Tonight I got paid for my work in food and drink.
I could get used to this. Seems to me I can probably eat and drink far more than I'm worth.
We met at Ettamae's for dinner because I wanted to eat in the 'hood.
That and they call me "Legs" at Ettamae's (it says so right on their website), which can be pretty satisfying after a long day with no one but myself for company.
The boys and I started with wine and an antipasto platter, full of marinated mushrooms, artichoke hearts, roasted red peppers, meats and cheeses.
I refused to place my order until I'd grazed off of it in case my order changed.
It sure did.
Actually, I'm sure a lot of it also had to do with those hot yeasty rolls that arrived at the table with mounds of salty butter.
Spare ribs became a shrimp-salad stuffed tomato after so much meat and cheese.
Not so with one of my dining companions and his penne pasta with the kielbasa I recommended provided some delicious bites for me.
But my shrimp salad was notable too, not overly mayonaised and with a piquant flavor that complemented the last of the Hanover tomatoes.
The collards were out of this world and the server almost got a fork in her hand when she tried to remove the bowl prematurely.
Chef Matt is a pro with collards, corned beef and kielbasa, in case you haven't been in my neighborhood lately.
Our trio enjoyed the conversation almost as much as the food, but that's probably because we're all such different people.
One of us is the kittens and ice cream type and one is the smart-alecky non-fashionista type and then there's me.
And not one of us had room for dessert, a real shame at Ettamae's.
Then they were off to Cafe Diem (just can't do it) and I to Xtra's to meet a friend for $10 bubbles and conversation.
I've been to Xtra's on Wednesdays before and the bubble-seeking crowds were monstrous.
Not so tonight where the vibe was low-key and kind of relaxing.
It was odd, but the bartender says it swings one way or the other on Wednesdays.
But, yes, every single person in the room, even the craft beer pro who waved hello, was drinking bubbles,
As did we. The Simonet Blanc de Blanc Brut did a fine job of lubricating her upcoming date concerns and my, well, lack of dating concerns.
Our server asked if we wanted to order food before the kitchen closed and I declined, still full from dinner.
"No, alcohol is good," my friend told him.
Grinning, he replied, "Alcohol is good."
Makes me wonder how he gets paid.
Showing posts with label xtra's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label xtra's. Show all posts
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Guerrilla Dining in the Alley
I am the last person to ask for love life coaching.
Still, when someone asks me to listen and make suggestions, I am more than happy to oblige.
So when that happened today, my only requirement was that we do it at Xtra's to avail ourselves of the sparkling special.
Another friend had recommended that I check out the Wednesday night deal (a bottle of bubbly is $10) not long ago, so it seemed as good a place as any to hear her story and talk about the next step (or retreat).
And I'd have to say I was pleasantly surprised; the Simonet Vin de Mousseux Blanc de Blancs delivered more than a ten dollar bottle needed to.
It also greased the wheels for her to ask me about intense connections that don't fade with time, soul mates and comfortable but empty relationships. She has a lot going on right now.
Was I any help? I have no idea. All I can do is offer my take on a subject on which I am far from an expert. But, hey, she asked.
After a couple of hours, we could have kept talking except that I had a guerrilla dinner party to attend and I wasn't about to miss it.
A friend and two others are part of a collective that aims to offer locally grown and made food with hand-crafted cocktails in an alley for the ridiculous price of five dollars.
So every few weeks, they put out the word and several dozen people show up at the specified location to eat the one thing they've chosen to make. In the interest of this being RVA, there is always a meatless variation.
Last time it was grilled pizzas and I missed it; tonight it was BLTs and I was not about to miss it.
But not your garden variety diner BLT. No indeed, this was locally cured and smoked bacon (done by yet another friend with a fondness for pig), Manakintown arugula, tomatoes, homemade mayo and freshly baked sourdough.
There was also a vegan option with tomatoes, salsa verde, raw onion, Romesco sauce, and romaine on the fresh sourdough. But who wants a BLT with no bacon? Hello, B is for bacon.
