Merci for the Eye Catchers

The postcard from the National Museum of Modern Art had arrived last week, which meant my friend was back from Paris.

That also meant a welcome back lunch so he could present me with the foreign tights he'd secured for me (as well as Bourdain's Medium Raw because he wants someone to discuss it with), always part of his souvenir-gathering when he's abroad.

He works on Monument Avenue, so he invited me to stop by his office to collect my gifts and we'd walk from there. The tights, called "Leo," are labeled in five languages as "an extravagant eye catcher" and "a walk on the wild side," and will undoubtedly be lots of fun to wear in a place far removed from Parisian streets (I think I'm up for the job).

This beautiful weather made for a glorious walk the short distance to the Cellar Door; the leaves were deep on the sidewalk but the temperature was 77. That's my kind of autumn.

We started with the spicy zucchini fritters after my friend asked if I was interested (I told him I've never in my life turned down a fritter. Fact.). They were not what I expected, but that wasn't a bad thing. Slices of zucchini had been coated in a crunchy crust and fried up crisp and hot. Eaten immediately at their peak, they were sliced fried goodness.

My friend had to get the quarter Peruvian chicken since I'd recommended it so highly to him, but I did a slight variation by getting the Mansion, a salad of lettuces, cukes, tomatoes, red onions and olives with that same chicken on top of it. The Peruvian ranch dressing, made with the same spices used on the rotisserie chicken, was a big hit with him and great on the salad, too.

I heard all about his trip: the transit strike that prevented his trip to Versailles, the offal he ate at a no-star bistro, his all-day walks (he knows what I like) and lots of wine anecdotes. His stories about the beer-swilling costumed student demonstrators sounded (and, according to him, looked) like something out of Mad Max.

We lingered, talking to the owner about their plans for a brick oven for their rotisserie ("The problem is the ten-story chimney." Indeed, that would be a problem.), the appeal of using their jalapeno sauce on practically everything ("I may be addicted. I'm considering putting it in my coffee," he admitted) and Thursday's Halloween throwdown there.

Walking back down Monument Avenue, friend asked when I expected I'd be wearing the wild Leo tights. Who knows, they might be perfect for the Night of the Living Dead Bands show when I go to see Led Zepplica.

It won't be Paris, but somehow I don't think they'll seem quite so outrageous in that crowd.

Pre-Parisian Soul Food

A good friend leaves for France Sunday, which guarantees me two things.

First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).

Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.

The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.

I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.

Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.

You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.

Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.

It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.

I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.

Bruising the Moneymaker

Murphy's Law of snow, at least as it applies to me, is exactly what you'd expect.

I went for my usual four-mile walk down Grace Street yesterday, still having to navigate around mounds of crusty snow and ice.

For the first time in ages, though, there were long stretches of cleared sidewalk, but still interrupted by ice and snow piles.

No doubt as a result, there were more of my regulars out and about.

About to step off the curb over an enormous pile of icy snow, a car started honking furiously at me just as I crested the mound.

I jumped visibly, and almost lost my footing, but didn't; it was Pedro, one of my favorite waiters, who claims to see me everywhere, but never says hello.

Finally, he had.

Further up Grace, and trying to negotiate an icy patch, I hear my name shouted from across the street.

I slide a little, but don't fall, as I look up to see who it is and answer back.

When I run into him last night at Ipanema, he asks if it was that morning he had seen me.

Perhaps if I'd actually taken a dive, I'd have been more memorable.

And then there was the Crooner, the guy on the bike who always sings to me.

Only this time, he approached me from behind, singing "Hey, there, lonely girl" and almost running me off the sidewalk.

He's got to find a new theme song for me; I'm anything but lonely.

But maybe that's the only song he knows.

The point here is that despite a still-treacherous walk yesterday, I remained upright.

So why then when out walking the dog less than a block from home, did my equilibrium desert me?

The beagle was answering nature's call and in an instant, I was headed to the ground.

Somehow I managed to both twist my ankle and land on my knee.

