A Good Talking To

It's the classic story of two single women huddled together for warmth under one shared coat. At the end of the evening, there are declarations of love  and they both dissolve in fits of giggles.

You know, that old chestnut.

Pru and I were overdue for a date, so I picked her up and whisked her off to Amour, where we found a restaurant full of French people and only one available stool at the bar. Given that it's the height of the French Film Festival, it was hardly surprising.

The owner was in rare form, no doubt a function of his pleasure at having so many French-speakers in the restaurant all week, and delighted us with his steady stream of witty patter, explaining that the handsome tie he was wearing made him look slimmer and he'd blow up like a balloon if he removed it and that white wine was for girls and red for boys.

We took him at his word on everything.

Pru was just coming off her birthday so it seemed only appropriate to celebrate with Veuve Clicquot as she opened presents not from me. Inside the gift bag was a veritable Byrd Theater survival kit: dark chocolate covered marshmallows, two kinds of biscotti, fancy gummies.

Few things are as lovely as beginning an evening with bubbles, but our busy days - hers packing, mine writing - also meant hungry bellies. Our cheese and charcuterie plate arrived to address those munchies with such temptations as fourme d'ambert, wild boar salami, Comte, speck, dried mango, grapes and cornichons. And that wasn't the half of it.

So many delightful things to eat meant plenty of time to take the temperature of each other's lives since we'd last had a girls' night out, far too long ago. Her recent night at the opera was up first.

We discussed the beach house she's rented and whether it should be a girls' only clubhouse or not given how much fun we had last time we did it sans men. We're thinking no boys allowed and possibly no red wine. White and pink only.

The subject of E-Z Bake ovens came up, necessitating we explain the concept to a Frenchman. I'd heard tell of a woman who'd demonstrated her mettle as a child by replacing the bulb in the oven with a higher wattage so she could cook bacon instead of miniature cakes.

Neither Pru nor I had had nor wanted an E-Z Bake oven, for what that's worth.

Delving into some personal matters of hers, I had to laugh long and hard when she told me, "I had a talk with myself because someone needed to do it and I knew if I didn't, you would." Right she was about that.

Since tonight counted toward her ongoing birthday festivities, naturally we had dessert and hers arrived with a lit candle. I can't sing, but the owner was gracious enough to wish her a "joyeux anniversaire" as she blew it out.

Even without it being my celebration, I was plenty keen on the mini duo of sea salt and caramel chocolate creme brulee and housemade raspberry sorbet. We agreed that all desserts should be sized that way to mitigate guilt and not make delicate flowers such as us feel stuffed. Unfortunately, no one was asking our opinion about dessert sizing.

Best Pru quip of the night: "Do I really want to die alone?" Do any of us really want to? Do we really have a choice?

After the last sips of Willm Cremant d'Alsace were savored, we made the frigid trek (was it really 77 degrees just two days ago?) to the Byrd only a few minutes late.

We had no problem finding good seats just as the films were being introduced. On the bill tonight were rare and restored films of the late 19th and early 20th century and tonight was the first time they were being shown in their restored state anywhere.

What was interesting about that was that once this cache of films from 1896-1905 had been discovered, in deplorable shape of course, they had to be transferred to digital to capture them and then put on 35 mm for posterity. Some were even hand-painted frame by frame.

And get this: they were being shown with musical accompaniment. Bob Gulledge was playing the mighty Wurlitzer with each film.

Because they were so old, they were incredibly brief, most about a minute long, but offered fascinating glimpses into the late 19th century world.

Several showed street locations such as the Place de la Concorde and Gare Saint Lazare, both alive with hansom cabs, carts, bicycles, pedestrians, horse-drawn street cars and the like. Dogs and children darted through it all.

Several films showed dancing - Russians with knives, ballet, a dramatic scene by the river - and one was a comical look at a marriage banquet (Bob Gulledge began by playing "Here Comes the Bride").

