My plans for the Winter Solstice were to spend it with a friend who had suggested a surprise outing together. I had no idea where we'd be going, only that we'd finish with a late lunch at Thai Diner. He said I could try to guess, but I'm not the guessing type, so I cleared my schedule and anticipated the afternoon.
So with no idea of what was in store, I got into his car and headed off into the unknown. He didn't keep me in suspense for long, though; we were going to have massages and it was his Christmas gift to me. As someone who has had a truly awful year, I knew I had enough tension in my body to keep a masseuse busy until her hands gave out so I was beyond thrilled. I have to say that a surprise gift of a massage was about the most wonderful thing that I could have heard at that moment.
He had set it up so that we would to have our massages in the same room, but with a partition dividing it for privacy (we're friends after all, so we don't get naked in front of each other). Upon arrival, it turned out that a pregnant woman had co-opted the divided room, so we used discretionary disrobing techniques and averted eyes to prevent any glimpses of friend flesh. And then I just melted into the table as my body got the once -over.
My favorite gift has always been words. I like nothing better than than a letter or e-mail when someone wants to give me a present. But today's gift of a massage on a body with a year's worth of stress and a broken heart may have been the kindest thing done for me in many moons.
I'm glad that today being the shortest day means that from here on out, the days will start getting longer. I'm even more grateful that I have such a thoughtful friend who knew exactly what I needed (without a word from me) and generously gave it to me.
And wouldn't you know, after feeling completely certain that no one would ever see this morning's big snow-induced bruise, the masseuse not only saw it, she commented that it wasn't too bad...yet.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Bruised Where the Sun Don't Shine
The snow didn't stop me from my daily walk the past two days, although I did modify my route and stay in J-Ward.
The main streets were fairly clear and there was very little vehicular traffic, so that's where I walked for the most part.
Today I decided to venture over to my usual VCU/Fan route to see what was happening over there.
The good news was VCU had cleared all their sidewalks, making for easy walking.
The bad news was that most of the other sidewalks were a crusty, icy mess (we won't even talk about the state of Hell Block's sidewalks).
The trade-off was the abundance of snow men I saw once I got beyond VCU. Just Saturday, I was lamenting the absence of snow sculpture and here was Grace Street just full of them.
Snowmen of every design were perched in yard after yard; one wore a bandanna, another a baseball cap, one had a crown of leaves and one seemed to be wearing a jock strap. Another was headless.
One snow figure had a tail and ears, so I don't think it was a snowman at all.
After all that treacherous walking, I was glad to be nearly home when I paused at the intersection at the end of my block for an approaching car.
The guy gave me a big smile and I turned toward my house, at which point my legs went over my head and I landed on the side of my right thigh.
As I sit here typing this, I can feel an enormous bruise forming right where my hip meets my thigh.
Oh, it's going to be a beaut.
I suppose there's the consolation that absolutely no one besides me will see it.
Wait, what am I saying? That's absolutely no consolation at all.
The main streets were fairly clear and there was very little vehicular traffic, so that's where I walked for the most part.
Today I decided to venture over to my usual VCU/Fan route to see what was happening over there.
The good news was VCU had cleared all their sidewalks, making for easy walking.
The bad news was that most of the other sidewalks were a crusty, icy mess (we won't even talk about the state of Hell Block's sidewalks).
The trade-off was the abundance of snow men I saw once I got beyond VCU. Just Saturday, I was lamenting the absence of snow sculpture and here was Grace Street just full of them.
Snowmen of every design were perched in yard after yard; one wore a bandanna, another a baseball cap, one had a crown of leaves and one seemed to be wearing a jock strap. Another was headless.
One snow figure had a tail and ears, so I don't think it was a snowman at all.
After all that treacherous walking, I was glad to be nearly home when I paused at the intersection at the end of my block for an approaching car.
The guy gave me a big smile and I turned toward my house, at which point my legs went over my head and I landed on the side of my right thigh.
As I sit here typing this, I can feel an enormous bruise forming right where my hip meets my thigh.
Oh, it's going to be a beaut.
I suppose there's the consolation that absolutely no one besides me will see it.
Wait, what am I saying? That's absolutely no consolation at all.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
My "Beautiful" Brunch at Ipanema
Judging by the number of people whose Facebook status said "has cabin fever" this morning, combined with the sunny day, I'm willing to bet that Ipanema wasn't the only restaurant doing a brisk brunch business today. Personally, I never got close to cabin fever status but then I've been out a lot this snowy weekend.
It was my first time doing brunch at Ipanema, although it certainly will not be my last. I got the Frittata made with Gouda, caramelized onions, thyme and tomato with a side of sweet potato hash. So, yes, Andrew, it's the Grilled Gouda sandwich with eggs instead of bread and it sure was delicious, especially with a big mimosa to wash it down. For dessert, I had the almond cake with both light and dark chocolate frosting (I have no qualms about ending brunch with dessert).
Brunch was made even better by finding today's New York Times available on the bar. My Washington Post didn't get delivered today, but I checked Kroger and a 7-11 and neither of them received their Posts either, so it wasn't just me. It's still a loss for me since it's part of my Sunday ritual, as much as I have rituals these days.
But the highlight of brunch was the bartender who continuously referred to me, not by name, but by Beautiful, as in, "Need anything, Beautiful?" and "How're you doing over there, Beautiful?" Liz, if you keep that up, I'll end up dreaming about you again.
It was my first time doing brunch at Ipanema, although it certainly will not be my last. I got the Frittata made with Gouda, caramelized onions, thyme and tomato with a side of sweet potato hash. So, yes, Andrew, it's the Grilled Gouda sandwich with eggs instead of bread and it sure was delicious, especially with a big mimosa to wash it down. For dessert, I had the almond cake with both light and dark chocolate frosting (I have no qualms about ending brunch with dessert).
Brunch was made even better by finding today's New York Times available on the bar. My Washington Post didn't get delivered today, but I checked Kroger and a 7-11 and neither of them received their Posts either, so it wasn't just me. It's still a loss for me since it's part of my Sunday ritual, as much as I have rituals these days.
But the highlight of brunch was the bartender who continuously referred to me, not by name, but by Beautiful, as in, "Need anything, Beautiful?" and "How're you doing over there, Beautiful?" Liz, if you keep that up, I'll end up dreaming about you again.
Rumination on Reality
Although the bright blue sky and brilliant sun on my walk this morning should have lifted my spirits, instead I was lost in thought about how anything is really not possible. In a perfect world, maybe, but in this one, no.
If it were, you could walk up to someone you see in the street and just say whatever you wanted to say, with no concern for propriety and no fear of their reaction. It happens in books and it happens in movies, but it's not the kind of thing we risk in real life.
So conversations don't happen and opportunities are missed out of fear. Blue sky and sunshine aside, it's such a shame that this is how the world works.
If it were, you could walk up to someone you see in the street and just say whatever you wanted to say, with no concern for propriety and no fear of their reaction. It happens in books and it happens in movies, but it's not the kind of thing we risk in real life.
So conversations don't happen and opportunities are missed out of fear. Blue sky and sunshine aside, it's such a shame that this is how the world works.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Few, The Brave at Avenue 805
The last time I had dinner at Avenue 805 was the night after the last big snowstorm in March. The same friend had chosen the same restaurant for that night out, too. I suggested he call first tonight to make sure they were open or, at the very least, alert them that we were coming.
It ended up being more of an alert, because they were open, but really just because they knew we were coming. There were probably a half dozen patrons tonight, but many of the regulars were at the Pope's party, so that eliminated much of the hyper-local walking trade. And, oh my, you should have seen some of the creative parking going on along Monument Avenue for the party!
But nothing was going to stop B.S.F. and I from eating and drinking for several hours while the snow continued to fall outside. We drank a bottle of the Post House Bluish Black, a South African blend containing Shiraz, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and one of my all-time favorite grapes, Pinotage (for its earthy qualities as well as fond memories).
I had a bowl of the white bean/bacon/sun-dried tomato soup, which was broth based and a good start to warming up after the trip over. Next up, I ordered the mussels in white sauce with a magnificent hunk of oiled foccacia while my friend enjoyed the Duck Ragout. We finished by sharing the chocolate mousse.
The owners hadn't been home since Thursday night because of the weather, so we didn't order more wine. Three and a half hours was probably more of their time than we should have taken, but, as is usually the case with a bar snow crowd, everyone was affable and enjoying the snowed- in mentality, so we lingered until about 10. By then, all the snow-shoveling my friend had done today had left him plumb tuckered out. That or he was still tired from last night's shenanigans, so we soldiered on and out into the dark wetness, well fed and wined.
We were guessing that tonight's small crowd (Republic looked fairly slow, too) means the masses will be in full cabin-fever mode by tomorrow morning and brunches all over town will be swarming with escapees.
Hell, I got out tonight and I'll be right out there tomorrow with the fray, brunching away. How better to enjoy a good snow weekend?
It ended up being more of an alert, because they were open, but really just because they knew we were coming. There were probably a half dozen patrons tonight, but many of the regulars were at the Pope's party, so that eliminated much of the hyper-local walking trade. And, oh my, you should have seen some of the creative parking going on along Monument Avenue for the party!
But nothing was going to stop B.S.F. and I from eating and drinking for several hours while the snow continued to fall outside. We drank a bottle of the Post House Bluish Black, a South African blend containing Shiraz, Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and one of my all-time favorite grapes, Pinotage (for its earthy qualities as well as fond memories).
I had a bowl of the white bean/bacon/sun-dried tomato soup, which was broth based and a good start to warming up after the trip over. Next up, I ordered the mussels in white sauce with a magnificent hunk of oiled foccacia while my friend enjoyed the Duck Ragout. We finished by sharing the chocolate mousse.
The owners hadn't been home since Thursday night because of the weather, so we didn't order more wine. Three and a half hours was probably more of their time than we should have taken, but, as is usually the case with a bar snow crowd, everyone was affable and enjoying the snowed- in mentality, so we lingered until about 10. By then, all the snow-shoveling my friend had done today had left him plumb tuckered out. That or he was still tired from last night's shenanigans, so we soldiered on and out into the dark wetness, well fed and wined.
We were guessing that tonight's small crowd (Republic looked fairly slow, too) means the masses will be in full cabin-fever mode by tomorrow morning and brunches all over town will be swarming with escapees.
Hell, I got out tonight and I'll be right out there tomorrow with the fray, brunching away. How better to enjoy a good snow weekend?
The Deer and The Hangover
I got invited to brunch and a movie today by neighbors who were worried sick that a person without a TV could not survive a snowy afternoon inside.
I didn't have the heart to tell them that I'd be just fine amusing myself otherwise, so I baked some cookies (Chocolate Chocolate Chip) to take as a return gesture and once again set off on foot through Jackson Ward.
Brunch was more breakfast for them and lunch for me, but the star of either meal was definitely the spicy deer sausage, served with an egg dish, assorted breads and mimosas.
My friend knows a guy who kills things on weekends and then brings them back to a talented friend who turns the carcasses into tasty things.
I'm a huge fan of spicy sausage of any kind and this deer version was absolutely delicious.
I might have made more of a meal of it than I needed to, but how often am I served deer sausage? My point exactly.
Afterwards, we settled in with hot chocolate, made from nothing more than grated dark chocolate, milk and a pinch of salt, to watch "The Hangover."
I'd heard from several friends that it was hysterical and while I certainly wouldn't go that far, it had some amusing moments and it wasn't like I had something else pressing to do.
My cookies were a big hit with my friends who polished off the entire dozen during the movie.
Plus I know they felt better having saved me from a lone snowy afternoon.
Returning to my TV-less apartment, I was greeted by the wonderful scent of fresh-baked cookies and a piney Christmas tree, followed by a beagle eager to go back out in the snow again.
How do I manage without a TV?
I didn't have the heart to tell them that I'd be just fine amusing myself otherwise, so I baked some cookies (Chocolate Chocolate Chip) to take as a return gesture and once again set off on foot through Jackson Ward.
Brunch was more breakfast for them and lunch for me, but the star of either meal was definitely the spicy deer sausage, served with an egg dish, assorted breads and mimosas.
My friend knows a guy who kills things on weekends and then brings them back to a talented friend who turns the carcasses into tasty things.
I'm a huge fan of spicy sausage of any kind and this deer version was absolutely delicious.
I might have made more of a meal of it than I needed to, but how often am I served deer sausage? My point exactly.
Afterwards, we settled in with hot chocolate, made from nothing more than grated dark chocolate, milk and a pinch of salt, to watch "The Hangover."
I'd heard from several friends that it was hysterical and while I certainly wouldn't go that far, it had some amusing moments and it wasn't like I had something else pressing to do.
My cookies were a big hit with my friends who polished off the entire dozen during the movie.
Plus I know they felt better having saved me from a lone snowy afternoon.
Returning to my TV-less apartment, I was greeted by the wonderful scent of fresh-baked cookies and a piney Christmas tree, followed by a beagle eager to go back out in the snow again.
How do I manage without a TV?
And Not A Snow Penis in Sight
Rather than my usual four miles to the Boulevard and back, I decided to walk J-Ward end to end instead this morning and see what was happening. I quickly discovered that the sidewalks were way too much trouble and that the tire ruts in the street make for the easiest walking progress.
Right off, I ran into a neighbor, the owner of three dogs he regularly walks, but out with only one, the basset hound, today. When I asked after the other two, he said they had no interest in going out in this mess. That was interesting to me because my beagle loves the snow and clearly some dogs do not. I wonder what teh difference is?
Walking east on Marshall, a guy smoking on his front porch said good morning, followed by, "You sure are faithful about walking." The funny thing is, I don't do my walk on Marshall Street and I didn't recognize the guy and yet he knows I'm a regular walker. Jackson Ward, where everyone knows everyone's business. It's kind of quaint.
I paused to chat with a neighbor shoveling his walkway and commented on the lack of people out and about, especially compared to the big March snowfall we had earlier this year. He seemed to think that there's novelty in a spring snow, but a December snow is just a reason to dig in and hibernate. Now there's a distinction of which I was not aware.
Back in March, there were loads of people out on the streets reveling in the snow. I remember seeing snow men and, perhaps even more eye-catching, several snow penises in the Ward. I didn't see a single snow sculpture out there today. Come on, people, let's pick up our game.
Right off, I ran into a neighbor, the owner of three dogs he regularly walks, but out with only one, the basset hound, today. When I asked after the other two, he said they had no interest in going out in this mess. That was interesting to me because my beagle loves the snow and clearly some dogs do not. I wonder what teh difference is?
Walking east on Marshall, a guy smoking on his front porch said good morning, followed by, "You sure are faithful about walking." The funny thing is, I don't do my walk on Marshall Street and I didn't recognize the guy and yet he knows I'm a regular walker. Jackson Ward, where everyone knows everyone's business. It's kind of quaint.