I could feel the ice dig into my kneecap as I landed.

One frickin' block from home.

And while this probably wouldn't be a problem for most females (a girl told me last night that she has her "winter coat" on, not having shaved her legs since before Thanksgiving. TMI) at this time of year, for me it is.

I awoke to a small cut and large pink bruise forming on my knee this morning. I could wear pants to hide it, except I don't wear pants.

I could wear a skirt or dress to cover my knees, except I don't own any that long.

Looks like I'll have to resort to using opaque tights for camouflage for a while,which unfortunately eliminates some of my most fetching ones...and just before Valentine's Day, too.

Such a shame.

But isn't that how Murphy's law works?

Can Can Conundrum

I have to eat breakfast when I wake up (okay, after I walk the dog, but immediately after I walk the dog).

I'm just made that way; after a night's sleep, my body is screaming for food.

I need first-thing-in-the-morning eats like most people need coffee to be functional.

So when a friend wants to meet for brunch, I am always eating lunch rather than breakfast. In today's case, that meant a 9:45 breakfast and an 11:30 brunch.

Said brunch took place at Can Can, which was mobbed, but we found two bar stools free mid-bar and sandwiched ourselves shoulder to shoulder with other eager eaters.

The girl to my right got her food just as I was trying to decide what to order and the smell was too wonderful for words.

She'd gotten the Ham and Gruyere Crepes with hollandaise sauce with little crisps of bacon sprinkled liberally over the plate and highly recommended them.

I had been considering the cheeseburger or Monte Cristo, but eventually played copy-cat and got those crepes.

Given the portion size, she'd been unable to finish hers, a problem I didn't have, despite being barely two hours from my last meal.

They were that good.

Meanwhile my friend had his usual Eggs Benedict since he is particularly fond of Can Can's version.

I was already finished and dreaming of dessert by this time, so I ordered up a cup of their superb hot chocolate and made short work of it.

I should have been ready to explode, but instead I just used the opportunity to allow my friend to finish up while I talked to the nearby.

I was obligated to thank the girl next door for turning me on to the crepes (she also suggested that next time I try the blueberry pancakes) considering how much I'd enjoyed them.

The guy on the other side of my friend and I our shared a fatalistic take on life.

Nothing we do is going to change our eventual outcome; when it's your time to go, you're going to go.

End of story.

He complimented my burgundy rose-patterned lace tights, saying he was sure he's seen me in them somewhere before.

I've been somewhere, so that's entirely possible.

Who would have guessed that Target tights could be so memorable?

But then, who would have guessed that so many people could wait till noon for their first meal of the day?

Not me on both counts.

Tights Before Dinner

What kind of friend brings you funky tights from every interesting country he visits? A very thoughtful friend, that's who. Tonight I met up with that old friend, whom I've only seen twice in the past two years. He's the considerate one who supplied me with the unusual Berlin tights that everyone's been raving about lately. Tonight, it was gifts of Salzburg and Barcelona tights, very different and both befitting the cities of their origin.

We began at Davis and Main for a glass of wine and to decide the course of the evening. We had lots of catching up to do and we did, right up until he offered to make dinner, and what idiot would turn down an invitation to have dinner cooked for her? Surely not me, so we headed to his house for fun and feasting.

After a stinky cheese and Italian salami start to the evening, he began meal preparation in earnest. There was a wedge salad with blue cheese, bacon and ranch dressing, followed by a wonderful meal of rare lamb chops, roasted asparagus and crusty rolls, accompanied by a Lirac wine from the Rhone Valley; it was all incredibly well done and I didn't leave a bite. Conversation ranged from the civil rights movement to book series to Richard Thompson. We even discussed my lack of interest and effort in dating, although he couldn't offer much advice to help my situation, in spite of our fifteen years of friendship. Ah, well, even old friends can't solve all my problems.

It was enough that we enjoyed a terrific meal together. I am grateful for his stellar cooking skills and the pleasure of unusually smart conversation. The smoking hot tights are just icing on the cake.