Arriving in the agreed-upon alley at exactly 10:00 as directed, I walked down to the dead end to find a sweet little setup under a great big ball of a moon.
My friend was energetically making drinks on a wooden nightstand. I paid my five bones.
Tonight's libation contained gin, blueberry-rhubarb jam, homemade cane sugar syrup, egg whites and some magic ingredients which can't be disclosed unless I kill you immediately afterwards.
Taking my well-shaken drink, I moved to the long table decorated with a vase of onion flowers, where my BLT was prepared before my eyes.
The two cooking types chatted me up about their inspiration and their love of daily bread making as they slathered, cut and formed the perfect BLT, wrapped in brown paper and cut in half.
Taking my little feast to a nearby stone wall for a sit-down, I joined a seated couple to eat and share conversation about used book stores, the cooler weather and the beauty of this event.
The sandwich was perfect in every way. The bacon's depth of flavor, the freshness of the peppery arugula, the hint of mustard in the mayo and the crustiness of the home baked bread all made for a superior BLT.
Before long I was also joined by a friend of a friend and her paramour (who'd never had a BLT before tonight).
A guy I know from a hip restaurant arrived. One of RVA's favorite painters and his crew rolled up on bikes.
Like me, everyone was amazed at getting the loveliest of BLTs and a cocktail for such a ridiculous price. And that was before we were handed homemade warm zucchini bread slices for dessert.
As I sat there chatting with various people, one of the food guys came over and said, "It's great that you're still here. We want people to come, but even more, we want them to hang around for a while." I can hang.
All told, there were probably a couple dozen people there. The organizers are hoping for more like forty next time.
One guy had a BLT, then a vegan BLT and was taking his third BLT to go when he stopped to talk to me. Even at $15, it was still a steal of a deal for what he got.
And of course, already those in attendance tonight are worried that a massive influx will ruin the relaxed vibe that made tonight's event feel like a neighborhood picnic.
The cops rolled by at one point, but ended up giving us their limited blessing, a warning about the noise level (it was nearing midnight) and moved on.
And we went right back to sipping our purple gin, savoring our local bacon and meeting new people.
I hope guerrilla dining catches on all over Richmond. People who love growing, making and sharing good food gathering with like-minded souls under a full moon.
By the time they organize another one, it'll be a new moon and a whole new experience. I even suggested a possible alley right here in J-Ward for the next one.
With any luck, it'll be coming soon to an alley near you.
No alleys? Tough luck, I'm afraid. A guerrilla alley meal is truly something spectacular.
Still, when someone asks me to listen and make suggestions, I am more than happy to oblige.
So when that happened today, my only requirement was that we do it at Xtra's to avail ourselves of the sparkling special.
Another friend had recommended that I check out the Wednesday night deal (a bottle of bubbly is $10) not long ago, so it seemed as good a place as any to hear her story and talk about the next step (or retreat).
And I'd have to say I was pleasantly surprised; the Simonet Vin de Mousseux Blanc de Blancs delivered more than a ten dollar bottle needed to.
It also greased the wheels for her to ask me about intense connections that don't fade with time, soul mates and comfortable but empty relationships. She has a lot going on right now.
Was I any help? I have no idea. All I can do is offer my take on a subject on which I am far from an expert. But, hey, she asked.
After a couple of hours, we could have kept talking except that I had a guerrilla dinner party to attend and I wasn't about to miss it.
A friend and two others are part of a collective that aims to offer locally grown and made food with hand-crafted cocktails in an alley for the ridiculous price of five dollars.
So every few weeks, they put out the word and several dozen people show up at the specified location to eat the one thing they've chosen to make. In the interest of this being RVA, there is always a meatless variation.
Last time it was grilled pizzas and I missed it; tonight it was BLTs and I was not about to miss it.
But not your garden variety diner BLT. No indeed, this was locally cured and smoked bacon (done by yet another friend with a fondness for pig), Manakintown arugula, tomatoes, homemade mayo and freshly baked sourdough.
