Les bon temps are rolling over here.
As is our tradition, Mac and I walked over to 821 Cafe for a heaping plate of pancakes, the better to celebrate Fat Tuesday with. This year, we even wore beads for good measure.
Now don't get me wrong, we're both heathens of the highest order, but a holiday that features pancakes for dinner is our kind of holiday.
Unlike past years, though, this year's Fat Tuesday falls during VCU's spring break, so my part of the city is deserted. You could throw a bowling ball down Clay Street without worry of hitting a thing. Walking down Laurel Street was like walking through a ghost town.
The scant crowd at 821 wasn't especially festive, although the father sitting behind us falsely narrating a Godzilla movie to his young son was pretty hilarious. Meanwhile, I did what I always do with a plate of pancakes: ate half with syrup and half with strawberry jam and finished them all.
Mac felt obligated to do the same once my plate was licked clean.
Walking back through Monroe Park, we detoured to check out Portals, the public art piece that looks like a shipping container in the middle of the park, never expecting it to be open. A man came out the door and invited us in. Walking into the portal meant facing a screen filled with the images of two families - a Dad, son and daughter and a Mom and daughter - at a school in Ipswich, Massachusetts and looking right into their eyes.
Hello, strangers, whatcha knowin?
Yes, of course I'd read about the year-long art installation, even heard that Richmonders had spoken with folks in Afghanistan and Sweden since it began. It turned out we were happening into a portal with people as near as New England, so the Portal didn't even have to translate for us.
It didn't feel terribly exotic - I mean, Massachusetts - but it was still a brilliant concept.
The portal really is an immersive experience as you look at the life-size people beaming in from the other end and have a conversation with them. It's a lot like real life, except from different zip codes.
After we explained that we'd just come from having Fat Tuesday pancakes and pulled out our beads as proof, the Dad shared that they'd just celebrated with red beans and rice with, wait for it, duck.
Seems he'd won half a cooked duck in some office pool (the questions I could have asked about that, but I was still figuring out the civilities here), so he thought it would be a fine addition to the traditional Mardi Gras beans and rice.
And as heathens who carb up and wear beads for no good reason, who were we to judge their choice of how to celebrate?
At the point that we walked in, the families, okay, mainly the kids, were waiting for the King cake to arrive, so they were having an even grander Fat Tuesday celebration than we'd had. But maybe they weren't heathens and I didn't ask.
But once the Dad started talking about how old a town Ipswich is and about all its maritime history, he had the audacity to brag about their 1632 roots. That was enough to get me going, as I pointed out that in our neck of the woods, we backdate to 1607.
His face fell. "Oh, yea, I guess that's right."
He pointed to the Mom and daughter, informing us that they lived in a 100-year old house. I didn't bother rubbing his face in it by pointing out that mine's 143 years old. I've long opined that Massachusetts has always had a better PR department than Virginia.
They told us the saga of Mr. Crane, the wealthy man whose company made porcelain for toilets, and his waterfront summer house in Ipswich which had 8 1/2 miles of private waterfront. Once a year, on Mr. Crane's birthday, he opened up his beach to school children and it was their only chance to go to the beach all year. Now he's dead but the kids, teachers and families still celebrate, even though that stretch of waterfront is now public so it's nowhere near the big deal it once was.
They also mentioned that there are exactly two weeks a year when the water is warm enough for humans to go in it and it's tough to get them out when it's like that. "We just stay down there and order pizza to be delivered at the beach," Dad says.
Mac's eyes widened and her mind immediately went to the possibilities of Outer Banks beachside pizza delivery. Hold your horses, girl and think of how badly that could go.
When we asked for more dish on Ipswich, the little boy pulled his chair forward and said very seriously, despite his missing teeth, "We're known for our clams here." Then his Dad tried to convince us that Ipswich invented fried clams but I wasn't convinced.
As the guy who'd invited us in marveled to the screen, "That's kind of a big claim, don't you think?" I do.