I paused to chat with a neighbor shoveling his walkway and commented on the lack of people out and about, especially compared to the big March snowfall we had earlier this year. He seemed to think that there's novelty in a spring snow, but a December snow is just a reason to dig in and hibernate. Now there's a distinction of which I was not aware.
Back in March, there were loads of people out on the streets reveling in the snow. I remember seeing snow men and, perhaps even more eye-catching, several snow penises in the Ward. I didn't see a single snow sculpture out there today. Come on, people, let's pick up our game.
Friday, December 18, 2009
A Cozy Evening of Live Music in a Snowstorm
"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow--the Listening Room is ON for tonight. Come on over and enjoy a cozy evening of lovely music and hot cider."
Despite counting on spending my evening at the Listening Room, I was prepared for this show to be cancelled tonight like everything else, so that message was good news. I headed over to the Michaux House and while the crowd was smaller than last month, plenty of people braved the snow to hear Luke Saunders, Jack Meets the Giant and Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat.
Ginger cookies, hot cider and coffee rewarded attendees upon arrival, followed by 2+ hours of acoustic music. Setting the holiday mood, Luke Saunders began with a banjo-accompanied rendition of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel," followed by several songs about heartbreak (my kind of songs). Even as he was asking the audience if they could tell that he'd never done this before, more people continued to arrive. Snow delays I expect.
Jack Meets the Giant started by doing the holiday classic "Please Come Home" and then telling us he had 20-25 minutes to make us his best friends. The duo recently finished a record with a full band, so we were hearing stripped down versions of everything ("This is the most acoustic this song will ever be," we were told). The lead singer had such an interesting voice, which was further enhanced by his back-up singer (and occasional back-up whistler).
Zac, Zac, Zac. I've seen him and the Jungle Beat a fair number of times since I first saw them open for Mermaid Skeleton's CD release show at the Poe Museum a year and a half ago. The beauty of this band is the level of musicianship. The drumming practically defines their sound and gives you an idea where the name of the group came from. With a violinist and upright bass player in addition to Zac's guitar, there is so much string action working with and against those drums. It's the band's quirky sound that sets them apart musically and Zac's gorgeous voice and heartfelt songwriting don't hurt, either.
Leaving the show around 11, Franklin Street was hushed except for a lone snow plow. The accumulation was significant in the three hours I'd been inside. It's so beautiful, though, outlining fences, capping fire hydrants and weighing down the branches of bushes and shrubs. I was actually surprised not to see more people in the streets and outside in general.
It didn't stop me and the beagle from taking a brisk walk in it when I got home. He has always liked walking in the snow and his old age has apparently not dimmed that. We strolled the neighborhood, enjoying the quiet and hoping to see another dog walker to share the experience with but no luck.
We'll try again tomorrow.
Despite counting on spending my evening at the Listening Room, I was prepared for this show to be cancelled tonight like everything else, so that message was good news. I headed over to the Michaux House and while the crowd was smaller than last month, plenty of people braved the snow to hear Luke Saunders, Jack Meets the Giant and Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat.
Ginger cookies, hot cider and coffee rewarded attendees upon arrival, followed by 2+ hours of acoustic music. Setting the holiday mood, Luke Saunders began with a banjo-accompanied rendition of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel," followed by several songs about heartbreak (my kind of songs). Even as he was asking the audience if they could tell that he'd never done this before, more people continued to arrive. Snow delays I expect.
Jack Meets the Giant started by doing the holiday classic "Please Come Home" and then telling us he had 20-25 minutes to make us his best friends. The duo recently finished a record with a full band, so we were hearing stripped down versions of everything ("This is the most acoustic this song will ever be," we were told). The lead singer had such an interesting voice, which was further enhanced by his back-up singer (and occasional back-up whistler).
Zac, Zac, Zac. I've seen him and the Jungle Beat a fair number of times since I first saw them open for Mermaid Skeleton's CD release show at the Poe Museum a year and a half ago. The beauty of this band is the level of musicianship. The drumming practically defines their sound and gives you an idea where the name of the group came from. With a violinist and upright bass player in addition to Zac's guitar, there is so much string action working with and against those drums. It's the band's quirky sound that sets them apart musically and Zac's gorgeous voice and heartfelt songwriting don't hurt, either.
Leaving the show around 11, Franklin Street was hushed except for a lone snow plow. The accumulation was significant in the three hours I'd been inside. It's so beautiful, though, outlining fences, capping fire hydrants and weighing down the branches of bushes and shrubs. I was actually surprised not to see more people in the streets and outside in general.
It didn't stop me and the beagle from taking a brisk walk in it when I got home. He has always liked walking in the snow and his old age has apparently not dimmed that. We strolled the neighborhood, enjoying the quiet and hoping to see another dog walker to share the experience with but no luck.
We'll try again tomorrow.
A Winey, Snowy Interlude
Once it started coming down, it came down thick and fast. I actually needed a device to clear snow off my car and it was barely 6:00. I was headed to Carytown and River City Cellars for tonight's wine tasting, Staff Favorites. The road was pretty slushy but completely manageable.
I wasn't in the least surprised at all the people at RCC. And why not; isn't a wine tasting a lovely way to start off a snowy weekend? Lots of people were buying wine and cheese, presumably to enjoy during the Blizzard of '09.
Tonight's wines were all amazing: Boulay 2008 Sancerre Blanc, Tissot 2007 Arbois Chardonnay, Raquillet 2007 Mercurey Rouge "Vieilles Vignes," and Verbena 2007 Rosso di Montalcino. The staff certainly knew what they were talking about. It was difficult choosing just one.
A little girl came in with her family and she had snow caked on her mittens. She couldn't stop admiring them. Someone had a picture of the line at Pleasant's to buy sleds. It looked like Black Friday.
But wine and kids, aren't they what snow is all about?
I wasn't in the least surprised at all the people at RCC. And why not; isn't a wine tasting a lovely way to start off a snowy weekend? Lots of people were buying wine and cheese, presumably to enjoy during the Blizzard of '09.
Tonight's wines were all amazing: Boulay 2008 Sancerre Blanc, Tissot 2007 Arbois Chardonnay, Raquillet 2007 Mercurey Rouge "Vieilles Vignes," and Verbena 2007 Rosso di Montalcino. The staff certainly knew what they were talking about. It was difficult choosing just one.
A little girl came in with her family and she had snow caked on her mittens. She couldn't stop admiring them. Someone had a picture of the line at Pleasant's to buy sleds. It looked like Black Friday.
But wine and kids, aren't they what snow is all about?
Bring It On. I'll Be Busy.
A forecast of four to ten inches of snow in Richmond causes some people to act so oddly that it provides entertainment value for those of us not as inclined to get our panties in a wad over some winter precipitation.
When I walked by the Kroger at 10:30 this morning, it was mobbed.
And by mobbed, I mean like day-before-Thanksgiving mobbed.
Kroger is undoubtedly having a banner sales day.
When I arrived home from running errands around 1, my landlord had already been by and scattered oodles of a noxious ice-melting pellet mixture all over my steps.
And porch. And sidewalk. And walkway. I think I'm good now.
Walking the dog, I spoke with a couple of neighbors just coming home from work.
Both told me they are in for the weekend, as in, not leaving the house for any reason. Right.
I, on the other hand, accepted a friend's invitation to eat dinner somewhere together tomorrow night.
He lives a mere two miles from me and we figure that between his house and mine, we will be able to find an open restaurant tomorrow evening, even if we both have to walk to meet.
But we will meet.
I also got an e-mail from another friend wanting to meet for brunch late Sunday morning.
Did I hem and haw about planning to meet in the aftermath of the Great December snowfall?
I did not. We made our plans without a second thought about the forecasted weather.
Please excuse my lack of concern for the impending doom of snowfall.
As a guy from Connecticut visiting RVA told me last night, Richmonders are so cute about snow.
Cute is not what I aim for.
When I walked by the Kroger at 10:30 this morning, it was mobbed.
And by mobbed, I mean like day-before-Thanksgiving mobbed.
Kroger is undoubtedly having a banner sales day.
When I arrived home from running errands around 1, my landlord had already been by and scattered oodles of a noxious ice-melting pellet mixture all over my steps.
And porch. And sidewalk. And walkway. I think I'm good now.
Walking the dog, I spoke with a couple of neighbors just coming home from work.
Both told me they are in for the weekend, as in, not leaving the house for any reason. Right.
I, on the other hand, accepted a friend's invitation to eat dinner somewhere together tomorrow night.
He lives a mere two miles from me and we figure that between his house and mine, we will be able to find an open restaurant tomorrow evening, even if we both have to walk to meet.
But we will meet.
I also got an e-mail from another friend wanting to meet for brunch late Sunday morning.
Did I hem and haw about planning to meet in the aftermath of the Great December snowfall?
I did not. We made our plans without a second thought about the forecasted weather.
Please excuse my lack of concern for the impending doom of snowfall.
As a guy from Connecticut visiting RVA told me last night, Richmonders are so cute about snow.
Cute is not what I aim for.
The Mixtape Master
Back in the 90s, I met and befriended a local club DJ, whose skill at mixing music was awe-inspiring.
He didn't have a car, so he'd ride his bike to gigs with a crate of records bungee-corded on the back of it.
He was a music junkie, always going back to DC to score new and obscure stuff he couldn't find in rva. Needless to say, I don't often meet someone as rabid about music as I am, so I wanted to know him better.
After seeing him for several weeks at one place or another, he suggested we meet up at the Virginia Museum on a Thursday night since that's when the museum stayed open in the evening.
As it turned out, I had to stay late at the radio station where I worked and missed meeting him.
I didn't even have a way to contact him to let him know I couldn't make it. What I didn't know at the time was that he'd made me a mixtape he'd intended to give me that night.
It was a masterpiece entitled "Naive Melodies/Waiting" and the title referred to his anticipation of our first outing together.
Full of classic 80s and early 90s indie pop, it was superbly chosen and mixed.
By the time we rescheduled our outing, he'd made me a second mixtape, this one called, "STOOD UP!" and full of jittery and angry music.
I got the message.
Other mixtapes followed, with names like "A Cup of Coffee and a Slice of Time" and "Groovy Tunes," which had one side of "Harmless Pop" and another of "Popless Harm."
One called "Delusions of Grandeur" didn't even list song titles or artists, just the instructions to listen and enjoy because titles were irrelevant.
I listened to those mixtapes for years because they were so well done. It got to the point where I could anticipate the next song because I knew the tape so well.
Finally I realized that I was going to wear out the tape itself and enlisted a friend to put them on CD for me so I could enjoy them in perpetuity.
My friend and I eventually lost touch, although I occasionally heard him on a late-night shift on several local commercial radio stations.
Not long after I'd heard he'd moved back to DC, he showed up weekly on WRIR doing Monday's Breakfast Blend.
What a treat! It's almost like having a new mixtape made for me every week because our tastes are so similar and I'm just so fond of his musical selections.
I listen when I'm up early enough, but I always make a point to look at his playlist for sentimental reasons.
Invariably, I see song after song from one of my many mixtapes that are still making it on to his show: the B52's "Follow Your Bliss," The Posies' "Mrs. Green," Marshall Crenshaw's "Cynical Girl" and anything by Paul Weller.
There's also plenty of new stuff which I'm also listening to, but it's these mixtape reminders that give me a retro thrill.
Over the years, no less than a dozen friends have made mixtapes for me; some were terrific and some were nice gestures, but uninspired.
Creating a really good mixtape is more difficult than it sounds and yet, I've still got this guy's collection of 1993/94 mixtapes in regular rotation.
No one but a mixtape master can inspire that kind of long-term musical devotion.
He didn't have a car, so he'd ride his bike to gigs with a crate of records bungee-corded on the back of it.
He was a music junkie, always going back to DC to score new and obscure stuff he couldn't find in rva. Needless to say, I don't often meet someone as rabid about music as I am, so I wanted to know him better.
After seeing him for several weeks at one place or another, he suggested we meet up at the Virginia Museum on a Thursday night since that's when the museum stayed open in the evening.
As it turned out, I had to stay late at the radio station where I worked and missed meeting him.
I didn't even have a way to contact him to let him know I couldn't make it. What I didn't know at the time was that he'd made me a mixtape he'd intended to give me that night.
It was a masterpiece entitled "Naive Melodies/Waiting" and the title referred to his anticipation of our first outing together.
Full of classic 80s and early 90s indie pop, it was superbly chosen and mixed.
By the time we rescheduled our outing, he'd made me a second mixtape, this one called, "STOOD UP!" and full of jittery and angry music.
I got the message.
Other mixtapes followed, with names like "A Cup of Coffee and a Slice of Time" and "Groovy Tunes," which had one side of "Harmless Pop" and another of "Popless Harm."
One called "Delusions of Grandeur" didn't even list song titles or artists, just the instructions to listen and enjoy because titles were irrelevant.
I listened to those mixtapes for years because they were so well done. It got to the point where I could anticipate the next song because I knew the tape so well.
Finally I realized that I was going to wear out the tape itself and enlisted a friend to put them on CD for me so I could enjoy them in perpetuity.
My friend and I eventually lost touch, although I occasionally heard him on a late-night shift on several local commercial radio stations.
Not long after I'd heard he'd moved back to DC, he showed up weekly on WRIR doing Monday's Breakfast Blend.
What a treat! It's almost like having a new mixtape made for me every week because our tastes are so similar and I'm just so fond of his musical selections.
I listen when I'm up early enough, but I always make a point to look at his playlist for sentimental reasons.
Invariably, I see song after song from one of my many mixtapes that are still making it on to his show: the B52's "Follow Your Bliss," The Posies' "Mrs. Green," Marshall Crenshaw's "Cynical Girl" and anything by Paul Weller.
There's also plenty of new stuff which I'm also listening to, but it's these mixtape reminders that give me a retro thrill.
Over the years, no less than a dozen friends have made mixtapes for me; some were terrific and some were nice gestures, but uninspired.
Creating a really good mixtape is more difficult than it sounds and yet, I've still got this guy's collection of 1993/94 mixtapes in regular rotation.
No one but a mixtape master can inspire that kind of long-term musical devotion.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Partying in the Ward. Carbing Up at Bouchon
'Tis the holiday season when more and more nights involve multiple events, which has been the case for me the last two nights. I'm not complaining; staying busy distracts me from over-thinking my life 24/7.
The Jackson Ward Neighborhood Association was having their annual Christmas soiree and no less than four neighbors had asked if I'd be attending. In three-plus years, I'd never been, which made for an excellent reason to finally check it out. Last year they had a band, but this year it was going to be DJ Cox and who wouldn't enjoy seeing their neighbors shake their groove things?