There was also a vegan option with tomatoes, salsa verde, raw onion, Romesco sauce, and romaine on the fresh sourdough. But who wants a BLT with no bacon? Hello, B is for bacon.
Arriving in the agreed-upon alley at exactly 10:00 as directed, I walked down to the dead end to find a sweet little setup under a great big ball of a moon.
My friend was energetically making drinks on a wooden nightstand. I paid my five bones.
Tonight's libation contained gin, blueberry-rhubarb jam, homemade cane sugar syrup, egg whites and some magic ingredients which can't be disclosed unless I kill you immediately afterwards.
Taking my well-shaken drink, I moved to the long table decorated with a vase of onion flowers, where my BLT was prepared before my eyes.
The two cooking types chatted me up about their inspiration and their love of daily bread making as they slathered, cut and formed the perfect BLT, wrapped in brown paper and cut in half.
Taking my little feast to a nearby stone wall for a sit-down, I joined a seated couple to eat and share conversation about used book stores, the cooler weather and the beauty of this event.
The sandwich was perfect in every way. The bacon's depth of flavor, the freshness of the peppery arugula, the hint of mustard in the mayo and the crustiness of the home baked bread all made for a superior BLT.
Before long I was also joined by a friend of a friend and her paramour (who'd never had a BLT before tonight).
A guy I know from a hip restaurant arrived. One of RVA's favorite painters and his crew rolled up on bikes.
Like me, everyone was amazed at getting the loveliest of BLTs and a cocktail for such a ridiculous price. And that was before we were handed homemade warm zucchini bread slices for dessert.
As I sat there chatting with various people, one of the food guys came over and said, "It's great that you're still here. We want people to come, but even more, we want them to hang around for a while." I can hang.
All told, there were probably a couple dozen people there. The organizers are hoping for more like forty next time.
One guy had a BLT, then a vegan BLT and was taking his third BLT to go when he stopped to talk to me. Even at $15, it was still a steal of a deal for what he got.
And of course, already those in attendance tonight are worried that a massive influx will ruin the relaxed vibe that made tonight's event feel like a neighborhood picnic.
The cops rolled by at one point, but ended up giving us their limited blessing, a warning about the noise level (it was nearing midnight) and moved on.
And we went right back to sipping our purple gin, savoring our local bacon and meeting new people.
I hope guerrilla dining catches on all over Richmond. People who love growing, making and sharing good food gathering with like-minded souls under a full moon.
By the time they organize another one, it'll be a new moon and a whole new experience. I even suggested a possible alley right here in J-Ward for the next one.
With any luck, it'll be coming soon to an alley near you.
No alleys? Tough luck, I'm afraid. A guerrilla alley meal is truly something spectacular.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
No Way to Keep the Beat
It's my week to catch up with everybody after the holidays. Tonight it was a former work buddy and we met at Xtra's, just to see what it had to offer in the evenings, since I'd only had lunch there.
It was pretty empty when we arrived but continued to fill up steadily, despite 30-plus year-old music. When I walked into a Journey song, I kind of felt like the tone was set, if you know what I mean.
On the other hand, the wine list was varied and very much suited to my taste. Any list that carries two Charles Smith wines is fine in my book (Boom Boom Syrah, yum, yum) plus they had several South African choices.
Wanting to start white given the evening ahead, I ordered the Graham Beck unoaked Chardonnay (twice), surprising even myself.
My friend had summoned our meeting because he was seeking guidance from me about some new job responsibilities with which he's not entirely comfortable. I understood his concern, but could offer no real solace since I think it's a bad idea for both his personal and professional selves.
He wailed when I didn't offer the direction he was so desperately seeking from me. I got the sense that I was supposed to make everything better for him and didn't. Hey, a bad idea is a bad idea, no matter how it's couched.
We munched on fish taquitos (grilled mah-mahi, carrots, cabbage, and cilantro wrapped in spring roll wrappers and fried, with roasted pineapple vinaigrette), causing my friend to recommend 7-11's taquitos after my next late night of partying.