It was kind of fascinating to have this kind of conversation with complete strangers, although none of us had any trouble coming up with things to share. When they wanted to know what we were doing next, we explained that Spring break meant that a local restaurant did all tiki drinks, so we were toasting the start of Lent with rum drinks.
Even the kids looked impressed with our brilliance.
After saying farewell to the Ipswichians, we meandered over to Saison through deserted streets and sat down at a bar with only one other occupant and one long table of loud millennials talking about fear of scuba diving ("I'll do my own breathing, thanks"), house decorating ("Come over anytime and I'll show you what I've done") and not dating (by choice, natch).
My libation of choice came directly from the "strong and boozy" section of the menu. It was a spring break old fashioned made with Jamaican and Martinican rums, pineapple-hop syrup and tiki bitters, while Mac gravitated straight to the Hurricane, which arrived in a 10' glass, complete with enormous green straw and some kind of leaves speared together.
The bartender wanted to know what we'd been up to, so we explained how two heathens never failed to eat pancakes in celebration of a season they have nothing to do with. This required explaining Lent and Ash Wednesday to her, as if I'm some expert.
But she was even more taken with the Portal experience we'd had, asking for specifics so she could go do it, too. We made sure to tell her to get there in the next month or so before they move the Portal to another part of town.
When we declined a second round, she responded with great disappointment. "You're not much of heathens, are you, to have only one drink each?" This from the woman we'd had to explain Shrove Tuesday to when we walked in. How quickly they jump on board.
Besides, we'd worn our beads, devoured our pancakes, chatted with long distance celebrants and washed it all down with fancy rums. We didn't need to drink the entire tiki menu to prove ourselves.
Don't forget, missy, Richmond's been Mardi Gras ready since 1607.
Showing posts with label tiki takeoever. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tiki takeoever. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Waikiki Silver and Gold
The rum flowed like a man-made waterfall at a cheesy Caribbean resort.
Arriving at Acacia for the second tiki takeover, Friend and I were greeted by a guy angry enough at his skateboard to pick it up, yell directly at it and then throw it on the ground in punishment.
"I arranged that just so people would see it and want to duck into the nearest bat," said tiki mastermind T, dressed festively in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and lei. You have to appreciate a man who not only slings a fine drink but has a sense of humor.
Having learned a few lessons from last year, we'd made sure to arrive right at 10:00 in hopes of beating the worst of the crush of humanity.
I'll concede that Acacia provided far more room for everyone overall, but the drink lines, at least initially, were just as long.
After being introduced to a chef recently returned from a decade in Italy, I joined one of the snake-like queues to procure a Scorpion Bowl for my date and me.
There were far more options on the tiki menu this year than last, although I missed how last year they had listed the year (or at least the decade) the drink had been created and become popular and in some cases, even where.
Let's face it, inquiring drinking minds want to know.
While in line, I ran into loads of people I knew, some curious how I knew the others (never underestimate the neighborhood connection). Make new friends, but keep the old.
Finally at the front, I watched as Danny (nattily dressed in a shirt with the sleeves torn off beach bum-style) combined Nicaraguan rum, brandy, orange lemon and orgeat in a hollowed out pineapple, topping it with fresh hibiscus, marigolds and miniature daisies.
And most importantly, a paper umbrella and two straws.
As I moved back through the crowd, person after person stopped me to find out what I had in my hot little hands.
Friend and I attacked the drink like Lady and the Tramp had their bowl of spaghetti, each doing our part to work it down as people stopped by to chat with us.
Like many people, I had shown up in tiki attire, which for me means a tropical blue Hawaiian-looking sundress and at one point, a girl grabbed my arm and began raving about my dress.
Let's be clear, this is a dress I ordered out of a catalog in 1995 and drag out every summer once or twice because it's still pretty, but not rave-worthy.
Next thing I know, she grabs her husband and pulls him in to check out my dress and tell me how much he likes it, too. For all I know they were crazy swingers looking for an entry point.