The party was at Club 533 on the far side of J-Ward from me and the food was provided by neighborhood caterers Sweetie Pie and Hidden Treasure. I'm guessing the association bought the booze (our association dues at work; I like that!). It was fun to see neighbors dressed for a holiday party; for some that meant fancy clothes and for others, a Santa hat did the job.
I sat down to eat with the staff of the Black History Museum (my geekdom knows no holidays)and my favorite neighbor Larry. I will be able to say that it was tonight that I discovered firsthand what a party animal my mild-mannered neighbor really is. And I can now personally attest to his superior dancing skills, something I would have never suspected despite three years of knowing him. The music was classic R & B, for the most part, and a real crowd-pleaser; nothing says happy holidays like a crowded dance floor by 6:30.
Next I headed east to Bouchon in the Slip. I've eaten there a couple of times previously, but tonight's meet-up was for the bar experience. Working my way through a full house, I met my friend at the bar in the back and was immediately impressed with the bar menu. There were plenty of interesting choices, most costing a mere $4 and the more substantial ones $12. My friend is a carb-lover and Bouchon is a carb-lover's paradise.
We each started with a bowl of the Sausage and Bean Stew, from a traditional 700-year old recipe. Three thick diagonals of sausage floated across the stew; it was the kind of dish that warms you from within. She then got the truffle mac and cheese (which comes with an anything- but-boring mixed green salad, probably intended to slightly slow the hardening of our arteries as we ate the mac) and I got the Spec Tart (from the regular menu), which I knew from a previous visit was divine. French pig, caramelized onion and creme fraiche = chewy, flavorful and satisfying.
We were sorely tempted by the sight of the slider, but refrained. But I'm not sure you should eat at a French bistro without investigating their pommes frites and they did not disappoint, being twice-fried and salted to perfection. And that kind of salty calls for sweet, so lastly, I ordered the Profiteroles with ice cream and chocolate sauce.
We met another bar-sitter, a newbie to rva after only six months, who was lamenting not knowing what goes on in this town. Did he ever run into the right person to help him with that! He requested some recommendations for the weekend and I supplied them. There I go, boosting again; somebody should just tamp me down.
I'm not sure if the word has gotten out about what a great deal Bouchon's bar menu is, but as another regular pointed out, it's an economical and incredibly tasty way to enjoy a white-tablecloth meal for a fraction of the cost. Being at the bar, which is located at the back of the restaurant, allowed us to enjoy the energy of the room while feeling like we were in a cozy out-of-the-way nook...the ideal place to carb up.
The Jackson Ward Neighborhood Association was having their annual Christmas soiree and no less than four neighbors had asked if I'd be attending. In three-plus years, I'd never been, which made for an excellent reason to finally check it out. Last year they had a band, but this year it was going to be DJ Cox and who wouldn't enjoy seeing their neighbors shake their groove things?
The party was at Club 533 on the far side of J-Ward from me and the food was provided by neighborhood caterers Sweetie Pie and Hidden Treasure. I'm guessing the association bought the booze (our association dues at work; I like that!). It was fun to see neighbors dressed for a holiday party; for some that meant fancy clothes and for others, a Santa hat did the job.
I sat down to eat with the staff of the Black History Museum (my geekdom knows no holidays)and my favorite neighbor Larry. I will be able to say that it was tonight that I discovered firsthand what a party animal my mild-mannered neighbor really is. And I can now personally attest to his superior dancing skills, something I would have never suspected despite three years of knowing him. The music was classic R & B, for the most part, and a real crowd-pleaser; nothing says happy holidays like a crowded dance floor by 6:30.
Next I headed east to Bouchon in the Slip. I've eaten there a couple of times previously, but tonight's meet-up was for the bar experience. Working my way through a full house, I met my friend at the bar in the back and was immediately impressed with the bar menu. There were plenty of interesting choices, most costing a mere $4 and the more substantial ones $12. My friend is a carb-lover and Bouchon is a carb-lover's paradise.
We each started with a bowl of the Sausage and Bean Stew, from a traditional 700-year old recipe. Three thick diagonals of sausage floated across the stew; it was the kind of dish that warms you from within. She then got the truffle mac and cheese (which comes with an anything- but-boring mixed green salad, probably intended to slightly slow the hardening of our arteries as we ate the mac) and I got the Spec Tart (from the regular menu), which I knew from a previous visit was divine. French pig, caramelized onion and creme fraiche = chewy, flavorful and satisfying.
We were sorely tempted by the sight of the slider, but refrained. But I'm not sure you should eat at a French bistro without investigating their pommes frites and they did not disappoint, being twice-fried and salted to perfection. And that kind of salty calls for sweet, so lastly, I ordered the Profiteroles with ice cream and chocolate sauce.
We met another bar-sitter, a newbie to rva after only six months, who was lamenting not knowing what goes on in this town. Did he ever run into the right person to help him with that! He requested some recommendations for the weekend and I supplied them. There I go, boosting again; somebody should just tamp me down.
I'm not sure if the word has gotten out about what a great deal Bouchon's bar menu is, but as another regular pointed out, it's an economical and incredibly tasty way to enjoy a white-tablecloth meal for a fraction of the cost. Being at the bar, which is located at the back of the restaurant, allowed us to enjoy the energy of the room while feeling like we were in a cozy out-of-the-way nook...the ideal place to carb up.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Acacia: Wine, Legs and Cheeks
Why is it that when I have no plans I hear from no one and when I do have plans, inevitably a friend suggests we get together? Is that Murphy's law of social inadequacy or something? I had plans to meet a friend for drinks at Ipanema and then meet someone else for the wine dinner at Acacia, so naturally two other friends called and asked for my company this evening.
The Ipanema stop was with a friend I haven't seen since September, so we had months to catch up on. Weddings, concerts, restaurants, we both had a lot of stories to share. Once again, I had to listen to the "why don't you have a cell phone?" rant, which is to be expected from this particular friend, addicted as he is to his Crackberry. We shared the Zucchini Fritters, which were perfectly fried and nicely seasoned while enjoying happy hour wine, possibly the best wine deal in all of rva. What I learned is that Twitter is already passe' and that my next platform of choice should be Foursquare. Duly noted, and given my extensive social calendar, I will probably do quite well on it.
The Wine/Beer dinner at Acacia offered attendees the choice of wine or beer pairings, although far fewer people chose the beer pairings apparently. We began with Frog Legs in Garlic Butter inside Crispy Potato and by "inside," it meant a Slinky-shaped crisp potato tunnel surrounding the sauce-covered legs. It was paired with 2008 Bastgen Riesling Blauschiefer, with the acidity of the wine cutting the richness of the dish beautifully.
Up next was a Seared Salmon Pave, Warm Haricot Vert Salad in Brown Butter Almond Parsley Sauce and the 2008 La Zerba Gaui Tassarola. I commented that the salad and sauce were even better than the salmon and my friend agreed.
Last up was the Beef Cheeks Braised with cocoa nibs on Lemon Risotto and the 2006 A. Jaume Lirac Rouge Clos de Sixte. Quite full from the first two courses, it didn't stop me from appreciating how this dish was a masterful pairing of the rich beef and the lemony risotto, each contrasting the other perfectly.
Our dinner reservation was for 9:00 and there was still quite a crowd when we arrived. No doubt it is because of the unusually low wine dinner price of $35 and that there is no set seating time, as was obvious with our later dinner. The wine representative, in this case Emily Papach of Kysela Pere et Fils, moved table to table to enlighten guests about the pairings. Without a set schedule for the wine dinner, guests were free to wine and dine at their own pace and not on the schedule of the kitchen. This concept clearly holds a great deal of appeal given the nearly full house.
Very full and sipping wine afterwards, my friend decided to play matchmaker for me. She stopped only when she saw my "heart jumping out of my dress," as she put it. Even as I calmed down, I had to admit that the rush of adrenaline was a powerful way to end our evening.
The Ipanema stop was with a friend I haven't seen since September, so we had months to catch up on. Weddings, concerts, restaurants, we both had a lot of stories to share. Once again, I had to listen to the "why don't you have a cell phone?" rant, which is to be expected from this particular friend, addicted as he is to his Crackberry. We shared the Zucchini Fritters, which were perfectly fried and nicely seasoned while enjoying happy hour wine, possibly the best wine deal in all of rva. What I learned is that Twitter is already passe' and that my next platform of choice should be Foursquare. Duly noted, and given my extensive social calendar, I will probably do quite well on it.
The Wine/Beer dinner at Acacia offered attendees the choice of wine or beer pairings, although far fewer people chose the beer pairings apparently. We began with Frog Legs in Garlic Butter inside Crispy Potato and by "inside," it meant a Slinky-shaped crisp potato tunnel surrounding the sauce-covered legs. It was paired with 2008 Bastgen Riesling Blauschiefer, with the acidity of the wine cutting the richness of the dish beautifully.
Up next was a Seared Salmon Pave, Warm Haricot Vert Salad in Brown Butter Almond Parsley Sauce and the 2008 La Zerba Gaui Tassarola. I commented that the salad and sauce were even better than the salmon and my friend agreed.
Last up was the Beef Cheeks Braised with cocoa nibs on Lemon Risotto and the 2006 A. Jaume Lirac Rouge Clos de Sixte. Quite full from the first two courses, it didn't stop me from appreciating how this dish was a masterful pairing of the rich beef and the lemony risotto, each contrasting the other perfectly.
Our dinner reservation was for 9:00 and there was still quite a crowd when we arrived. No doubt it is because of the unusually low wine dinner price of $35 and that there is no set seating time, as was obvious with our later dinner. The wine representative, in this case Emily Papach of Kysela Pere et Fils, moved table to table to enlighten guests about the pairings. Without a set schedule for the wine dinner, guests were free to wine and dine at their own pace and not on the schedule of the kitchen. This concept clearly holds a great deal of appeal given the nearly full house.
Very full and sipping wine afterwards, my friend decided to play matchmaker for me. She stopped only when she saw my "heart jumping out of my dress," as she put it. Even as I calmed down, I had to admit that the rush of adrenaline was a powerful way to end our evening.
What Did You Expect in Jackson Ward?
The beagle and I were out front a little after midnight when I heard a guy from halfway down the next block talking agitatedly on his phone. Of course, I only got to hear one side of the conversation, but it wasn't hard to get the gist of it.
Him:"I can't even believe you're still there. I couldn't stand it another minute."
He listens.
Him: "Cause I didn't want to be there. Why do you?"
He listens,
Him: "I'm almost to fucking Clay and Henry!"
He listens.
Him: "You've got an exam at 8 a.m.! Who cares about those people?"
He listens.
Him: "You didn't tell me the party was going to be nothing but scenesters."
He listens.
Him: "I've never seen so many fucking piercings in my life."
He listens.
Him: "I'm almost to Belvidere now."
He listens.
Him: "Fuck you."
From the shadows, the dog and I watched Hat Boy make his way down the street and safely out of J-Ward. I don't think he'll be back anytime soon and, for that, we are thankful.
Him:"I can't even believe you're still there. I couldn't stand it another minute."
He listens.
Him: "Cause I didn't want to be there. Why do you?"
He listens,
Him: "I'm almost to fucking Clay and Henry!"
He listens.
Him: "You've got an exam at 8 a.m.! Who cares about those people?"
He listens.
Him: "You didn't tell me the party was going to be nothing but scenesters."
He listens.
Him: "I've never seen so many fucking piercings in my life."
He listens.
Him: "I'm almost to Belvidere now."
He listens.
Him: "Fuck you."
From the shadows, the dog and I watched Hat Boy make his way down the street and safely out of J-Ward. I don't think he'll be back anytime soon and, for that, we are thankful.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Cute Boys and Christmas Cookies
When you get invited to a Christmas cookie exchange by a gay couple, it all but guarantees two things: that they will try to outdo each other with unusual and creative cookies (they did) and that it won't really matter what I wear since not a soul in the room will be lusting after me (they weren't). For this, I actually went west of Libbie (but not very far west), causing a friend to express surprise about my willingness to cross onto foreign soil. It was a great party, though, with beautiful decorations, a tasteful holiday soundtrack and full of of interesting people looking to chat.
There were probably at least two dozen people there at any one time, all clustered around the cookies, grazing, comparing and drinking. The libations for the festivities were gingerbread eggnog (even eggnog haters were liking it) and Peppermint Schnapps with a swirl of chocolate, usually squirted directly into the mouth following the shot. And, of course, milk for the traditionalists and beer and wine for the less daring.
I had fun watching people taste test their way around the cookie table because most people had a system: they only allowed themselves one of each kind or let themselves eat anything they wanted except their own or only try the ones that were unfamiliar. There was an iced pumpkin cookie that was like nothing else there and the ginger snaps were made with regular ginger and crystallized ginger, adding a whole deeper flavor. The chocolate-iced peanut butter brownies, made by a novice baker, were very popular. The array was astonishing: snickerdoodles, sugar cookies, peppermint cookies, snowdrops; the list is long.
At one point, two guests boasted that they'd already had three cookies each . Shoot, by then, I was at least 5 or 6 in, so I could scoff at their amateurish status. As I advised one guy after he threw up his hands and said, "That's my last one," you never want to say that out loud, because without fail, you will eat another. And he did.
Among the more colorful conversations was one about Richmond magazine preferring to photograph established drag queens rather than trainees (it says so much about their demographic, don't you think?). Another amusing one concerned a great aunt mistaking Boy Butter for actual butter on an English muffin before a last-minute save. A person just doesn't get these kind of conversations at straight parties.
But then, one doesn't usually get such a tempting and impressive selection of homemade cookies in one place, either...and not a one made with boy butter.
There were probably at least two dozen people there at any one time, all clustered around the cookies, grazing, comparing and drinking. The libations for the festivities were gingerbread eggnog (even eggnog haters were liking it) and Peppermint Schnapps with a swirl of chocolate, usually squirted directly into the mouth following the shot. And, of course, milk for the traditionalists and beer and wine for the less daring.
I had fun watching people taste test their way around the cookie table because most people had a system: they only allowed themselves one of each kind or let themselves eat anything they wanted except their own or only try the ones that were unfamiliar. There was an iced pumpkin cookie that was like nothing else there and the ginger snaps were made with regular ginger and crystallized ginger, adding a whole deeper flavor. The chocolate-iced peanut butter brownies, made by a novice baker, were very popular. The array was astonishing: snickerdoodles, sugar cookies, peppermint cookies, snowdrops; the list is long.
At one point, two guests boasted that they'd already had three cookies each . Shoot, by then, I was at least 5 or 6 in, so I could scoff at their amateurish status. As I advised one guy after he threw up his hands and said, "That's my last one," you never want to say that out loud, because without fail, you will eat another. And he did.
Among the more colorful conversations was one about Richmond magazine preferring to photograph established drag queens rather than trainees (it says so much about their demographic, don't you think?). Another amusing one concerned a great aunt mistaking Boy Butter for actual butter on an English muffin before a last-minute save. A person just doesn't get these kind of conversations at straight parties.