It was some time around then that Pru and I realized we were both shivering. If the air conditioning wasn't on, then there was certainly no heat on and we were reduced to huddling under her wool coat (I'd never even removed my jean jacket). Looking around, we saw several other women doing the same.

If it was intended to keep us awake, it seemed unnecessarily cruel.

The final short was George Melies' "Legend of Rip van Winkle," a treat since I've seen several of Melies' films thanks to my friend Jameson and the Silent Music Revival. This one was 15 minutes long and colorized, which was something new for the films of his I've seen.

As Bob Gulledge played and the film rolled, Todd, the affable manager of the Byrd, read the original text to the audience as we watched the film, much the way a bonimenteur would have done in 1905. In those days, there was no assumption that the audience could follow the story solely from silent pictures.

I found the language of the script wonderful. Rip was described as "a good and lazy bon vivant" and the gnomes "capered." When's the last time you heard "caper" used as a verb?

Tonight's piece de resistance was "The Byrd: A Love Affair," a documentary that's part of a series "Mythic Cinema Palaces" made by a French filmmaking team who discovered the theater a few years back when the director was asked to speak at the French Film festival.

Clearly the filmmaking gods work in mysterious ways.

It was a charming look at the landmark movie palace Richmonders know well, referred to as "a magical place to take us out of our daily world." We saw not only the vintage litter commercial, but an updated version that was a bit disconcerting simply because the original is so completely familiar.

What was most compelling about watching the documentary was the mirror effect. I could look at the screen as the Czechoslovakian chandelier was being shown and explained or I could look overhead and see it in real life.

When the camera follows the storyteller up four flights of stairs to see the instruments that make up the organ's works, I could recall going up those stairs myself years ago while shooting video with my co-worker. Since I'd been clueless about how organs worked, I'd been amazed to learn that each sound came from the actual instrument.

There was a scene of the annual Christmas Eve singalong, an event I've attended at the Byrd for the past 20 years. I didn't see myself, but I also can assure you I was there, although not singing given my inability to carry a tune in a bucket.

So while it was all very familiar, it was also surprisingly satisfying to see a documentary about a subject I know well made by people from another continent. Their reverence for and appreciation of the Byrd (and Richmond) came through in every frame.

When it ended, Pru and I reluctantly separated ourselves, giving up the shared body that that had made two hours in the theater tolerable. Walking up Cary Street with the FFF crowd, I heard my name called and spotted two friends hurrying against the wind.

We'd been so busy laughing and talking, I hadn't even noticed they'd been just ahead of us.

That lasted right up until I pulled up in front of her house to let her out, at which point I teased her one last time, setting off more giggles and a final, "I love you."

Just two bon vivants capering.

Cold as Ice

This kind of winter weather is good for two things I've been told. Good books and bad boys.

With half of that in mind, before I even left to go out tonight, I sat down with my latest book, "Sophie's Choice," and read 80 pages. Only then did I layer up to face the wrath of January and find some dinner.

While the roads were mostly dry, sidewalks were still icy and I just knew that it was going to be the kind of evening where restaurants were slow and bars busy. But it's also cassoulet week, so a French restaurant was in order. Walking into Amour, I saw one occupied table and a full bar. Bingo.

Taking a seat at the far end appropriately near the "Je suis Charlie" sign, I found myself next to a charming couple who teach during the school year and summer in the Loire Valley. At the far end were the restaurant owner and the local Fire Chief, busy discussing an upcoming February fundraiser for the fire department. It'll be a one year-ish anniversary thank you to the department that saved Amour.

While sipping a glass of Willm Cremant d'Alsace, the teachers and I chatted about their exalted status at Amour. It had been his duck that had been in the oven when Amour's kitchen caught fire last January. Some would worry about tempting fate, but he'd ordered duck again tonight. Daredevil.

As I was tucking into a bowl of exquisite shiitake mushroom bisque - the ideal warmer-upper on a night like this - a couple of familiar faces came through the front door and I heard, "Is that Karen?" Somehow, a favorite couple had also chosen Amour on this unlikely winter evening.