While quite a few in the crowd had donned tiki togs, I thought it a shame that Acacia was noticeably absent any of the decorative touches that made last year's tiki takeover so atmospheric. No blow up palm trees, no coconut heads, no fishing nets. No bubble machine, no crabs nor monkeys.
They were all missed, as was last year's DJ Puma spinning tiki-appropriate music.
Where Acacia excelled was in having made the tiki takeover a ticketed event with a tropical buffet included as part of the ticket.
Chef Dale Reitzer providing endless eats? Oh, hells yes.
The voodoo goat alone was worth the price of admission, long cooked, falling off the bone and redolent of allspice. The jerk chicken was tender, flavorful and addictive. More than one person told me they couldn't leave the fried plantains alone. A well-known chef was popping conch fritters and fried okra in his mouth like popcorn.
My second drink, hard won after an even longer wait than the first time, was the Ancient Mariner with aged Demerare and dark Jamaican rums blended with citrus and (again) allspice while my pal went with a Hurricane.
I moved around the room discussing the movie "Chef" with people who'd come from seeing it, got introduced to a Farmville bar manager who regaled me with anecdotes about sore privates and medicated cornstarch (and was positive I'd been in his bar drinking red wine) and hearing from a favorite server that she's moving to New Orleans in July (may as well jump head first into the heat and humidity, no?).
Before long it was clear that some people were going for the sprint and not the marathon, a rookie mistake if you ask me. A pro knows a four-hour tiki takeover requires pacing or you'll never make it to the end.
As people with spinning eyes and slurring speech began leaving, friend and I added glasses of water to our intake and kept moving around to let different people entertain us, like a guy in pink shorts so, um, fitted that my friend couldn't help but stare. He turned out to be friendly, sharing the source of the shorts and even showing us the elastic waistband under his stylish belt.
After another pass at the voodoo goat, we easily got our final drinks of the evening, mine a Painkiller of Navy rum, pineapple, orange and coconut (and touted as the drink of the British Virgin Islands) and hers an Ankle Breaker, a deep ruby beauty of three rums and cherry brandy.
It would have been at this point that we most missed a DJ since dancing would have been just the thing to expend some of that sugar energy we'd been consuming all night. But, alas, no.
Still, it had been a stellar evening out with a favorite girlfriend who doesn't get out much these days, and all the more unique because we'd spent it drinking cocktails, not our usual M.O.
But we also got our traditional late night gab session when I drove her home and we sat in the car for almost an hour talking about everyone, ourselves and life in general, windows down to the warm night air.
I especially loved it when she told me, "You're so good about grabbing the life that you want."
Fortunately, once a year that life comes with a little paper umbrella. And it is good, very good.
Arriving at Acacia for the second tiki takeover, Friend and I were greeted by a guy angry enough at his skateboard to pick it up, yell directly at it and then throw it on the ground in punishment.
"I arranged that just so people would see it and want to duck into the nearest bat," said tiki mastermind T, dressed festively in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and lei. You have to appreciate a man who not only slings a fine drink but has a sense of humor.
Having learned a few lessons from last year, we'd made sure to arrive right at 10:00 in hopes of beating the worst of the crush of humanity.
I'll concede that Acacia provided far more room for everyone overall, but the drink lines, at least initially, were just as long.
After being introduced to a chef recently returned from a decade in Italy, I joined one of the snake-like queues to procure a Scorpion Bowl for my date and me.
There were far more options on the tiki menu this year than last, although I missed how last year they had listed the year (or at least the decade) the drink had been created and become popular and in some cases, even where.
Let's face it, inquiring drinking minds want to know.
While in line, I ran into loads of people I knew, some curious how I knew the others (never underestimate the neighborhood connection). Make new friends, but keep the old.
Finally at the front, I watched as Danny (nattily dressed in a shirt with the sleeves torn off beach bum-style) combined Nicaraguan rum, brandy, orange lemon and orgeat in a hollowed out pineapple, topping it with fresh hibiscus, marigolds and miniature daisies.
And most importantly, a paper umbrella and two straws.