Duly noted and filed, I told him, except I don't eat at chains, much less ones with gas stations and lottery tickets.
Like all my other friends lately, he had to know what was up in my personal life and he didn't hesitate to offer criticism of my nerve and suggestions for improvement in the future. Everybody knows how to carry on better than I do, or so they think.
I left him strolling down Cary Street and went to the museum for the Jazz Cafe; the Lawrence Olds Quartet was playing and there's nothing wrong with some old-school jazz and blues standards on a Thursday night.
The crowd was so different from a few weeks ago when I was there for Hotel X. Tonight was a mix of an older crowd and a much younger swing-dancing crowd.
Two girls next to me were in the latter group; I overheard one say, "And then when he starts twirling you, there's just no way to keep the beat," while the other nodded seriously in agreement. Yea, I knew that.
Olds' voice is deep and silky smooth and he was backed by guitar, keys and upright bass. Both crowds kept the dance floor hopping all evening and most dancers ended every song with a low dip, not something you see every day (hair-brushing-floor-low). I was sure this one guy was going to drop the girl, but he heaved mightily and brought her back up, thank goodness.
There was a cool swing vibe going on and I stayed and listened for a good while before leaving to do the art thing. The new exhibit "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" was open, so I took the time to see it and compare it to the concurrent UR exhibit I'd seen last week.
Like that one, it contained a wealth of imagery of both battles and the daily life of a soldier. "Drumming Out a Coward" taught me what the phrase "drumming out" meant.
In addition to the coward having his sword broken and his buttons and rank ripped off his uniform, he wore a neck sign saying "coward" as the drummers marched him out of camp. Now I know.
A drawing of "Crow's Nest Signal Station" at Dutch Gap showed an elaborate treehouse-like contraption that wound its way up a tree with a series of ladders; it would have been the delight of any adventurous child.
I found "Negro Worship in the South" fascinating because there had been a similar drawing in the UR exhibit, except that this one was done post-war, so the blacks had been emancipated. They looked far more dignified and less cartoonish than they'd been depicted in the earlier drawing I'd seen.
After the security guard had warned me that the museum was closing in fifteen minutes, then five minutes and then just keep hovering about, I finally left him locking doors as he wished me a good evening. I can take a hint.
It wasn't very late, so I decided to stop by Six Burner and arrived to a pretty dead room - one booth occupied, one bar regular, and a server's girlfriend.
Bartender Josh greeted me with, "You're the first real customer I've had all night." He said it had been really slow, but graciously poured me a glass of wine and cranked the music up.
I asked if the kitchen was still open and he went to check, coming back to say, "Sorry, nothing but stainless steel back there. I guess they gave up cause it was so slow." It was okay, I told him, conversation and wine were enough.
Server T. spotted me and came over to ask, "Aren't you usually in here a little earlier? Where you been?" I gave him the rundown and he put me in my place with, "Squeezed us in, huh?" Ooh, I love places where the staff verbally abuses the customers.
Chef Philip came out dressed to go and stood at the far end of the bar smiling at me. "I see you eating everywhere," he said. "I saw you at Comfort Sunday." Josh kindly pointed out that I wanted to eat his food tonight but the kitchen had been closed. He winced. I felt better.
While listening to an NYC artist Josh is currently recording, we discussed poetic men who have a way with words, the realities of fatherhood ("It used to be martinis at a bar after work and now it's canned beer in a cup"), and the beauty of capturing everyday sounds.
By then, I was starting to feel as guilty about keeping Josh as I had about the security guard, so I said my goodnights.
Hey, what happened to Thursday being the new Friday anyway? Come on, weekend.
It was pretty empty when we arrived but continued to fill up steadily, despite 30-plus year-old music. When I walked into a Journey song, I kind of felt like the tone was set, if you know what I mean.
On the other hand, the wine list was varied and very much suited to my taste. Any list that carries two Charles Smith wines is fine in my book (Boom Boom Syrah, yum, yum) plus they had several South African choices.
