It Shoulda Been You

It's a Saturday night tradition to progressively celebrate my birthday.

The past three years, I've been accompanied by two favorite couples, but this year, I wanted a third dynamic duo added to the mix. The funny part was her comment, "Wow, we finally made the cut! I guess we were just being auditioned up 'till now."

Not true, but their presence was a lovely addition to the party.

Things kicked off at Metzger because Mr. Fine Wine's music never gets old and just after opening is the very best time to enjoy Metzger before it's noisy and overcrowded. I arrived at the bar to find four of my six friends awaiting my arrival with bubbles in front of them in my honor.

I'm not entirely convinced that they wouldn't have been drinking bubbles anyway, but still, it was a lovely greeting. The late arrivals merited ordering another bottle.

With the early evening sun beating down on Metzger's shaded windows, my friends ate through multiple cheese and charcuterie plates, a couple of specials of pork meatballs, Morattico oysters (home to my parents), a salad of English breakfast and watermelon radishes and, most impressively, roasted asparagus over the pinkest of shrimp mousse.

It was here that we learned about the seafood/kiss rule already well-established by the newlyweds. You see, she doesn't care for seafood, so he refrains from eating it until after she's had enough wine not to mind. Such was his rationale for turning down Morattico oysters before he scored an early kiss.

I'd be the first to admit I love to kiss, but I can't see turning down a perfectly delicious oyster, either.

Mowing through food like we didn't still have two more stops to make, I gently reminded my posse not to overly front-load. Not everyone took the gentle reminder well, but part of that is due to the siren song of Metzger.

Our next stop was Nota Bene, where we went from a bright, sunlit space to the dimness of multiple candles and a wood-burning oven. Holmes regaled us with tales from the accounting world, there was talk of men in yoga pants, and, in an extraordinary moment, the entire table voted for Germany over Provence when it came to drinking Rose.

In fact, the Villa Wolf Rose carried us though multiple plates of sugar toads, braised fennel with tomato sauce and breadcrumbs, the grilled cauliflower with fresno peppers that made Holmes a believer, squid ink pasta with scallops and pizzas of at least three varieties.

Anyone watching our feeding frenzy might have been inclined to judge...and justifiably so.

Once we had hit every possible savory note, we moved on to L'Opossum for dessert at the sole dining room that's actually dimmer than Nota Bene. The next step would've been complete darkness.

Instead we indulged in apperitifs and cocktails - the Laura Palmer, the Violet Femme - and every chocolate dessert on the menu, plus apple tartine and creme brulee. When I blew out my candle, it was with a very specific wish.

Gifts beyond the company of good friends were opened and I was the happy recipient of a very groovy beach towel, loads of vinyl and a bottle of South African Pinotage brought from the source that I hope to enjoy with abandon once I find another Pinotage lover beyond the gift-giver.

He's gotta be out there somewhere. That's what birthday wishes are for, right?

Celebrate Good Times

When I plan my birthday progression, I begin with the soundtrack.

That meant starting at Metzger where I'd be able to celebrate to the sounds of vintage soul courtesy of Mr. Fine Wine. I was doing my final primping before Holmes and Beloved were to pick me up when the phone rang.

It was Holmes announcing he was downstairs. I explained that during open window season, I ask that my callers announce themselves through the open window and promptly hung up on him. Looking out my front window, I saw him climb out of the car, spot me watching him and bellow, "Get down here right now!"

That's no way to talk to the birthday girl in her cutest pink dress.

When we arrived at Metzger, the place was empty and I don't just mean of customers. Not a soul, staff or otherwise, was in sight. We sat down at the bar in the silent restaurant to wait for signs of life. I don't know that I've ever been alone in a silent restaurant for 10 or 15 minutes with just my companions. This must be how it feels for the staff before the onslaught.