But then, one doesn't usually get such a tempting and impressive selection of homemade cookies in one place, either...and not a one made with boy butter.
Lunch in DC: Proof
Why drive all the way to Washington for lunch? To eat somewhere good I've never eaten before. To be entertained by a handsome man in a suit. To be reminded how different people are in my hometown than they are in my adopted city. To receive a gift of home-baked chocolate cupcakes. To laugh out loud at statements like, "Hey, I don't want her to blow up."
And then there's the little delights of driving up 95. The golden arches-yellow van, painted with "McCruelty. I'm hatin' it," and featuring a red and black Ronald with fangs and a dagger. It was a PETA van, but you had to really look to see the tiny little PETA emblem.
My restaurant of choice today was Proof in Penn Quarter because I'd read great things about the Proof Lunch. I was sorely tested by the Wagyu Steak and Cheese Sub or the Grilled Shenandoah Lamb Burger, but I already knew I had to have a salad because of my plans later this evening. And while my choice, Grilled Hanger Steak Salad with roasted corn, avocado, bacon and blue cheese over chopped Romaine, was technically a salad, it had so much thick-cut bacon in it that it really didn't need the hanger steak and doubtfully qualified as healthy or low-calorie. And since Proof has a superb cheese selection (not to mention house-made charcuterie), I had to pick a salad that featured the Bleu des Causses, a semi-soft creamy and lush blue that smeared itself all over my greens. I do <3 stinky cheese, after all.
My Biggest Fan had one of the specials, a Chinese Pork barbecue sandwich which he devoured... always a good sign. I considered the Chocolate Five Spice Cake, but instead chose the Sticky Toffee Pudding Cake with vanilla ice cream and a butterscotch sauce with spiced rum and a crumble of pistachios. The subtle undertones of the spiced rum was what distinguished this wonderfully old-fashioned desert.
Afterwards, we strolled the holiday artisan market set up next to the National Portrait Gallery, which included many jewelry artists, which appeals to me not at all since I never wear jewelry. But I did notice it had a very different feel than an artisan market in rva would have, so that made it interesting; I didn't see a single tattoo or piercing on any of the artists. How is this possible, the transplanted Richmonder wondered?
M.B.F. gave me way too much credit for making the drive up again, but it's such a pleasure to have someone to share a meal with in the city, especially since I get up there less often for weekend getaways these days.
Besides, not only does he crack me up, he tells me he thinks I'm pretty funny, too. I'm more than willing to drive a few hours to hear that.
And then there's the little delights of driving up 95. The golden arches-yellow van, painted with "McCruelty. I'm hatin' it," and featuring a red and black Ronald with fangs and a dagger. It was a PETA van, but you had to really look to see the tiny little PETA emblem.
My restaurant of choice today was Proof in Penn Quarter because I'd read great things about the Proof Lunch. I was sorely tested by the Wagyu Steak and Cheese Sub or the Grilled Shenandoah Lamb Burger, but I already knew I had to have a salad because of my plans later this evening. And while my choice, Grilled Hanger Steak Salad with roasted corn, avocado, bacon and blue cheese over chopped Romaine, was technically a salad, it had so much thick-cut bacon in it that it really didn't need the hanger steak and doubtfully qualified as healthy or low-calorie. And since Proof has a superb cheese selection (not to mention house-made charcuterie), I had to pick a salad that featured the Bleu des Causses, a semi-soft creamy and lush blue that smeared itself all over my greens. I do <3 stinky cheese, after all.
My Biggest Fan had one of the specials, a Chinese Pork barbecue sandwich which he devoured... always a good sign. I considered the Chocolate Five Spice Cake, but instead chose the Sticky Toffee Pudding Cake with vanilla ice cream and a butterscotch sauce with spiced rum and a crumble of pistachios. The subtle undertones of the spiced rum was what distinguished this wonderfully old-fashioned desert.
Afterwards, we strolled the holiday artisan market set up next to the National Portrait Gallery, which included many jewelry artists, which appeals to me not at all since I never wear jewelry. But I did notice it had a very different feel than an artisan market in rva would have, so that made it interesting; I didn't see a single tattoo or piercing on any of the artists. How is this possible, the transplanted Richmonder wondered?
M.B.F. gave me way too much credit for making the drive up again, but it's such a pleasure to have someone to share a meal with in the city, especially since I get up there less often for weekend getaways these days.
Besides, not only does he crack me up, he tells me he thinks I'm pretty funny, too. I'm more than willing to drive a few hours to hear that.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Testing Out the Bar at Balliceaux
Waitress to bartender, glancing at me and commenting on Christmas music, "I don't want to hear, like, Frank Zappa's version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." I felt her pain.
That was at Balliceaux tonight where I was pleasantly surprised to find a nearly full house on arrival. When I told the hostess I wanted to eat at the bar, she put her arm around me gratefully and practically led me there. Both times I'd been, I'd eaten at a table with a friend.No sense wasting even a two-top on a solo diner and she obviously appreciated that.
I do like the uniqueness of Balliceaux's menu choices. As I was perusing it, the pastry chef called out my name; I know him from several restaurants ago. He told me about his dessert-making and insisted that I try one and let him know what I thought. Oh sure, like I have to be asked to order dessert. He inquired as to what I was planning to eat for dinner and said any of my choices were among the best on the menu. Of course, that could just mean we have similar taste, but I allowed myself to feel flattered nonetheless.
First off, I had the Seafood Stew with rockfish, oysters, bacon and fennel; the bartender told me it was the best of the three soups only after he served it to me. I liked that it wasn't obscenely rich but had loads of flavor. I may have enjoyed the abundance of rock fish even more than the oysters.
Despite the bartender's warning that it was large, I ordered the Butter Lettuce Salad with fried Brussels Sprouts, pickled shallots and blackberries in rosemary vinaigrette. This was an unusual and excellent combination of flavors, the highlight being the fried crunch of the Brussels Sprouts leaves and the incredibly sweet and ripe blackberries. At this time of year, they are undoubtedly from south of the equator and yet they tasted like something you'd pick on a hot summer day in the south.
I was dying to try the Lamb Sausage Shortstack, but I knew if I did it would prohibit any possibility of dessert and, well, I had given my word to the pastry chef. My wine of choice this evening had been the Trentadue Old Patch Red for its black cherry and black pepper qualities, so instead I ordered another glass of that whilst deciding on a dessert.
My choice of sweet was the Mocha Torte with pine nut gelato, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The torte itself was a two-layer affair with a lighter chocolate cream between layers and a dark chocolate icing on top. Don't knock pine nut ice gelato until you've tried it. Delicious.
Just as I began my torte, a woman sat down at the bar and we recognized each other, having met at Garnett's the night they opened. Small town this is, as the bartender pointed out. We were shortly joined by Jennie from The Sweetest Thing Bakery, my favorite cupcake baker in rva. She and a friend completed our foursome at the bar, making for some exceptional shared conversations about my tights, old dogs and the inevitability of seeing the same core group of people out and about in this town. Point proven at a four-seat bar tonight.
At the end of the bar where I sat was a piece of wooden folk art with a painted figure and the words, "Peace on Earth" carved onto it. Mindlessly studying it before the other bar guests arrived, I was thinking how that simple sentiment summed up everything I could hope for this holiday season.
Well, that and a happy ending. That's all I want for Christmas.
That was at Balliceaux tonight where I was pleasantly surprised to find a nearly full house on arrival. When I told the hostess I wanted to eat at the bar, she put her arm around me gratefully and practically led me there. Both times I'd been, I'd eaten at a table with a friend.No sense wasting even a two-top on a solo diner and she obviously appreciated that.
I do like the uniqueness of Balliceaux's menu choices. As I was perusing it, the pastry chef called out my name; I know him from several restaurants ago. He told me about his dessert-making and insisted that I try one and let him know what I thought. Oh sure, like I have to be asked to order dessert. He inquired as to what I was planning to eat for dinner and said any of my choices were among the best on the menu. Of course, that could just mean we have similar taste, but I allowed myself to feel flattered nonetheless.
First off, I had the Seafood Stew with rockfish, oysters, bacon and fennel; the bartender told me it was the best of the three soups only after he served it to me. I liked that it wasn't obscenely rich but had loads of flavor. I may have enjoyed the abundance of rock fish even more than the oysters.
Despite the bartender's warning that it was large, I ordered the Butter Lettuce Salad with fried Brussels Sprouts, pickled shallots and blackberries in rosemary vinaigrette. This was an unusual and excellent combination of flavors, the highlight being the fried crunch of the Brussels Sprouts leaves and the incredibly sweet and ripe blackberries. At this time of year, they are undoubtedly from south of the equator and yet they tasted like something you'd pick on a hot summer day in the south.
I was dying to try the Lamb Sausage Shortstack, but I knew if I did it would prohibit any possibility of dessert and, well, I had given my word to the pastry chef. My wine of choice this evening had been the Trentadue Old Patch Red for its black cherry and black pepper qualities, so instead I ordered another glass of that whilst deciding on a dessert.
My choice of sweet was the Mocha Torte with pine nut gelato, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The torte itself was a two-layer affair with a lighter chocolate cream between layers and a dark chocolate icing on top. Don't knock pine nut ice gelato until you've tried it. Delicious.
Just as I began my torte, a woman sat down at the bar and we recognized each other, having met at Garnett's the night they opened. Small town this is, as the bartender pointed out. We were shortly joined by Jennie from The Sweetest Thing Bakery, my favorite cupcake baker in rva. She and a friend completed our foursome at the bar, making for some exceptional shared conversations about my tights, old dogs and the inevitability of seeing the same core group of people out and about in this town. Point proven at a four-seat bar tonight.
At the end of the bar where I sat was a piece of wooden folk art with a painted figure and the words, "Peace on Earth" carved onto it. Mindlessly studying it before the other bar guests arrived, I was thinking how that simple sentiment summed up everything I could hope for this holiday season.
Well, that and a happy ending. That's all I want for Christmas.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
All By Myself (Yet Again)
It's a good Sunday night in Richmond when two of my favorite events are happening and at staggered times so I can make it to both.
The starting point was the Firehouse Theater for Project Resolution and the monthly showing of local filmmakers' latest projects, followed by audience critique and discussion. One filmmaker showing was John Romeo, whom I'd met a couple of years ago, when he told me about his Internet show, Romeo Theater. His film tonight was "Salvage," a well-done look at one man's life as he recovers from the heartbreak of being dumped.
As a bonus, local film-making legend Lucas Krost was in the audience. His RVA 48-Hour Film fest offering, "Feels Like Drowning" was chosen to go to Cannes last year, so hearing his input on the various films shown was fascinating. And that's really the pleasure of P-Res; you never know what might be shown or who might show up.
Afterwards, I dropped my car at home and walked over to Gallery 5 for the Silent Music Revival. The film was "Menilmontant" from 1926 and the band was Fin Fang Foom from Chapel Hill. Their post-rock sound emphasized the violent and turbulent aspects of the film, whereas last year, locals Jonathan Vasser and the Speckled Bird had performed to the same film and their folky Americana sound had favored the sweeter and more touching elements of the movie.
And, really, that's the beauty of the Silent Music revival. The film is always a silent film gem, but it's the band's interpretation of an accompaniment that suggest the interpretation of it to the audience.
Walking home with another regular attendee, we agreed that the SMR is one of the best free monthly events going. He's been attending even longer than I have and that's saying something. We also noted the beginning traces of the major fog that is supposed to roll in tonight and linger into early morning; it made for a nice night for a stroll. The smell of wood-burning fires from
chimneys only made it better.
I also noted that tonight marked my third straight night of live music and everyone knows that makes me a very happy camper, all things considered.
The starting point was the Firehouse Theater for Project Resolution and the monthly showing of local filmmakers' latest projects, followed by audience critique and discussion. One filmmaker showing was John Romeo, whom I'd met a couple of years ago, when he told me about his Internet show, Romeo Theater. His film tonight was "Salvage," a well-done look at one man's life as he recovers from the heartbreak of being dumped.
As a bonus, local film-making legend Lucas Krost was in the audience. His RVA 48-Hour Film fest offering, "Feels Like Drowning" was chosen to go to Cannes last year, so hearing his input on the various films shown was fascinating. And that's really the pleasure of P-Res; you never know what might be shown or who might show up.
Afterwards, I dropped my car at home and walked over to Gallery 5 for the Silent Music Revival. The film was "Menilmontant" from 1926 and the band was Fin Fang Foom from Chapel Hill. Their post-rock sound emphasized the violent and turbulent aspects of the film, whereas last year, locals Jonathan Vasser and the Speckled Bird had performed to the same film and their folky Americana sound had favored the sweeter and more touching elements of the movie.
And, really, that's the beauty of the Silent Music revival. The film is always a silent film gem, but it's the band's interpretation of an accompaniment that suggest the interpretation of it to the audience.
Walking home with another regular attendee, we agreed that the SMR is one of the best free monthly events going. He's been attending even longer than I have and that's saying something. We also noted the beginning traces of the major fog that is supposed to roll in tonight and linger into early morning; it made for a nice night for a stroll. The smell of wood-burning fires from
chimneys only made it better.
I also noted that tonight marked my third straight night of live music and everyone knows that makes me a very happy camper, all things considered.
Cozy Can-Can Conversation
I'm not exactly sure when all this rain began. I know it wasn't raining when I left for Gallery 5 around 10:15 last night but the first thing I noticed upon leaving the show around 1:15 was the sound of pelting rain/ice balls hitting the sidewalk and porches as I walked home, so I'm guessing somewhere in the midnight range. Today's continuing wetness might have kept some people in, but I wasn't one of them.
I had plans to meet an old Floyd Avenue neighbor at Can-Can this afternoon, where today's downpour hadn't stopped flocks of people from heading to Carytown. The restaurant was doing a bustling business when I arrived mid-afternoon, making for a cozy atmosphere to escape the rain and enjoy some conversation and a beverage.
I couldn't resist ordering a hot chocolate, not because I'd had it there before, but because a French brasserie ought to make a good one. The bartender's first question (small or large?) was a good indication of things to come. Why get a small amount of chocolate when you can get a large? The plus-sized coffee cup arrived looking like a dessert from the chocolate gods.
Made from chocolate ganache (dark chocolate and heavy cream) and covered in whipped cream, this cup of heaven may as well have been a dessert. Thick and creamy, decadently rich and chocolaty, it was the best rainy day drink I could have imagined, much less ordered. And with such a large serving, I was able to savor it for a good long while. By the time I got near the end of the cup, the chocolate concentration was so heavy as to be syrup-like. Oh my.