Wanting to start white given the evening ahead, I ordered the Graham Beck unoaked Chardonnay (twice), surprising even myself.
My friend had summoned our meeting because he was seeking guidance from me about some new job responsibilities with which he's not entirely comfortable. I understood his concern, but could offer no real solace since I think it's a bad idea for both his personal and professional selves.
He wailed when I didn't offer the direction he was so desperately seeking from me. I got the sense that I was supposed to make everything better for him and didn't. Hey, a bad idea is a bad idea, no matter how it's couched.
We munched on fish taquitos (grilled mah-mahi, carrots, cabbage, and cilantro wrapped in spring roll wrappers and fried, with roasted pineapple vinaigrette), causing my friend to recommend 7-11's taquitos after my next late night of partying.
Duly noted and filed, I told him, except I don't eat at chains, much less ones with gas stations and lottery tickets.
Like all my other friends lately, he had to know what was up in my personal life and he didn't hesitate to offer criticism of my nerve and suggestions for improvement in the future. Everybody knows how to carry on better than I do, or so they think.
I left him strolling down Cary Street and went to the museum for the Jazz Cafe; the Lawrence Olds Quartet was playing and there's nothing wrong with some old-school jazz and blues standards on a Thursday night.
The crowd was so different from a few weeks ago when I was there for Hotel X. Tonight was a mix of an older crowd and a much younger swing-dancing crowd.
Two girls next to me were in the latter group; I overheard one say, "And then when he starts twirling you, there's just no way to keep the beat," while the other nodded seriously in agreement. Yea, I knew that.
Olds' voice is deep and silky smooth and he was backed by guitar, keys and upright bass. Both crowds kept the dance floor hopping all evening and most dancers ended every song with a low dip, not something you see every day (hair-brushing-floor-low). I was sure this one guy was going to drop the girl, but he heaved mightily and brought her back up, thank goodness.
There was a cool swing vibe going on and I stayed and listened for a good while before leaving to do the art thing. The new exhibit "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection" was open, so I took the time to see it and compare it to the concurrent UR exhibit I'd seen last week.
Like that one, it contained a wealth of imagery of both battles and the daily life of a soldier. "Drumming Out a Coward" taught me what the phrase "drumming out" meant.
In addition to the coward having his sword broken and his buttons and rank ripped off his uniform, he wore a neck sign saying "coward" as the drummers marched him out of camp. Now I know.
A drawing of "Crow's Nest Signal Station" at Dutch Gap showed an elaborate treehouse-like contraption that wound its way up a tree with a series of ladders; it would have been the delight of any adventurous child.
I found "Negro Worship in the South" fascinating because there had been a similar drawing in the UR exhibit, except that this one was done post-war, so the blacks had been emancipated. They looked far more dignified and less cartoonish than they'd been depicted in the earlier drawing I'd seen.
After the security guard had warned me that the museum was closing in fifteen minutes, then five minutes and then just keep hovering about, I finally left him locking doors as he wished me a good evening. I can take a hint.
It wasn't very late, so I decided to stop by Six Burner and arrived to a pretty dead room - one booth occupied, one bar regular, and a server's girlfriend.
Bartender Josh greeted me with, "You're the first real customer I've had all night." He said it had been really slow, but graciously poured me a glass of wine and cranked the music up.
I asked if the kitchen was still open and he went to check, coming back to say, "Sorry, nothing but stainless steel back there. I guess they gave up cause it was so slow." It was okay, I told him, conversation and wine were enough.
Server T. spotted me and came over to ask, "Aren't you usually in here a little earlier? Where you been?" I gave him the rundown and he put me in my place with, "Squeezed us in, huh?" Ooh, I love places where the staff verbally abuses the customers.
Chef Philip came out dressed to go and stood at the far end of the bar smiling at me. "I see you eating everywhere," he said. "I saw you at Comfort Sunday." Josh kindly pointed out that I wanted to eat his food tonight but the kitchen had been closed. He winced. I felt better.