Eventually the barkeep appeared and set about turning on the soul music he knew I wanted before opening a bottle of Villa Wolf Rose and kicking off my celebration. It wasn't long before Pru and her Beau showed up to join the party while Mr. Fine Wine provided the killer soundtrack.

My plan was to have different courses at different places, so we began with a decadent quail and pistachio terrine lined with a beet gelle, a mound of rich liptauer and a pork belly special. Conversation ranged from how Pru's uncle was at Hazleton with Ozzy Osborn to a heated discussion of wine buying (Kroger versus independent wine shops).

Behind us, the restaurant filled up while we partied on stools.

Two hours later, we packed up to move to Dutch & Co, where a fetching server in a coral striped top, coral lipstick, '80s-style bangles (Beloved resolved to get hers out now that she saw they were back in fashion) and a leather skirt that looked almost identical to the one I got in 1993, led us to a table in the front window awaiting us.

With the last of my birthday's sunshine streaming through the front window, a bottle of Moulin de Gassac "Guilhem" Rose was opened (not that we weren't already pink happy) along with a promise by our server to begin icing down several more.

Before long, there was so much good food on the table it was almost embarrassing. Chilled pea soup appealed not just for how Spring-like it tasted studded with chili shrimp conserva and peanuts but because it came with a promise of pea tendrils, leading to a lament about the lack of the use of the word "tendrils." Word nerds unite.

Holmes got his rye-crusted perfect egg while Beau shared that he'd never had a softshell crab and promptly ordered risotto with Andouille sausage and a softshell. I admire brave eaters.

We started with Moses Sleeper Brie from Jasper Hills Creamery, notable not just for the exquisite mouthfeel of the creamy cheese but for the tangle of spun balsamic on top of it. You broke off a piece of the tangle, laid it on your tongue and the crisp strings dissolved into  the heavy sweetness of balsamic. Brilliant.

My choices, as usual, came off the $5 specials chalkboard because they are inevitably some of the most creative offerings on an already excellent menu. Ahi dolce sausage with cheddar and mustard greens was as bold as breakfast sausage with thin slices of new potatoes and baby bok choy was delicate. Both impressed. For that matter, Holmes' skirt steak with asparagus, smoked mushrooms (the most intriguing element, the fungi taking on ethereal smoky notes) and wild watercress got shared and admired around the table.

As we ate, Holmes brought up how bossy I can be and I argued for how ingrained it is for the oldest of six children to be bossy. Using examples from past dinner parties at this house, he regaled Pru and Beau with my dessert sharing instructions.

Fortunately, you can only say so many bad things about the birthday girl before you have to stop and be nice to her. At least, that's what my mother always said (that and "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all," which would eliminate half my commentary).

Enough wine had flowed for talk to fly about sleeping (nude versus clothed), snoring (suffering versus moving to another room) and someone's former classmate Megan Mabe, pronounced "maybe," who played the clarinet.

Church Hill having served our needs nicely, we departed for Oregon Hill and L'Opossum, taking a table in the center of the restaurant because the bar lacked enough available stools for our party, a shame since the bartender is a favorite for his pithy conversation.

But we got the photographer who moonlights as a server and she was masterful at handling our little, loopy group. Ready for a change from endless bottles of Rose at this point, I chose Creme de cassis to accompany our upcoming dessert course of not one but two flaming le petite mort au chocolat (bricks of chocolate pate) and one hot black bottom a la mode (ganache over cake with whipped and ice creams).

As we waited for the arrival of our chocolate course, the booth behind us was served a dessert with a birthday candle and the table broke out into "Happy Birthday," with one of the guys having the most incredible tenor voice and ending the trite song with all kinds of vocal flourishes. They heard that we had a celebrant as well.

Naturally the birthday boy there invited me over to chat, slinging his arm around my shoulders and asking about me. Assuming we'd have similarities given our shared birth date, I asked him to describe himself. "Confident," he said and the woman next to him nodded. Perhaps it's a May 23rd thing.