My former neighbor is about as big an rva booster as I am, and I thoroughly enjoyed our chat about all the great stuff that goes on in this town. We compared notes about shows we'd both seen at the National as well as some of our dorkier, but no less interesting, outings. And, of course, he updated me on my former 'hood, where he still lives.
I don't think I've had a cup of hot chocolate in a decade and I now realize what an oversight on my part that was. As we head into the colder months, I may have to introduce a friend or two to my latest liquid find. Should they find it a bit rich for their taste, I could probably finish it off for them without any problem.
I had plans to meet an old Floyd Avenue neighbor at Can-Can this afternoon, where today's downpour hadn't stopped flocks of people from heading to Carytown. The restaurant was doing a bustling business when I arrived mid-afternoon, making for a cozy atmosphere to escape the rain and enjoy some conversation and a beverage.
I couldn't resist ordering a hot chocolate, not because I'd had it there before, but because a French brasserie ought to make a good one. The bartender's first question (small or large?) was a good indication of things to come. Why get a small amount of chocolate when you can get a large? The plus-sized coffee cup arrived looking like a dessert from the chocolate gods.
Made from chocolate ganache (dark chocolate and heavy cream) and covered in whipped cream, this cup of heaven may as well have been a dessert. Thick and creamy, decadently rich and chocolaty, it was the best rainy day drink I could have imagined, much less ordered. And with such a large serving, I was able to savor it for a good long while. By the time I got near the end of the cup, the chocolate concentration was so heavy as to be syrup-like. Oh my.
My former neighbor is about as big an rva booster as I am, and I thoroughly enjoyed our chat about all the great stuff that goes on in this town. We compared notes about shows we'd both seen at the National as well as some of our dorkier, but no less interesting, outings. And, of course, he updated me on my former 'hood, where he still lives.
I don't think I've had a cup of hot chocolate in a decade and I now realize what an oversight on my part that was. As we head into the colder months, I may have to introduce a friend or two to my latest liquid find. Should they find it a bit rich for their taste, I could probably finish it off for them without any problem.
Farewell Prabir & the Substitutes
The Ghost of Pop materialized at Gallery 5 tonight, a cold December night.
For the fifth year, an assemblage of musicians gathered to celebrate the best in RVA popdom, except that this year there was a difference. It was the final show for Prabir and the Substitutes, those carriers of the local pop banner and masters of the hipster haircuts.
Let's just say they went out in a blaze of glory.
As the band themselves expressed, it was a bittersweet performance, ending a successful four-year collaboration. Prabir lightened things a bit by reading an e-mail from a long-time Harrisonburg fan who copped to being so drunk and stoned at a show at the Dog House that he took a dump in the trashcan in the back. At the time, Rob the bass player had commented that, "this place smells like shit." Once and for all, that mystery has been solved.
The band played everything from the first song they ever wrote together right up to their instant recent classic, "Everybody's Got Someone to Fuck But Me."
By the fourth song, David Shultz and the Skyline were on stage, singing, throwing balloons, shooting Silly String and popping confetti onto the band. The tone for the evening was set.
Prabir read one other e-mail, from the band Dr. Dog, thanking him for having brought them to RVA and bemoaning the breakup. Again with the bittersweet, but it was tough to avoid given that the band's first and final shows were at Gallery 5.
The final song brought about the slam-bang finish the rapt audience was hoping for; the keyboard was ignited, guitars were lit and smashed, all as the band wound down.
With the flames lighting up the stage, the band started hugging and getting sentimental with one other, as well they should after such a superb run. Undoubtedly, local music fans will look forward to seeing what these guys do next.
And, note to Prabir: I should be the one singing "Everybody's Got Someone."
For the fifth year, an assemblage of musicians gathered to celebrate the best in RVA popdom, except that this year there was a difference. It was the final show for Prabir and the Substitutes, those carriers of the local pop banner and masters of the hipster haircuts.
Let's just say they went out in a blaze of glory.
As the band themselves expressed, it was a bittersweet performance, ending a successful four-year collaboration. Prabir lightened things a bit by reading an e-mail from a long-time Harrisonburg fan who copped to being so drunk and stoned at a show at the Dog House that he took a dump in the trashcan in the back. At the time, Rob the bass player had commented that, "this place smells like shit." Once and for all, that mystery has been solved.
The band played everything from the first song they ever wrote together right up to their instant recent classic, "Everybody's Got Someone to Fuck But Me."
By the fourth song, David Shultz and the Skyline were on stage, singing, throwing balloons, shooting Silly String and popping confetti onto the band. The tone for the evening was set.
Prabir read one other e-mail, from the band Dr. Dog, thanking him for having brought them to RVA and bemoaning the breakup. Again with the bittersweet, but it was tough to avoid given that the band's first and final shows were at Gallery 5.
The final song brought about the slam-bang finish the rapt audience was hoping for; the keyboard was ignited, guitars were lit and smashed, all as the band wound down.
With the flames lighting up the stage, the band started hugging and getting sentimental with one other, as well they should after such a superb run. Undoubtedly, local music fans will look forward to seeing what these guys do next.
And, note to Prabir: I should be the one singing "Everybody's Got Someone."
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Maybe This Christmas
I already knew that this was going to be a weird holiday season for me, for reasons big and small. It'll be my first Christmas since all the seismic personal changes that happened to me in 2009. As a result, I'm not looking forward to my usual holiday traditions because I know they'll just serve as reminders of what I'm missing in my life these days (the same thing that happened during my annual fortnight at the beach this summer). But what's a girl to do?
So, feeling half holiday and half hopeless, I went to get my Christmas tree today. Last year I discovered a tree lot on Chamberlayne Avenue with a good selection and decent prices, so I went back this year. Actually, just being surrounded by all those trees and inhaling that wonderful pine and fir scent lifted my holiday spirits some. A couple of the guys working the lot offered to assist me, but they were both smokers carrying a tobacco cloud around themselves and that didn't seem too appealing, so I declined. If they were smart, they'd use the profits from tree sales to invest in some nicotine patches; cigarettes and rapidly drying out trees don't seem like the best combination.
The good news is I found a well-shaped White Pine that is already perfuming my apartment; now I just need to decorate it before I have friends over next week. Another plus is that since recovering from pneumonia, I no longer concern myself with what I eat or how much I drink, so overindulging at holiday parties and drinking too much dark rum-soaked eggnog will be new pleasures for me. And fortunately I was never big into the gift thing, so I won't feel any loss there.
No, what I'll most likely feel this holiday season is all the same emotions I've been dealing with most of this year, except with a pine scent, a festive soundtrack and more to drink. Maybe this is why some people hate the holidays. But not me; I'm going to do my best to have a holly, jolly Christmas. Just don't scratch my holiday surface too deeply or you might discover the truth.
So, feeling half holiday and half hopeless, I went to get my Christmas tree today. Last year I discovered a tree lot on Chamberlayne Avenue with a good selection and decent prices, so I went back this year. Actually, just being surrounded by all those trees and inhaling that wonderful pine and fir scent lifted my holiday spirits some. A couple of the guys working the lot offered to assist me, but they were both smokers carrying a tobacco cloud around themselves and that didn't seem too appealing, so I declined. If they were smart, they'd use the profits from tree sales to invest in some nicotine patches; cigarettes and rapidly drying out trees don't seem like the best combination.
The good news is I found a well-shaped White Pine that is already perfuming my apartment; now I just need to decorate it before I have friends over next week. Another plus is that since recovering from pneumonia, I no longer concern myself with what I eat or how much I drink, so overindulging at holiday parties and drinking too much dark rum-soaked eggnog will be new pleasures for me. And fortunately I was never big into the gift thing, so I won't feel any loss there.
No, what I'll most likely feel this holiday season is all the same emotions I've been dealing with most of this year, except with a pine scent, a festive soundtrack and more to drink. Maybe this is why some people hate the holidays. But not me; I'm going to do my best to have a holly, jolly Christmas. Just don't scratch my holiday surface too deeply or you might discover the truth.
Fanfarlo at the Iota Club: Amazing
My dear Fanfarlo, despite having enthusiastically introduced you to no less than five music-loving friends, no one fell hard for you like I did. I don't pretend to understand it, but it's their loss. I became your devoted servant in June when you offered up your phenomenal first album "Reservoir" for $1.00 until July 4th. I downloaded it, couldn't find a bad or weak song and put it on repeat for an embarrassing amount of time. So you can imagine my excitement when I learned only last weekend that you'd be playing the Iota Club tonight.
As for you, Iota, what's with the no advance ticket sales? If I'd driven the two hours to Arlington only to be turned away at the door, I think I would have cried or thrown a bit of a temper tantrum. Instead, I just arrived early, ate (flank steak over mixed greens with pears, candied walnuts and gorgonzola) and drank (Kluge Estate Simply Red) at the cafe and got my hand stamped before the line outside fully formed. The club was small; according to the bartender, it holds, "like a hundred people" although I also heard a guy behind me say he was officially number 184 and then they started turning people away. I was four people from the stage, so I thought its size was perfect.
Openers Freelance Whales with their dreamy pop and multitude of instruments were clearly chosen to complement Fanfarlo, playing, among others, harmonium, glockenspiel and banjo. Their use of multiple vocals, male and female, set the tone for the evening.
And then there was Fanfarlo, in beautiful voice and playing mandolins, clarinets, trumpets and, not to be outdone, glockenspiel. Their songs build rhythmically, symphonically and with enough melancholy for the entire audience to wallow in. And it was an audience who knew most of the words.
And those lyrics! After downloading the CD, I used their songs lyrics for blog post titles for months (among the many: Awake and Barely on My Feet, The Here and Now is Coming Round, Waiting for the Signal, Up on the Roof Again, Can You Hear the Beat, It's How I'll Know- It's Where I'll Go) just because the songs had earwormed themselves into my head and I needed to share. Of course, no one reading my blog would have ever recognized Fanfarlo lyrics in blog titles, except me.
I found a talkative music lover to share the show with. He lives two blocks from the Iota and hadn't even heard of the band before he saw their name on the schedule. He went online to check them out, was completely sold and there he was at the show, amazed that I'd known of them since June.
I had mentioned this show to a couple of people, hoping to find someone to accompany me; no one was interested. At the show tonight, my new music-lover friend agreed that, down the road, when the masses have caught on to Fanfarlo, this early career show for 100+ people will be the envy of all our music geek friends.
Too bad for them. They were asked.
As for you, Iota, what's with the no advance ticket sales? If I'd driven the two hours to Arlington only to be turned away at the door, I think I would have cried or thrown a bit of a temper tantrum. Instead, I just arrived early, ate (flank steak over mixed greens with pears, candied walnuts and gorgonzola) and drank (Kluge Estate Simply Red) at the cafe and got my hand stamped before the line outside fully formed. The club was small; according to the bartender, it holds, "like a hundred people" although I also heard a guy behind me say he was officially number 184 and then they started turning people away. I was four people from the stage, so I thought its size was perfect.
Openers Freelance Whales with their dreamy pop and multitude of instruments were clearly chosen to complement Fanfarlo, playing, among others, harmonium, glockenspiel and banjo. Their use of multiple vocals, male and female, set the tone for the evening.
And then there was Fanfarlo, in beautiful voice and playing mandolins, clarinets, trumpets and, not to be outdone, glockenspiel. Their songs build rhythmically, symphonically and with enough melancholy for the entire audience to wallow in. And it was an audience who knew most of the words.
And those lyrics! After downloading the CD, I used their songs lyrics for blog post titles for months (among the many: Awake and Barely on My Feet, The Here and Now is Coming Round, Waiting for the Signal, Up on the Roof Again, Can You Hear the Beat, It's How I'll Know- It's Where I'll Go) just because the songs had earwormed themselves into my head and I needed to share. Of course, no one reading my blog would have ever recognized Fanfarlo lyrics in blog titles, except me.
I found a talkative music lover to share the show with. He lives two blocks from the Iota and hadn't even heard of the band before he saw their name on the schedule. He went online to check them out, was completely sold and there he was at the show, amazed that I'd known of them since June.
I had mentioned this show to a couple of people, hoping to find someone to accompany me; no one was interested. At the show tonight, my new music-lover friend agreed that, down the road, when the masses have caught on to Fanfarlo, this early career show for 100+ people will be the envy of all our music geek friends.
Too bad for them. They were asked.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Highs & Lows: Of Butterbeans & Carols
Perhaps you've gathered from my blog that I'm not much into organized religion...or perhaps you haven't. In either case, let's just say I'm not. Which is not to imply that I totally disdain certain holidays (I don't) but that I may experience some things differently than other people do. The sounds of the season are a perfect example.
I've always enjoyed Christmas music for the most part. Not played all day long and not the embarrassing stuff, but some classic and some newer reinterpreted holiday music is fine. But for some reason, this year I am finding myself offended by hearing religious Christmas songs everywhere I go. A friend and I were in Barnes & Noble the other day when "O Come All Ye Faithful" came on. I know it's an old Christmas carol, but do I really want to hear a song about Jesus or Christ or anything pertaining to a specific religion while I'm looking for magazines? No, actually I don't.
Tonight I was meeting M.H.F. at Rowland for dinner and there, too, I heard Christian carols. Jingle Bells? Okay. I'll be Home for Christmas? Sure. Hark, the Herald Angels Sing? Not so much.
Luckily, Pandora soon made an appearance (although the starting point was Jack Johnson, for whom I have a particular distaste, but many of the singer-songwriter types who followed were stellar). I was relieved to hear the religious songs replaced with music that had no references to saviors or glory. If that makes me a heathen, well, then my grandmother was right (although I still think she was wrong about pink eyeshadow).
I started my meal with the Butterbean Cake with cucumber, grape tomato, feta, avocado, salsa and spicy cilantro oil. I have had this unusual and delicious appetizer before, but not since a dark night in February, so I really savored having it after so long a time. I love my butterbeans and this cake is unlike anything else done with them around here.
Dinner was surf and turf, that is to say I got the Country Style Pork Ribs with BBQ glaze and butternut hash and M.H.F. got the fish special, flounder stuffed with crab meat. There was a lot of sharing going on so that we could both enjoy such diverse dishes. Both were too big to finish, especially for anyone ordering the Chocolate Hazelnut Torte. Wait, didn't I just have chocolate pie for lunch? Why, yes, I did, but that had been ten hours ago.
I'm not begrudging anyone their Christmas carols at home or a party, but let's not share them with shoppers and diners. I feel certain that we'd never allow the sacred music of other religions to be played in general public spaces (well, there's Adam Sandler's Chanukkah song, but that's hardly about the Jews running out of oil).
But a little Vince Guaraldi never hurt (or offended) anybody.