While listening to an NYC artist Josh is currently recording, we discussed poetic men who have a way with words, the realities of fatherhood ("It used to be martinis at a bar after work and now it's canned beer in a cup"), and the beauty of capturing everyday sounds.
By then, I was starting to feel as guilty about keeping Josh as I had about the security guard, so I said my goodnights.
Hey, what happened to Thursday being the new Friday anyway? Come on, weekend.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Balcony Bliss at Xtra's
I thought I was having lunch with one of my best friends today, but his position had been usurped by the time he picked me up at noon.
His replacement? Well, that would be VCU's Facebook page because of their unlikely choice to use my "Unofficial Tour Guide" post on their page (sample comment: "Nice stumps").
Fortunately, my head still fit in his vehicle, so off we went to Carytown to partake of a lovely lunch on Xtra's balcony. It's a stylish place, designed by a professional restaurant designer and, as usual, my main complaint was the TV (aka: ambiance killer). Favorite design element: the metalwork in the opening of the balcony's brick wall with the bluest sky visible through it.
But we had no intention of staying inside, instead choosing a two-top at the railing, which put my legs conveniently in the sun, right where I wanted them.
We had a view of the Merita white bread billboard atop Mary Angela's and a bird's eye view of passersby. It's kind of fascinating to be above everyone else.
After much back and forth to coordinate ordering different side dishes, I opted for the mini muffuletta, made of roasted turkey, Genoa salami, roast beef, cheddar, and Gruyere on toasted ciabatta with mufuletta relish and Mediterranean vinaigrette with Greek pasta salad.
Recently demoted friend got all manly on me, ordering the Black Angus burger with Gruyere and sweet pepper aioli with Thai cole slaw. He said he liked his burger and my muffuletta was filling, if a tad over-relished (further proof of why I'm not a food blogger). Before long, we both called it quits and he had our leftovers boxed up for his Scooby snack later.
He also provided the best quip in many a lunch. He was telling a mutual friend that he had a new girlfriend and she responded, "It's not Karen, is it?" to which he responded, "Nooo, she missed her chance to get on the Danny train." I laughed so hard I started wheezing.
And with that, he reclaimed his former friend standing on humor points alone. VCU who? Make me laugh and all is right with the world.
Even better, do it on a sunny balcony.
His replacement? Well, that would be VCU's Facebook page because of their unlikely choice to use my "Unofficial Tour Guide" post on their page (sample comment: "Nice stumps").
Fortunately, my head still fit in his vehicle, so off we went to Carytown to partake of a lovely lunch on Xtra's balcony. It's a stylish place, designed by a professional restaurant designer and, as usual, my main complaint was the TV (aka: ambiance killer). Favorite design element: the metalwork in the opening of the balcony's brick wall with the bluest sky visible through it.
But we had no intention of staying inside, instead choosing a two-top at the railing, which put my legs conveniently in the sun, right where I wanted them.
We had a view of the Merita white bread billboard atop Mary Angela's and a bird's eye view of passersby. It's kind of fascinating to be above everyone else.
After much back and forth to coordinate ordering different side dishes, I opted for the mini muffuletta, made of roasted turkey, Genoa salami, roast beef, cheddar, and Gruyere on toasted ciabatta with mufuletta relish and Mediterranean vinaigrette with Greek pasta salad.
Recently demoted friend got all manly on me, ordering the Black Angus burger with Gruyere and sweet pepper aioli with Thai cole slaw. He said he liked his burger and my muffuletta was filling, if a tad over-relished (further proof of why I'm not a food blogger). Before long, we both called it quits and he had our leftovers boxed up for his Scooby snack later.
He also provided the best quip in many a lunch. He was telling a mutual friend that he had a new girlfriend and she responded, "It's not Karen, is it?" to which he responded, "Nooo, she missed her chance to get on the Danny train." I laughed so hard I started wheezing.
And with that, he reclaimed his former friend standing on humor points alone. VCU who? Make me laugh and all is right with the world.
Even better, do it on a sunny balcony.
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