The guy across the table, the one with the amazing voice, asked for a Sinatra song I particularly liked and then stood and began serenading me with "Happy Birthday." Even better, he then began singing me "Just the Way You Look Tonight," his mellifluous voice thrilling to hear and a completely unexpected gift.

Forks were flying all over the table once the desserts arrived. Beau requested an Emerson martini and the barkeep produced one, much to his great satisfaction. And, yes, we were the last table out.

Pru and Beau drove me home, depositing me on my doorstep not long before the final minutes of May 23rd. Waving farewell and thank you from my stoop, I said the first thing that came into my head. "So we're not going dancing then?"

From there, I was back in the car and headed to Balliceaux with them to catch Bump in the Night, with two women DJs and multiple genres being played. That's some good friends who are willing to unexpectedly go dancing with you when it's almost midnight and the evening's already lasted seven hours.

Pru and I danced, Beau occasionally joining in, as the music wandered from soul to pop to the only recognizable song for me anyway, Chic's "I Want Your Love." I gave up on my shoes for the last half hour (the next morning wondering why my feet were so filthy) but danced anyway.

Now that's how you celebrate a birthday, kids.

Next morning, the festivities continued with Johnny and brunch at a packed Can Can. Just when I'd decided on quiche, our affable server wooed me with a special of tempura-fried softshell on a BLT with brioche bun and a mound of frites the size of my head. He made the right call. Quiche is forever but softshells have a short window.

From there, the afternoon wandered agreeably all over the place. First it was a walk at Maymont, followed by quiet time at a shaded stone pavilion off the main pathway. After putting in an appearance at a party on northside, we retreated to the east end and the Lily Pad, long a favorite place for the two of us to wile away an afternoon. Once, we saw Joe Morrissey there with his teen-aged girlfriend before the whole underage and baby scandal broke.

To my astonishment, the place was crawling with familiar faces, mostly bearded. The songbird, the artist, the banjo player, the book seller, the events coordinator, the front of the house manager, the wine guru, I couldn't believe how many people I saw lounging at the Lily Pad when I never see anyone I know at the Lily Pad. Our server from Dutch & Co, arrived, waving and asking if I'd had a good birthday after I left there.

Good thing I wasn't trying to do anything secretive given how many witnesses I had.

We procured a bottle of Pinot Grigio iced down in a yellow bucket that matched my sunny yellow dress perfectly and set up camp. And wouldn't you just know it? Here comes Joe Morrissey with his teen-aged girlfriend and the baby that caused all the hoopla. Clearly Joe likes the Lily Pad as much as we do.

Boats came and went all afternoon, occasionally dumping out its occupants for a drink at the pad before relaunching. Musicians got up and played under the pergola, short sets mostly. Very casual, more like someone's backyard than at a cafe. It was a perfect afternoon for doing nothing more than sipping wine and watching the river.

Three hours later, we turned in our bucket and headed back to town for dinner. Graffiato's won the dinner lottery by virtue of being open on a holiday weekend Sunday night. It wasn't crowded and for the first time at this Graffiato's, we chose the pizza bar.

With Stevie Wonder continuing my birthday soundtrack overhead, a bottle of Yalumba Vermentino arrived first, followed by chili-marinated duck hearts on local greens and a Porky's Revenge pizza of soprasetta, pepperoni and sausage, the first pizza I ever had at Graffiato's in D.C.

Actually, my birthday celebration itself began in Washington, D.C. years ago at George Washington University Hospital where a woman doctor delivered me and I began the journey to bossiness.

I've been happy enough to be confident ever since. Must be all the terrific people in my life.

Sparks on My Heels

The best friends give the best advice.

I started my evening at Bistro 27 after a friend e-mailed requesting that we meet there for a drink.

Over a glass of Vinho Verde with "Love is Blue" playing in the background, he tells me about his love life and looks askance when I update him on mine.

Keep up, darling, or you'll miss something.