I've always enjoyed Christmas music for the most part. Not played all day long and not the embarrassing stuff, but some classic and some newer reinterpreted holiday music is fine. But for some reason, this year I am finding myself offended by hearing religious Christmas songs everywhere I go. A friend and I were in Barnes & Noble the other day when "O Come All Ye Faithful" came on. I know it's an old Christmas carol, but do I really want to hear a song about Jesus or Christ or anything pertaining to a specific religion while I'm looking for magazines? No, actually I don't.
Tonight I was meeting M.H.F. at Rowland for dinner and there, too, I heard Christian carols. Jingle Bells? Okay. I'll be Home for Christmas? Sure. Hark, the Herald Angels Sing? Not so much.
Luckily, Pandora soon made an appearance (although the starting point was Jack Johnson, for whom I have a particular distaste, but many of the singer-songwriter types who followed were stellar). I was relieved to hear the religious songs replaced with music that had no references to saviors or glory. If that makes me a heathen, well, then my grandmother was right (although I still think she was wrong about pink eyeshadow).
I started my meal with the Butterbean Cake with cucumber, grape tomato, feta, avocado, salsa and spicy cilantro oil. I have had this unusual and delicious appetizer before, but not since a dark night in February, so I really savored having it after so long a time. I love my butterbeans and this cake is unlike anything else done with them around here.
Dinner was surf and turf, that is to say I got the Country Style Pork Ribs with BBQ glaze and butternut hash and M.H.F. got the fish special, flounder stuffed with crab meat. There was a lot of sharing going on so that we could both enjoy such diverse dishes. Both were too big to finish, especially for anyone ordering the Chocolate Hazelnut Torte. Wait, didn't I just have chocolate pie for lunch? Why, yes, I did, but that had been ten hours ago.
I'm not begrudging anyone their Christmas carols at home or a party, but let's not share them with shoppers and diners. I feel certain that we'd never allow the sacred music of other religions to be played in general public spaces (well, there's Adam Sandler's Chanukkah song, but that's hardly about the Jews running out of oil).
But a little Vince Guaraldi never hurt (or offended) anybody.
Happy Birthday, Andrew!
Today was Andrew's birthday, so we made plans to have lunch together, and his choice was Garnett's, which suited me just fine.
I come from a family where birthdays were a big deal so I'm happy to help my friends celebrate their big days in any way I can.
I hadn't sent him a Facebook Happy Birthday message and I'm glad I hadn't.
The first thing he mentioned was that he'd gotten happy birthdays from all kinds of people he never sees or hasn't seen in years (you know, the meaningless kind of birthday wishes).
I did arrive with a card, a funny one, which I had doctored with thought balloons thinking inappropriate and sex-focused thoughts, which satisfyingly made him laugh out loud.
His next question was, "Where are my birthday cookies?"
Seems that since I'd made him cookies the past two birthdays, he was expecting them this year, too.
But we've got a cookie extravaganza coming up Tuesday, he and I and twenty others, so I told him he'd have to wait for his cookies.
That and I've been dead busy every day and night this week.
He had the Louisville Hot Brown on my recommendation and I tried today's special, a turkey and bacon club with Swiss on whole wheat.
It was nicely done because, unlike most club sandwiches, it had only two pieces of bread and while they were thick cut, it was still less bread filler, which I appreciated.
Birthdays require dessert so we shared the Chocolate Pecan Pie, a dessert that always invokes a closed-eye swoon response from anyone (including myself) whom I've ever seen eating it and with good reason.
Warm and gooey and definitely birthday-worthy, it was every bit as good as the last three (or is it four?) times I've had it.
And it's a mere four bucks, just so you know.
Andrew started his birthday celebration at midnight last night at Balliceaux with further plans to celebrate tonight.
We're on the same page with that because I like to drag out my birthday for as long as I possibly can.
Andrew's even got someone cute and charming to drag it out with, so if he's smart, he'll make it an entire birthday weekend extravaganza.
I know I would given half a chance.
Just watch me come next May.
I come from a family where birthdays were a big deal so I'm happy to help my friends celebrate their big days in any way I can.
I hadn't sent him a Facebook Happy Birthday message and I'm glad I hadn't.
The first thing he mentioned was that he'd gotten happy birthdays from all kinds of people he never sees or hasn't seen in years (you know, the meaningless kind of birthday wishes).
I did arrive with a card, a funny one, which I had doctored with thought balloons thinking inappropriate and sex-focused thoughts, which satisfyingly made him laugh out loud.
His next question was, "Where are my birthday cookies?"
Seems that since I'd made him cookies the past two birthdays, he was expecting them this year, too.
But we've got a cookie extravaganza coming up Tuesday, he and I and twenty others, so I told him he'd have to wait for his cookies.
That and I've been dead busy every day and night this week.
He had the Louisville Hot Brown on my recommendation and I tried today's special, a turkey and bacon club with Swiss on whole wheat.
It was nicely done because, unlike most club sandwiches, it had only two pieces of bread and while they were thick cut, it was still less bread filler, which I appreciated.
Birthdays require dessert so we shared the Chocolate Pecan Pie, a dessert that always invokes a closed-eye swoon response from anyone (including myself) whom I've ever seen eating it and with good reason.
Warm and gooey and definitely birthday-worthy, it was every bit as good as the last three (or is it four?) times I've had it.
And it's a mere four bucks, just so you know.
Andrew started his birthday celebration at midnight last night at Balliceaux with further plans to celebrate tonight.
We're on the same page with that because I like to drag out my birthday for as long as I possibly can.
Andrew's even got someone cute and charming to drag it out with, so if he's smart, he'll make it an entire birthday weekend extravaganza.
I know I would given half a chance.
Just watch me come next May.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Recession Dinner at Bin 22
There are many things one can do to assuage loss; eating and drinking have got to be two of the most common. That may explain how my recently laid-off friend and I found ourselves at Bin 22 this evening for their cheap date night. We even held hands while we placed our order to convince our waitress we were in the mood for a romantic dinner for two; okay, we cracked up all the while, but we made the attempt.
I'm sure you know the deal; for $40 you get a bottle of wine (Entrada Cabernet Sauvignon), a choice of soup or salad (we took the mixed green salad), pasta (we had the penne with chunky house made tomato sauce, basil , Pecorino and thick-sliced Belmont Butchery pork sausage. Oh, my god, such amazing pig!) and, for dessert, the ice cream sandwich made with brownies. The meal was truly lovely from start to finish, but that sausage was to die for and we found our Argentinian wine to be exactly what our red wine-starved hearts were calling for.
As a veteran of laid off longevity, it was my mission to convince my recently unemployed friend that life will go on despite her current feelings to the contrary. She's still working through anger and fear of the future, two obstacles I worked through months ago. She's got plenty of marketable skills, so I have high hopes for her re-employment, but she's understandably a bit less confident.
On top of all that, there are, of course, male issues so I offered my take on that side of her life, as she did mine. I'm a great example of "come on, how much worse can things get?" so reminding her to keep a stiff upper lip was second nature. On the plus side, discussing the mess that our lives are provided the evening's entertainment and there's a lot to be said for laughing in the face of adversity while Elvis Costello plays in the background.
Not to mention, a great deal of a meal for those of us on laid-off budgets. Bin 22 provided a hearty dinner we could afford without feeling like we were settling for the sake of saving. I would think even the employed could get into that.
I'm sure you know the deal; for $40 you get a bottle of wine (Entrada Cabernet Sauvignon), a choice of soup or salad (we took the mixed green salad), pasta (we had the penne with chunky house made tomato sauce, basil , Pecorino and thick-sliced Belmont Butchery pork sausage. Oh, my god, such amazing pig!) and, for dessert, the ice cream sandwich made with brownies. The meal was truly lovely from start to finish, but that sausage was to die for and we found our Argentinian wine to be exactly what our red wine-starved hearts were calling for.
As a veteran of laid off longevity, it was my mission to convince my recently unemployed friend that life will go on despite her current feelings to the contrary. She's still working through anger and fear of the future, two obstacles I worked through months ago. She's got plenty of marketable skills, so I have high hopes for her re-employment, but she's understandably a bit less confident.
On top of all that, there are, of course, male issues so I offered my take on that side of her life, as she did mine. I'm a great example of "come on, how much worse can things get?" so reminding her to keep a stiff upper lip was second nature. On the plus side, discussing the mess that our lives are provided the evening's entertainment and there's a lot to be said for laughing in the face of adversity while Elvis Costello plays in the background.
Not to mention, a great deal of a meal for those of us on laid-off budgets. Bin 22 provided a hearty dinner we could afford without feeling like we were settling for the sake of saving. I would think even the employed could get into that.
Bedroom as Art
I'm always been intrigued by how the twentieth century brought about a public discussion of what constitutes art.
Marcel Duchamp's "ready-mades" pretty much established that art takes many everyday forms; his display of a urinal he dubbed "Fountain" forever changed the popular perception of art.
The VMFA has acquired an 1880s bedroom which might well fit into that expanded definition of art.
The elaborate Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom contains seventy objects, including a massive chandelier, a rug that repeats the pattern of the ceiling. a Turkish niche for seating and the repeated use of ebonized wood.
It is the bedroom of a long bygone era.
It is the kind of detail-filled room that would take some time to fully take in.
At today's lecture at the VMFA, the focus was on the remarkable woman whose rags to riches story began in RVA, namely Arabella Worsham.
Her slow rise after the Civil War from a fatherless child to the owner of the magnificent Italianate house on W. 54th Street in NYC and the accompanying high-profile relationships, would have been fascinating even if she had not taken on the creation of a house interior that was, without a doubt, a work of art.
The lecture explored how the VMFA came to receive the bedroom from the Museum of the City of New York.
Because Arabella was originally a Richmond girl, there was a compelling reason to move the bedroom here once the MOTCONY could no longer accommodate it.
Fortunately, when the negotiations began, VMFA's renovation was not so far along that they couldn't plan for inclusion of the bedroom.
When the VMFA reopens (finally!) in May, one of the new masterpieces on view will be the Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom.
Neither Duchamp nor I would question its merit as art.
Marcel Duchamp's "ready-mades" pretty much established that art takes many everyday forms; his display of a urinal he dubbed "Fountain" forever changed the popular perception of art.
The VMFA has acquired an 1880s bedroom which might well fit into that expanded definition of art.
The elaborate Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom contains seventy objects, including a massive chandelier, a rug that repeats the pattern of the ceiling. a Turkish niche for seating and the repeated use of ebonized wood.
It is the bedroom of a long bygone era.
It is the kind of detail-filled room that would take some time to fully take in.
At today's lecture at the VMFA, the focus was on the remarkable woman whose rags to riches story began in RVA, namely Arabella Worsham.
Her slow rise after the Civil War from a fatherless child to the owner of the magnificent Italianate house on W. 54th Street in NYC and the accompanying high-profile relationships, would have been fascinating even if she had not taken on the creation of a house interior that was, without a doubt, a work of art.
The lecture explored how the VMFA came to receive the bedroom from the Museum of the City of New York.
Because Arabella was originally a Richmond girl, there was a compelling reason to move the bedroom here once the MOTCONY could no longer accommodate it.
Fortunately, when the negotiations began, VMFA's renovation was not so far along that they couldn't plan for inclusion of the bedroom.
When the VMFA reopens (finally!) in May, one of the new masterpieces on view will be the Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom.
Neither Duchamp nor I would question its merit as art.
Whose Legs Are Those Anyhow?
I understand that we don't see ourselves as others do.
Intellectually, I get that a two-dimensional image in a mirror bears limited resemblance to a three-dimensional image in space. And yet my reaction when I saw the results of my recent profile shoot with my very talented photographer friend, Thomas was, do I know those legs?
I am especially familiar with this syndrome because of all the years I worked as an audio and video producer. Inevitably, people would react with horror when they first heard/saw their voice/self recorded; part of my job was to reassure them.
So I should have known better.
I looked at the photo he sent me with limited recognition. Oh, sure, the Berlin tights are mine; who else would wear them?
But those calves? I had no idea. And that vague hint of athleticism which I know for a fact doesn't exist in real life?
Not really there.
Seems I need an entire mental adjustment about what I'm walking around on. That said, I do think it's a great picture
I'll just have to deal with my acceptance issues.
Intellectually, I get that a two-dimensional image in a mirror bears limited resemblance to a three-dimensional image in space. And yet my reaction when I saw the results of my recent profile shoot with my very talented photographer friend, Thomas was, do I know those legs?
I am especially familiar with this syndrome because of all the years I worked as an audio and video producer. Inevitably, people would react with horror when they first heard/saw their voice/self recorded; part of my job was to reassure them.
So I should have known better.
I looked at the photo he sent me with limited recognition. Oh, sure, the Berlin tights are mine; who else would wear them?
But those calves? I had no idea. And that vague hint of athleticism which I know for a fact doesn't exist in real life?
Not really there.
Seems I need an entire mental adjustment about what I'm walking around on. That said, I do think it's a great picture
I'll just have to deal with my acceptance issues.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Bit Spotty at Six Burner
My head has been in turmoil lately and it's manifested itself with a lovely teenage-like break-out or, as my Scottish friend would say, "A bit spotty, aren't we?" Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am (of course, as another friend pointed out, it could just be the absence of a sex life). I figured it would help to share what's been on my mind and solicit an opinion from a good friend and expert in the "WTF?" school of life.
So while a good portion of RVA was apparently staying warm and dry at home, we met up at Six Burner to clear up my face. I'd warned her that my emotional state had both great and tragic roots, a statement to which she concurred after hearing it all. Given the circumstances, it was fortuitous that it was half-priced wine night (French Malbec, that's all you need to know).
We shared the black plums, arugula, goat cheese, candied spicy cashews with balsamic vinaigrette salad and were treated to not baby arugula, but big, bold, peppery leaves that asserted their flavor beautifully, but not delicately. Then, too, I could have eaten a bowl of those sweet and spicy cashews if they'd been offered to me.
What balances the healthiness of greens and fruit but house made charcuterie? We had salami toscano and gentile, prosciutto and lardo. Sliced thinly, but with that wonderful combination of fat and salt that caused us to swoon with every bite, we reveled in our meat treat. As my saga unfolded, I was gratified to hear that my take on things wasn't skewed at all and while it probably won't clear up my skin anytime soon, I now at least feel like I've released some of the tension I was feeling by having an empathetic ear.
The final necessary piece of the puzzle tonight was the red velvet cupcake with hazelnut and chocolate sauce. Tonight's version was particularly statuesque due to the cupcake being a bit shorter than usual; as a result, mine was actually two cupcakes, each split in two for four layers of red velvetness.
I could almost feel my equilibrium being restored after sharing such good victuals and conversation with the Queen of WTF? What happens with my face remains to be seen.
So while a good portion of RVA was apparently staying warm and dry at home, we met up at Six Burner to clear up my face. I'd warned her that my emotional state had both great and tragic roots, a statement to which she concurred after hearing it all. Given the circumstances, it was fortuitous that it was half-priced wine night (French Malbec, that's all you need to know).
