhaps jut as engaging as the story is the book version I'm reading.
It's a 1952 Cardinal Edition paperback with a selling price of 35 cents.
As stated on the second page, this "edition includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition," including ten captioned illustrations from the original.
It's with a gentle touch that I turn each yellowed page, but it is definitely a kick to be reading a nearly 300-year old story from an almost 60-year old book.
Nerds are so easily tickled.
As I wind down this post, the temperature and wind have abruptly changed.
That hot air from the west has been replaced with brisk northeastern air and the promise of a thunderstorm.
Time for happy hour and a lightening show on the porch.
If you'll excuse me...
The radio says that with the heat index, it feels like 105 degrees, which is really saying something in a place with non-stop wind.
When Thing 2 and I walked this morning around 10, it was already unbearably hot on the beach, so hot in fact, that we came back and took morning naps.
Or maybe that was for other reasons.
Checking the sign on the lifeguard's chair walking back, I had to laugh about their water warning: H2O temp: Future Navy SEALS only! 55
That would be even colder than it was yesterday, but with the increased heat, it felt about the same to us and we're no future Navy anythings.
After our late morning siestas, we decided lunch was in order, specifically a retro lunch from John's Drive-in, a low-slung concrete hole in the wall on the beach road (sign in window: Owned and operated by the same family since 1980).
We couldn't bear the thought of eating in that asphalt parking lot, understandably, so we ordered and took our goodies back to the porch to enjoy lunch in the shade overlooking the ocean.
Thing 2 wanted that classic John's dolphin sandwich boat with a chocolate malted, but I couldn't resist the rockfish sandwich (but with a chocolate shake).
Besides the dolphin sandwich, John's is renowned for its variety of milkshake flavors, but I'm happy with the basics at least when it comes to shakes.
And calling either of our 10" long fish/roll combinations a sandwich is a gross understatement; it was the size of a sub.
John's retro vibe is further enhanced by the old-school crinkle-cut fries served in a red and white cardboard boat.
Served with a generous sprinkling of salt, all we needed was catsup.
And some downtime afterwards to digest.
I started my second beach read, Moll Flanders (written after Robinson Crusoe), ready for some harlotry and repentance, although I may have to take issue with a book written in 1722 by a man, but as the memoir of a lusty woman.
"I was so confounded, and driven to such extremity as the like was never known; at least not to me."
I know what you mean, sister.
Perhaps jut as engaging as the story is the book version I'm reading.
It's a 1952 Cardinal Edition paperback with a selling price of 35 cents.
As stated on the second page, this "edition includes every word contained in the original, higher-priced edition," including ten captioned illustrations from the original.
It's with a gentle touch that I turn each yellowed page, but it is definitely a kick to be reading a nearly 300-year old story from an almost 60-year old book.
Nerds are so easily tickled.
As I wind down this post, the temperature and wind have abruptly changed.
That hot air from the west has been replaced with brisk northeastern air and the promise of a thunderstorm.
Time for happy hour and a lightening show on the porch.
If you'll excuse me...
Saturday, June 27, 2009
It was a dark and stormy night...briefly
Got home from an enjoyable Matt Kearney show at the National just as the big, sloppy raindrops started to fall. As I opened the door to my house, an enormous crack of thunder exploded. There was the invitation...it was definitely time for a walk.
I grabbed the umbrella and the dog and we headed out to explore the neighborhood even as the sky flashed with lightening. Neighbors I knew were sitting on their porches doing just what I was doing: experiencing a little midnight drama. It wasn't a hell-fire and brimstone kind of a storm that we were walking through, but just enough going on to disturb the skittish dogs and make our stroll more bracing than usual.
Already that front seems to be more distant- sounding, but the temperature has dropped even since I got home and the dog and I got a much more exciting final walk of the day than normal. A couple hours of music followed by three quarters of an hour of storm teasing made for a fine Friday night's activities. ..if you like those sorts of things. I do.
I grabbed the umbrella and the dog and we headed out to explore the neighborhood even as the sky flashed with lightening. Neighbors I knew were sitting on their porches doing just what I was doing: experiencing a little midnight drama. It wasn't a hell-fire and brimstone kind of a storm that we were walking through, but just enough going on to disturb the skittish dogs and make our stroll more bracing than usual.
Already that front seems to be more distant- sounding, but the temperature has dropped even since I got home and the dog and I got a much more exciting final walk of the day than normal. A couple hours of music followed by three quarters of an hour of storm teasing made for a fine Friday night's activities. ..if you like those sorts of things. I do.
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