As I moved back through the crowd, person after person stopped me to find out what I had in my hot little hands.
Friend and I attacked the drink like Lady and the Tramp had their bowl of spaghetti, each doing our part to work it down as people stopped by to chat with us.
Like many people, I had shown up in tiki attire, which for me means a tropical blue Hawaiian-looking sundress and at one point, a girl grabbed my arm and began raving about my dress.
Let's be clear, this is a dress I ordered out of a catalog in 1995 and drag out every summer once or twice because it's still pretty, but not rave-worthy.
Next thing I know, she grabs her husband and pulls him in to check out my dress and tell me how much he likes it, too. For all I know they were crazy swingers looking for an entry point.
While quite a few in the crowd had donned tiki togs, I thought it a shame that Acacia was noticeably absent any of the decorative touches that made last year's tiki takeover so atmospheric. No blow up palm trees, no coconut heads, no fishing nets. No bubble machine, no crabs nor monkeys.
They were all missed, as was last year's DJ Puma spinning tiki-appropriate music.
Where Acacia excelled was in having made the tiki takeover a ticketed event with a tropical buffet included as part of the ticket.
Chef Dale Reitzer providing endless eats? Oh, hells yes.
The voodoo goat alone was worth the price of admission, long cooked, falling off the bone and redolent of allspice. The jerk chicken was tender, flavorful and addictive. More than one person told me they couldn't leave the fried plantains alone. A well-known chef was popping conch fritters and fried okra in his mouth like popcorn.
My second drink, hard won after an even longer wait than the first time, was the Ancient Mariner with aged Demerare and dark Jamaican rums blended with citrus and (again) allspice while my pal went with a Hurricane.
I moved around the room discussing the movie "Chef" with people who'd come from seeing it, got introduced to a Farmville bar manager who regaled me with anecdotes about sore privates and medicated cornstarch (and was positive I'd been in his bar drinking red wine) and hearing from a favorite server that she's moving to New Orleans in July (may as well jump head first into the heat and humidity, no?).
Before long it was clear that some people were going for the sprint and not the marathon, a rookie mistake if you ask me. A pro knows a four-hour tiki takeover requires pacing or you'll never make it to the end.
As people with spinning eyes and slurring speech began leaving, friend and I added glasses of water to our intake and kept moving around to let different people entertain us, like a guy in pink shorts so, um, fitted that my friend couldn't help but stare. He turned out to be friendly, sharing the source of the shorts and even showing us the elastic waistband under his stylish belt.
After another pass at the voodoo goat, we easily got our final drinks of the evening, mine a Painkiller of Navy rum, pineapple, orange and coconut (and touted as the drink of the British Virgin Islands) and hers an Ankle Breaker, a deep ruby beauty of three rums and cherry brandy.
It would have been at this point that we most missed a DJ since dancing would have been just the thing to expend some of that sugar energy we'd been consuming all night. But, alas, no.
Still, it had been a stellar evening out with a favorite girlfriend who doesn't get out much these days, and all the more unique because we'd spent it drinking cocktails, not our usual M.O.
But we also got our traditional late night gab session when I drove her home and we sat in the car for almost an hour talking about everyone, ourselves and life in general, windows down to the warm night air.
I especially loved it when she told me, "You're so good about grabbing the life that you want."
Fortunately, once a year that life comes with a little paper umbrella. And it is good, very good.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Welcome to Trader T's Tiki Bar
If you let too much time go in between visits with a friend, life happens.
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.
Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert. Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.
Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.
He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.
I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.
He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.
My punctuality has nothing on his.
Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.
There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.
We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.
Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.
And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.
So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.
More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.
But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.
Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.
Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.
I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.
After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.
As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.
Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.
Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.
And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.
I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.
Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.
Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.
Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.
The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.
Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.
Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.
DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.
Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.
Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.
Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.
Just trying to mix it up. Ha!
That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?
The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.
The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.
In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.
Yum.
The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.
We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.
I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.
The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.
When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.
Because if not tonight, when?
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