We shared the black plums, arugula, goat cheese, candied spicy cashews with balsamic vinaigrette salad and were treated to not baby arugula, but big, bold, peppery leaves that asserted their flavor beautifully, but not delicately. Then, too, I could have eaten a bowl of those sweet and spicy cashews if they'd been offered to me.
What balances the healthiness of greens and fruit but house made charcuterie? We had salami toscano and gentile, prosciutto and lardo. Sliced thinly, but with that wonderful combination of fat and salt that caused us to swoon with every bite, we reveled in our meat treat. As my saga unfolded, I was gratified to hear that my take on things wasn't skewed at all and while it probably won't clear up my skin anytime soon, I now at least feel like I've released some of the tension I was feeling by having an empathetic ear.
The final necessary piece of the puzzle tonight was the red velvet cupcake with hazelnut and chocolate sauce. Tonight's version was particularly statuesque due to the cupcake being a bit shorter than usual; as a result, mine was actually two cupcakes, each split in two for four layers of red velvetness.
I could almost feel my equilibrium being restored after sharing such good victuals and conversation with the Queen of WTF? What happens with my face remains to be seen.
Getting Intimate and Fresh at Momotaro Sushi
A friend of mine is a big sushi fan and always interested in trying new places, so he frequently calls me up when he wants a dining partner. Last night, our destination was Momotaro Sushi at the end of Carytown after a couple of his friends had recommended it highly to him. I hadn't even realized the place was there, tucked into a tiny space just before the Boulevard. It was Monday night, so there was only one other couple in there, but the atmospheric music set the tone the minute we walked in.
Cliched as it is, we started with the steamed dumplings, which were small, but well done. I went on to the Garden of the Sea, an array of thin- sliced shrimp, crab and salmon over seaweed salad and lettuce with a Japanese vinaigrette. It was a a lot like having sushi made with seaweed instead of rice, delicate and fresh. My friend went with the Nigiri Starter: a chef's choice of tuna, tilapia, salmon, crab, tamago with a half dozen spicy tuna rolls. I'd have to say it was the freshest tasting Japanese food I've had in Richmond; the fish was of such a high quality.
And speaking of fish, why are there so often fish tanks in places like this? Do I want to watch brightly colored fish swimming around as I devour their brethren? Not really. Other than that, though, the place had a nice ambiance and the bamboo shade between us and the sushi chef provided a nice sense of privacy as we ate and talked.
We lingered for a while over green tea and sake, discussing some mutual friends and their recent lapses in judgment. He's also got another friend in the process of destroying his own life, a depressing saga to hear updated. As bad as things have been for me, I am frequently reminded that many people have dug themselves a far deeper hole than I can even imagine.
Momotaro may be at the end of Carytown, but it's at the top of my list of sushi places I'd recommend to friends. It could be that good things coming in small packages business.
Cliched as it is, we started with the steamed dumplings, which were small, but well done. I went on to the Garden of the Sea, an array of thin- sliced shrimp, crab and salmon over seaweed salad and lettuce with a Japanese vinaigrette. It was a a lot like having sushi made with seaweed instead of rice, delicate and fresh. My friend went with the Nigiri Starter: a chef's choice of tuna, tilapia, salmon, crab, tamago with a half dozen spicy tuna rolls. I'd have to say it was the freshest tasting Japanese food I've had in Richmond; the fish was of such a high quality.
And speaking of fish, why are there so often fish tanks in places like this? Do I want to watch brightly colored fish swimming around as I devour their brethren? Not really. Other than that, though, the place had a nice ambiance and the bamboo shade between us and the sushi chef provided a nice sense of privacy as we ate and talked.
We lingered for a while over green tea and sake, discussing some mutual friends and their recent lapses in judgment. He's also got another friend in the process of destroying his own life, a depressing saga to hear updated. As bad as things have been for me, I am frequently reminded that many people have dug themselves a far deeper hole than I can even imagine.
Momotaro may be at the end of Carytown, but it's at the top of my list of sushi places I'd recommend to friends. It could be that good things coming in small packages business.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Shooting Below the Belt
A few weeks ago, a blogging friend wrote and told me straight up that I needed a new profile picture and who better to take it than him?
When he's not teaching English to the masses, he is quite the talented photographer, so naturally I took him up on his generous offer.
He already had a concept in mind, one of his strengths being art direction, so we made arrangements to meet at the library and discreetly shoot.
It didn't really matter how big of a hot mess I looked, because the plan was to shoot low, and by that I mean my lower extremities.
Accordingly, I rummaged through my better than average tights collection to find just the thing for my new profile pic and decided on the Berlin tights.
They're funky, they're attention-getters and they're not something a person sees every day in RVA.
How do I know this?
I left the apartment to go to the library and as I crossed my own street, a guy on a bike said hello, followed by, "I LIKE your tights!...A lot!"
Arriving at the library two guys just leaving turned a full 180 degrees as I passed them on my way towards the door.
I couldn't resist turning around and flat out asking them, "It's the tights you're looking at, isn't it?"
One mutely nodded and the other just gave me a goofy grin.
After shooting, we went to Tarrant's for fried food, a requirement of our get-togethers; we quite happily shared fries and fish tacos, dishing all the while.
We were in that limbo time before the dinner rush begins, affording us an opportunity to bounce off the staff.
Our server explained to us why Rhode Island, her home state, is called the Ocean State.
Ron folded napkins like a pro and quoted lines from the movie "Arthur" to our amusement.
We both made a pilgrimage to the other dining room to admire the new carpeting and inhale its new rug smell.
As we were leaving, my friend asked Ron the Napkin-Folder why he hadn't commented on my great tights.
"I didn't want to say something filthy," he claimed.
Or maybe he's just waiting for the picture.
When he's not teaching English to the masses, he is quite the talented photographer, so naturally I took him up on his generous offer.
He already had a concept in mind, one of his strengths being art direction, so we made arrangements to meet at the library and discreetly shoot.
It didn't really matter how big of a hot mess I looked, because the plan was to shoot low, and by that I mean my lower extremities.
Accordingly, I rummaged through my better than average tights collection to find just the thing for my new profile pic and decided on the Berlin tights.
They're funky, they're attention-getters and they're not something a person sees every day in RVA.
How do I know this?
I left the apartment to go to the library and as I crossed my own street, a guy on a bike said hello, followed by, "I LIKE your tights!...A lot!"
Arriving at the library two guys just leaving turned a full 180 degrees as I passed them on my way towards the door.
I couldn't resist turning around and flat out asking them, "It's the tights you're looking at, isn't it?"
One mutely nodded and the other just gave me a goofy grin.
After shooting, we went to Tarrant's for fried food, a requirement of our get-togethers; we quite happily shared fries and fish tacos, dishing all the while.
We were in that limbo time before the dinner rush begins, affording us an opportunity to bounce off the staff.
Our server explained to us why Rhode Island, her home state, is called the Ocean State.
Ron folded napkins like a pro and quoted lines from the movie "Arthur" to our amusement.
We both made a pilgrimage to the other dining room to admire the new carpeting and inhale its new rug smell.
As we were leaving, my friend asked Ron the Napkin-Folder why he hadn't commented on my great tights.
"I didn't want to say something filthy," he claimed.
Or maybe he's just waiting for the picture.
Don't Judge Me By My Bedtime
Note to self: staying out until 2:00 and up until 3:00 the last two nights may be an indication that my life is going to hell in a hand basket. Oh, wait, my life went to hell in a rocket launcher at the beginning of the year, so that can't be it. Never mind.
When I got home last night, I got online to check messages, blog and e-mail a friend about getting together later in the week. When I got up, I had a response, essentially asking what the hell I was doing e-mailing at 2:43 a.m. and did it mean that I'd gotten lucky last night? Whoa, whoa, is there some equation about late night e-mailing and sexual success? Is this a night owl secret to which I'd not been privy?
And then on my walk today, one of my regulars chided me for walking so much later than usual and I tried excusing my tardiness with my late night alibi. "Oh, you bad girl, you," he said suggestively. Yea, that's me, the ultimate bad girl.
In the future, I might be better off keeping my late nights to myself to avoid speculation about my whereabouts. Unfortunately for me, they're not nearly as juicy as some people would apparently hope for. Maybe I just need to pick up my game. As if.
When I got home last night, I got online to check messages, blog and e-mail a friend about getting together later in the week. When I got up, I had a response, essentially asking what the hell I was doing e-mailing at 2:43 a.m. and did it mean that I'd gotten lucky last night? Whoa, whoa, is there some equation about late night e-mailing and sexual success? Is this a night owl secret to which I'd not been privy?
And then on my walk today, one of my regulars chided me for walking so much later than usual and I tried excusing my tardiness with my late night alibi. "Oh, you bad girl, you," he said suggestively. Yea, that's me, the ultimate bad girl.
In the future, I might be better off keeping my late nights to myself to avoid speculation about my whereabouts. Unfortunately for me, they're not nearly as juicy as some people would apparently hope for. Maybe I just need to pick up my game. As if.
Ipanema: Delicious Dining & Must-Hear Music
I could never be a vegetarian, despite my love of just about every vegetable I know of. The problem is as simple as I can't resist the siren song of meat. Maybe not every day, but often enough to keep me certain that I don't want to live without it.
But even a carnivore can love a really well prepared vegetarian dish, as I was reminded yet again at Ipanema tonight. F.R.O. and I were dining there before the Live at Ipanema show and as I perused the chalkboard, I had a hard time deciding on just one entree because so many sounded appealing. I finally ordered the Bangers and Mash, with spicy sausage, root veggie puree and roasted Brussels Sprouts, It was hearty and spicy and creamy and crunchy and everything a person could want in a cold-night meal. A few bites of that well-thought out flavor combination had the potential to entice someone sure that they couldn't live without meat.
Dessert was a vegan chocolate coconut cake and if anyone could taste the absence of dairy, I'd like to hear from them. My slice of cake was decadently dark chocolate with a whipped white frosting covered in coconut, moist and dense. I didn't really deserve to order it, since I hadn't finished everything on my plate, but there was no one there to stop me, either. And then it was time for music.
The Diamond Center's sound was a bit of a departure from the last few Live bands and they performed an excellent set. I'd heard a bit of their Gallery 5 set Friday night, so I was already intrigued and eager to hear more of their sound. The vocalist's voice had a haunting and beautiful quality, while the guitars sounded dreamy and almost surf-like; it was pure psychedelic indie rock and impressively well-done. The buzz in the room was decidedly positive and I will most definitely seek out hearing them again.
And, of course, the noteworthy element of the evening was being in Ipanema after 11 p.m. and enjoying the air. It's still jarring to note the absence of cigarette smoke in all the usual places, Ipanema always having been very much one of those, at least late night. It was a first: coming home from Ipanemea and not having to remove smoke-scented clothing. I liked it.
RVA boasts a top-notch vegetarian restaurant known far beyond our city's limits for its amazing food and with good reason. It's the go-to restaurant destination for visiting musicians, both semi-regulars (Ted Leo) and newcomers to our fair city (Black Kids). The Grilled Gouda with caramelized onions and thyme is reason enough to try the place, but there are so many other compelling choices to entice you, too (Andrew, I'm talking to you), even if you don't think that meat is murder.
But even a carnivore can love a really well prepared vegetarian dish, as I was reminded yet again at Ipanema tonight. F.R.O. and I were dining there before the Live at Ipanema show and as I perused the chalkboard, I had a hard time deciding on just one entree because so many sounded appealing. I finally ordered the Bangers and Mash, with spicy sausage, root veggie puree and roasted Brussels Sprouts, It was hearty and spicy and creamy and crunchy and everything a person could want in a cold-night meal. A few bites of that well-thought out flavor combination had the potential to entice someone sure that they couldn't live without meat.
Dessert was a vegan chocolate coconut cake and if anyone could taste the absence of dairy, I'd like to hear from them. My slice of cake was decadently dark chocolate with a whipped white frosting covered in coconut, moist and dense. I didn't really deserve to order it, since I hadn't finished everything on my plate, but there was no one there to stop me, either. And then it was time for music.
The Diamond Center's sound was a bit of a departure from the last few Live bands and they performed an excellent set. I'd heard a bit of their Gallery 5 set Friday night, so I was already intrigued and eager to hear more of their sound. The vocalist's voice had a haunting and beautiful quality, while the guitars sounded dreamy and almost surf-like; it was pure psychedelic indie rock and impressively well-done. The buzz in the room was decidedly positive and I will most definitely seek out hearing them again.
And, of course, the noteworthy element of the evening was being in Ipanema after 11 p.m. and enjoying the air. It's still jarring to note the absence of cigarette smoke in all the usual places, Ipanema always having been very much one of those, at least late night. It was a first: coming home from Ipanemea and not having to remove smoke-scented clothing. I liked it.
RVA boasts a top-notch vegetarian restaurant known far beyond our city's limits for its amazing food and with good reason. It's the go-to restaurant destination for visiting musicians, both semi-regulars (Ted Leo) and newcomers to our fair city (Black Kids). The Grilled Gouda with caramelized onions and thyme is reason enough to try the place, but there are so many other compelling choices to entice you, too (Andrew, I'm talking to you), even if you don't think that meat is murder.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Take Me Away, Bistro 27
I completely missed today's snow, probably because i was in a funk (a turducken discussion funk, of all things), which was a shame. Ordinarily, I really enjoy watching snow fall. Along about 8ish, I decided to head to Bistro 27 for whatever it was I needed, which had yet to be determined. Most of their crowd had been pre-Symphony business, so things were quieting down by the time I arrived.
Upon my arrival, Chef Carlos greeted me with "Good evening, Maria," to which I responded by leaving a big pink lipstick outline on his cheek. Since forgetting my name once, it has become Carlos' mission in life to always address me enthusiastically by any name other than my own. I smile about it because his staff gives him so much of a hard time about it....still. As well they should.
One of my favorite things about this local hangout of mine is how well I know the staff. Tonight I was able to discuss Dave's recent comedy show with him while he tried to entice me to join him after work at Emilio's for The Brakes; we then debated the Smiths and the Cure. I heard from Kevin about his new kitten and upcoming med school interview (hair has been cut, nails are next). Pedro and I talked families, coloring and the many places he sees me around the neighborhood and doesn't say hello; he assured me that that will be corrected. It's amazing how often it happens that people say they see me everywhere because I notice practically no one.
Carlos had dealt with the dinner rush, so he had the time to sit with me and drink wine and discuss the state of newspapers, global warming, hooking up and job searches. The highlight may have been him showing me his Brazilian ID card from when he was 18. What a handsome young man he was at such a young age! I could only wish my 18-year old ID was half as flattering, but I know that wasn't the case.