I inhale just enough calamari to tide me over until my dinner date, while eavesdropping on a conversation between two gallerists.

UVA's art gallery has a socialist slant, I hear, but it's now being countered by a new professor espousing a more populist view.

How did I get so lucky to hear art geek talk while sipping wine?

All at once I look up and find two good friends out front waving to me, no doubt on their way home from Tarrant's to their flat.

It's a scene we've replayed many times, but I never tire of seeing them slightly buzzed and always happy to spot me a few doors down as they head home.

After discussing my friend's love life (and the romantic card he found in his bag after his beloved left on a business trip to Ireland), he inquires about mine, necessitating an update and resulting in a raised eyebrow.

When I leave 27, it's to make my way to Rappahannock to meet a favorite couple.

Holmes has forgotten his wallet and must return home, but his girlfriend joins me inside where we order a bottle of Villa Wolf Rose, a lovely pink wine made from Pinot Noir while we await his re-arrival.

Nearby, a solo bar-sitter engages us and next thing we know, he's laughing at our jokes and hinting that he wants to know more about me.

Okay, not even hinting, just flat-out complimenting me and trying to glean information about me.

Soon Holmes returns and unexpectedly accommodates him to a surprising degree.

My admirer is a banking lawyer who lives in Windsor Farms, so he seems an unlikely interest for me except he is also a writer and passionate about reading and the arts.

When he goes to the loo, Holmes takes a moment to give me some love life advice and advises more discretion on the blog.

I couldn't be more surprised at his suggestion for how to share my life.

Still, we've been friends for almost a decade and I know he cares about me, so maybe he knows what he's talking about.

Because Holmes and the little lady are new to Rappahannock, I show them the map and explain where the various oysters come from, trying not to influence their choices based on my own preferences.

Nevertheless, they get half a dozen Old Saltes and half a dozen buttery Rappahannocks, in other words, both ends of the spectrum.

I am more inclusive, choosing not only Rappahannocks and Olde Saltes but also Witch Ducks  to deliver all my salinity needs.

The shucker, a mere 16-year old named Grayson, tells me that his Mom works at Merroir.

When I tell him that that is my preferred RRO venue, he makes me promise I will ask for her next time I'm out there.

With Lou Reed playing, Holmes and my newest fan decide we need to switch from Rose to tequila, never a stretch for me.

Herradura silver arrives and I sense a new respect from our bartender.

I follow my bi-valve course with Heritage Oaks Grange pork terrine over a slice of brioche and served with house pickles, walnut oil vinaigrette, greens and a soft quail egg.

It is rich, earthy and the pickled green beans a real treat, so I finish it all before trying Holmes' Hanover tomato gazpacho.

The beauty of the soup is the addition of watermelon (the color alone is to die for) and Virginia deep sea red crab, making for a sipper that is not only flavorful but exquisitely colored.

And the Zombies play on.

My admirer is bemoaning the fact that he loves our company but worries that he may not run into us again and Holmes mollifies him with another round of agave.

I don't complain.

By the time we reach the dessert course, the bar is beginning to clear out, Holmes is telling stories of a long-ago Janis Joplin concert and the lawyer is laughing at everything.

The female contingent orders a chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake, a twelve-layer wonder that pairs savory buckwheat with the richest ganache and real whipped cream.

It is my undoing because when my admirer comes around to my stool and asks how he can contact me, I eventually supply an e-mail address.

To keep myself in check going forward, I ask Holmes to reiterate his proposed dating strategy.

I can do this.

By now it is pouring rain so my gallant friend goes ahead to retrieve the car for his main squeeze while we womenfolk wait at the door.

As usual, I've had a stellar time with these friends and, as a bonus, met a new man who has already made his interest clear.

Moving on is turning out to be far easier and more pleasurable than I anticipated.

Especially with a good friend offering insightful advice on it all.

Perhaps those who know me best know what's best for me.