It was Holmes and Beloved, recently returned from a trip to Fort Lauderdale and full of stories (they'd met a man who claimed to only drink Missouri wine) and show and tell (menu, postcard). Since they were at one end of the bar and I another, we chose to include the teachers in our conversation rather than just talk over them.

Using his lifelong knowledge of Richmond and its inhabitants, Holmes was soon interrogating them on mutual acquaintances, of which they had several. I managed to slide in my usual question (his first concert was the Commodores in 1979, she couldn't recall having one), only to have Holmes demand to know whether I knew his first.

Strangely, I didn't. He informed me that it had been Strawberry Alarm Clock, Buffalo Springfield and the Beach Boys at the Arena, which meant nothing to me. Apparently it was a venue where the Sportbackers stadium now sits. More importantly, now I knew.

As I nibbled a small plate of decadent butter-poached lobster, the entire bar discussed the best seasons to visit the Loire Valley (fall and spring) and why the blues festival there had finally been discontinued (gotten too big for the town). Holmes inquired if the couple rented out their house (yes, but not during summer because they're there) and suggested they invite him and his beloved because they're fun people.

Braised rabbit over Byrd Mill polenta was my final small plate, a comforting dish on a cold evening, but by then I was approaching full and only managed half of it before sharing with Holmes.

Not long after, the teachers had to head home - it was a school night after all - so I moved closer to my friends to share desserts of swoon-worthy raspberry sorbet (made in house, natch) and Amour's classic chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee. I love my chocolate, but that sorbet was the kind of thing you dream about long after finishing.

Because it wouldn't be an evening with Holmes if he didn't lecture me, I was given a stern talking to about missing important information (because I don't watch TV) and about the folly of walking on ice (which I'd done today). Some friends just have to give you a hard time about who you are. On the plus side, he didn't say a word about my bangs for a change.

But we all walked out together with hugs all around as they headed home and I made tracks for Balliceaux to see New Orleans band The Naughty Professor.

Walking in, the door guy was busy checking IDs but he waved me in, more than familiar by now with me. But when I glanced at the couple in front of me, I realized it was my photographer friend and the love of his life. Here again was unexpected couple company.

Sort of anyway. They only got back together a month ago, so they're still pretty busy making goo-goo eyes at each other all the time (not that there's anything wrong with that). I admired her adorable bag, a small, hard black purse with gold studs and brass knuckles (with rings) for the handle. You know, just in case.

Tonight's entertainment, the Naughty Professor, turned out to be incredibly young-looking guys: a guitarist, bassist, drummer and three horns playing all instrumental New Orleans funk/jazz. The horns would step off the short stage whenever it was time for the others to shine (the drummer gave me "Whiplash" flashbacks) before ambling back up for the horn parts.

The band was surprisingly good for being so young and it didn't take long for some people to start dancing. The challenge was how often the band changed up the rhythm and tempo, but even so, it soon felt like a good time in the back room.

A guy standing in front of me knocked into me twice before apologizing and then saying, "Wanna dance? If you decide you do, just let me know and I'll twirl and dip you and we'll clear out the floor." That's not an offer I get every day.

I ran into a bartender friend who's doing a one-night gig in Seattle, saw the long tall drink of water bassist wearing a hat his mother made him (complete with yarn braid), chatted with Mr. Can't Stop, Won't Stop about this weather and got a bear hug from the DJ who told me he had just discovered go-go. He was there because he'd been told that this was going to be the show of the week.

As the music unfolded, I had to agree that he'd been given good information. Although not stereotypically New Orleans (it was as much jazz as funk), the horn section was tight and the rhythm section clearly knew each other well. Songs took tangents but always came back around and the band members' energy never flagged during an hour and a half long set.

Even when the room filled up, I could see my lovebird friends over on the side dancing and rubbing up against each other. The band finished with the epic song "Chef's Special" and a cold Wednesday night closed out on a high note.

Bad boys will have to wait till another cold night.