But it was the last several hours after the restaurant closed that I probably enjoyed the most. Manager Ken and I have spent many an evening discussing our overlapping and opposing musical tastes, but tonight we went in a different direction. Ken wanted to give me dating advice as well as his thoughts on some of the guy friends I'd brought in for dinner. I'm always curious about the male point of view, so I listened to his recommendations, male-centric though some of them may have been. I happen to know for a fact that it's not always about sex, despite his insistence that it is.
But it was our discussion of heavier things, namely untimely death, that kept us both lingering way past closing. Few people can relate to losing a loved one to death prematurely, so when we discovered our mutual trauma, we had much to share with each other. Our conversation began with him lecturing me about loosening my dating standards and segued into overcoming grief and still he manged to bring it back to what I should be doing to entice men and find a sexual relationship.
I'm fortunate to have a nearby place with terrific food (Bistro salad, crab and shrimp ravioli in roasted red pepper cream sauce and multiple glasses of Gouguenheim Malbec and Ken's two favorite Pinot Noirs), varied conversational partners and a willingness to dispense advice to customers until all hours.
It didn't quite lift me completely out of my funk, but it was an excellent distraction. As Ken and I discussed, there are times that a distraction is the most you can hope for. Or, as he so succinctly put it, "That was some deep shit."
Indeed it was.
Upon my arrival, Chef Carlos greeted me with "Good evening, Maria," to which I responded by leaving a big pink lipstick outline on his cheek. Since forgetting my name once, it has become Carlos' mission in life to always address me enthusiastically by any name other than my own. I smile about it because his staff gives him so much of a hard time about it....still. As well they should.
One of my favorite things about this local hangout of mine is how well I know the staff. Tonight I was able to discuss Dave's recent comedy show with him while he tried to entice me to join him after work at Emilio's for The Brakes; we then debated the Smiths and the Cure. I heard from Kevin about his new kitten and upcoming med school interview (hair has been cut, nails are next). Pedro and I talked families, coloring and the many places he sees me around the neighborhood and doesn't say hello; he assured me that that will be corrected. It's amazing how often it happens that people say they see me everywhere because I notice practically no one.
Carlos had dealt with the dinner rush, so he had the time to sit with me and drink wine and discuss the state of newspapers, global warming, hooking up and job searches. The highlight may have been him showing me his Brazilian ID card from when he was 18. What a handsome young man he was at such a young age! I could only wish my 18-year old ID was half as flattering, but I know that wasn't the case.
But it was the last several hours after the restaurant closed that I probably enjoyed the most. Manager Ken and I have spent many an evening discussing our overlapping and opposing musical tastes, but tonight we went in a different direction. Ken wanted to give me dating advice as well as his thoughts on some of the guy friends I'd brought in for dinner. I'm always curious about the male point of view, so I listened to his recommendations, male-centric though some of them may have been. I happen to know for a fact that it's not always about sex, despite his insistence that it is.
But it was our discussion of heavier things, namely untimely death, that kept us both lingering way past closing. Few people can relate to losing a loved one to death prematurely, so when we discovered our mutual trauma, we had much to share with each other. Our conversation began with him lecturing me about loosening my dating standards and segued into overcoming grief and still he manged to bring it back to what I should be doing to entice men and find a sexual relationship.
I'm fortunate to have a nearby place with terrific food (Bistro salad, crab and shrimp ravioli in roasted red pepper cream sauce and multiple glasses of Gouguenheim Malbec and Ken's two favorite Pinot Noirs), varied conversational partners and a willingness to dispense advice to customers until all hours.
It didn't quite lift me completely out of my funk, but it was an excellent distraction. As Ken and I discussed, there are times that a distraction is the most you can hope for. Or, as he so succinctly put it, "That was some deep shit."
Indeed it was.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
I'm Dreaming Of White Christmas
And no, not necessarily an actual white Christmas, but of seeing "White Christmas" on the big screen.
This is a movie I've probably seen every holiday since I was a kid, but always on a TV screen, which is most assuredly not the best way to enjoy a 1950s musical.
So I was delighted to see it being offered for this weekend's Movies & Mimosas feature at Movieland.
Although part of the pleasure of this movie is its holiday theme, what I most look forward to about it is the dancing and Danny Kaye's incredibly malleable face and body.
The man is the original Gumby and displays his physicality superbly.
Even the scenes where he's not talking, just watching his face is entertainment enough.
And watching him dance is a revelation; his body arcs and sways effortlessly while Bing Crosby stiffly tries to keep up.
Seeing it on the big screen for the first time, I was able to note details I'd never been aware of before.
It's a wonderfully dated film, with a quaint reference to the Department of War rather than of Defense.
There's also a reference to a character being out of the country - in Alaska; but then, the movie was made four years before Alaska's statehood was approved.
But, at its heart, "White Christmas" is a love story with all the expected trials and tribulations of ultimately winning the love of one's life.
And, as we well know, the course of true love never does run smoothly.
But it's a pleasure to watch the inspired singing and dancing that leads to the fade-out kiss...on a big screen.
This is a movie I've probably seen every holiday since I was a kid, but always on a TV screen, which is most assuredly not the best way to enjoy a 1950s musical.
So I was delighted to see it being offered for this weekend's Movies & Mimosas feature at Movieland.
Although part of the pleasure of this movie is its holiday theme, what I most look forward to about it is the dancing and Danny Kaye's incredibly malleable face and body.
The man is the original Gumby and displays his physicality superbly.
Even the scenes where he's not talking, just watching his face is entertainment enough.
And watching him dance is a revelation; his body arcs and sways effortlessly while Bing Crosby stiffly tries to keep up.
Seeing it on the big screen for the first time, I was able to note details I'd never been aware of before.
It's a wonderfully dated film, with a quaint reference to the Department of War rather than of Defense.
There's also a reference to a character being out of the country - in Alaska; but then, the movie was made four years before Alaska's statehood was approved.
But, at its heart, "White Christmas" is a love story with all the expected trials and tribulations of ultimately winning the love of one's life.
And, as we well know, the course of true love never does run smoothly.
But it's a pleasure to watch the inspired singing and dancing that leads to the fade-out kiss...on a big screen.
Friday, December 4, 2009
CousCous>Six Burner>First Friday
It was a progressive sort of an evening, with one location change after another. The action began at CousCous to meet up with Theater Goddess and her theater friends. Foolish me, I forgot to wear my "blacks," like theater types seem to do. I joined a group of almost a dozen women and ten of them had on all black and I'm in a bright green shirt, burgundy lace tights and a jean skirt. Oops.
Even more shocking than my color faux pas, though, was entering CousCous now that it's smoke-free. It no longer felt like walking into an opium den with a haze over the bar. It certainly made eating more pleasurable, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed my mega-bowl of Harira Soup with its braised lamb, wild rice and veggies with or without smoke. There were some nice big chunks of lamb in it, along with plenty of shredded bits cooked to the ultimate tenderness. I shared with others, causing several people to regret not ordering it.
T.G. and I then adjourned to Six Burner for Chef Phillip Denny's recent award-winning Pig Trotter Croquettes with pardon peppers, roasted corn powder and pepper sauce. If this was the dish that came in second place at the March of Dimes competition, I probably need to taste whatever came in first. The crispy, flavorful outside covered a rich pork inside and the smokey pardons were the perfect accompaniment; we shared an order and next time I want the entire order to myself.
Dessert was eggnog creme brulee with caramelized Winesap apple compote and a mini gingerbread man. I think the holiday season officially kicked off for me when I first tasted that eggnog flavor. The compote screamed "apples are in season!" and the cookie, well, I've been upfront about my love of ginger snaps; the combo was wonderful.
Returning to J-Ward for First Fridays, I was surprised to discover that all the street lights were out. The Ward was a dark place except for front porch lights,holiday decoration lights and, natch, the usual massive police presence on Broad Street. The darkness added a cool ambiance to gallery walking and really made the downtown lights stand out against the night sky. Maybe the city used up all its wattage on the Grand Illumination earlier tonight and red-headed step-child J-Ward paid the price.
It didn't matter to me; I can negotiate my neighborhood with or without light. Not so for visitors, however. I passed a group of pretty young things clearly not from the Ward and heard one of them say, "Well, duh, we're on Marshall Street." No, honey, you're on Clay Street, I corrected her, just not in so many words. For them, the street lights may have helped.
Ghostprint's show, "Unseen Versailles" was a beautiful collection of photographs from behind the scenes at Versailles; I especially liked the washes of color painted on the walls behind the photos. Metro Space's "Too Big to Fail" consisted of woodcuts and prints by Cannondale Press. Most were available for only $20 a piece. As a huge fan of printmaking, I would have loved to have bought one. Gallery 5, as usual, provided both music and art, including VCU students' well-done "Project Winterfood."
I lingered at G5, listening to My Diamond Center on stage, but I'm seeing them Sunday night, so I decided to wind down my progressive evening. I very much enjoyed a night of constantly changing venues, always keeping things fresh. As a local barber shop's sign says (much to my daily delight), "Come on in and get fresh!" Didn't I just?
Even more shocking than my color faux pas, though, was entering CousCous now that it's smoke-free. It no longer felt like walking into an opium den with a haze over the bar. It certainly made eating more pleasurable, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed my mega-bowl of Harira Soup with its braised lamb, wild rice and veggies with or without smoke. There were some nice big chunks of lamb in it, along with plenty of shredded bits cooked to the ultimate tenderness. I shared with others, causing several people to regret not ordering it.
T.G. and I then adjourned to Six Burner for Chef Phillip Denny's recent award-winning Pig Trotter Croquettes with pardon peppers, roasted corn powder and pepper sauce. If this was the dish that came in second place at the March of Dimes competition, I probably need to taste whatever came in first. The crispy, flavorful outside covered a rich pork inside and the smokey pardons were the perfect accompaniment; we shared an order and next time I want the entire order to myself.
Dessert was eggnog creme brulee with caramelized Winesap apple compote and a mini gingerbread man. I think the holiday season officially kicked off for me when I first tasted that eggnog flavor. The compote screamed "apples are in season!" and the cookie, well, I've been upfront about my love of ginger snaps; the combo was wonderful.
Returning to J-Ward for First Fridays, I was surprised to discover that all the street lights were out. The Ward was a dark place except for front porch lights,holiday decoration lights and, natch, the usual massive police presence on Broad Street. The darkness added a cool ambiance to gallery walking and really made the downtown lights stand out against the night sky. Maybe the city used up all its wattage on the Grand Illumination earlier tonight and red-headed step-child J-Ward paid the price.
It didn't matter to me; I can negotiate my neighborhood with or without light. Not so for visitors, however. I passed a group of pretty young things clearly not from the Ward and heard one of them say, "Well, duh, we're on Marshall Street." No, honey, you're on Clay Street, I corrected her, just not in so many words. For them, the street lights may have helped.
Ghostprint's show, "Unseen Versailles" was a beautiful collection of photographs from behind the scenes at Versailles; I especially liked the washes of color painted on the walls behind the photos. Metro Space's "Too Big to Fail" consisted of woodcuts and prints by Cannondale Press. Most were available for only $20 a piece. As a huge fan of printmaking, I would have loved to have bought one. Gallery 5, as usual, provided both music and art, including VCU students' well-done "Project Winterfood."
I lingered at G5, listening to My Diamond Center on stage, but I'm seeing them Sunday night, so I decided to wind down my progressive evening. I very much enjoyed a night of constantly changing venues, always keeping things fresh. As a local barber shop's sign says (much to my daily delight), "Come on in and get fresh!" Didn't I just?
Aziza's on Main: Lunch for Nerds
I have to appreciate a friend who knows me well enough to send me this message, "How about lunch and/or maybe something nerdy on Friday?" Eating and nerdiness, my top two favorite occupations and especially when I have a friend along for conversation and company.
Aziza's on Main was our meeting place because I've been eager to see what kind of Lebanese-inspired goodness they offered. P.B.F. arrived first and scored a window-front table, giving me an excellent view of noontime in the Bottom. We perused the chalkboard menu, but decided we needed visuals and went over to the deli case to help the decision-making process along.
I won't lie, my eyes went right to those big, beautiful cream puffs first. Oh, my! But we were checking out the savories, not the sweets and all of them looked really fresh and appealing, lengthening the selection process. I finally decided on the tuna, basil and white beans with a salad of local mixed greens and Billy Bread. My friend got the Aziza's chicken salad (made with roasted pepper, celery, red onion, basil and red vinegar as opposed to the southern style which had mayo and sweet pickle juice), a green salad and the grilled cheese.
We shared each other's food until we were too stuffed to eat anymore and still had a lot of leftovers, enough for an entire other meal, according to P.B.F. Sadly, I had no room left for dessert, but I intend to go back and correct that...after trying some other savory offerings first.
My friend is just recovering from near-pneumonia, so we decided against a nerdy activity post-lunch, but we discussed several options for our next afternoon together. Agecroft? Henricus? No doubt we were boring the pants off the guys at the next table with our enthusiasm for upcoming nerdiness. We balanced it somewhat when my friend asked about the state of my love life (um, tragic?) with talk of avoiding online dating, past hurts and FBs, but even then I think our nerdiness may have shown through. We could only hope that they were too enthralled with their food to need entertainment value from us.
Which is highly likely, given how exceptional (and inexpensive) Aziza's food was. Hold on, cream puffs, I'll be back.
Aziza's on Main was our meeting place because I've been eager to see what kind of Lebanese-inspired goodness they offered. P.B.F. arrived first and scored a window-front table, giving me an excellent view of noontime in the Bottom. We perused the chalkboard menu, but decided we needed visuals and went over to the deli case to help the decision-making process along.
I won't lie, my eyes went right to those big, beautiful cream puffs first. Oh, my! But we were checking out the savories, not the sweets and all of them looked really fresh and appealing, lengthening the selection process. I finally decided on the tuna, basil and white beans with a salad of local mixed greens and Billy Bread. My friend got the Aziza's chicken salad (made with roasted pepper, celery, red onion, basil and red vinegar as opposed to the southern style which had mayo and sweet pickle juice), a green salad and the grilled cheese.
We shared each other's food until we were too stuffed to eat anymore and still had a lot of leftovers, enough for an entire other meal, according to P.B.F. Sadly, I had no room left for dessert, but I intend to go back and correct that...after trying some other savory offerings first.
My friend is just recovering from near-pneumonia, so we decided against a nerdy activity post-lunch, but we discussed several options for our next afternoon together. Agecroft? Henricus? No doubt we were boring the pants off the guys at the next table with our enthusiasm for upcoming nerdiness. We balanced it somewhat when my friend asked about the state of my love life (um, tragic?) with talk of avoiding online dating, past hurts and FBs, but even then I think our nerdiness may have shown through. We could only hope that they were too enthralled with their food to need entertainment value from us.
Which is highly likely, given how exceptional (and inexpensive) Aziza's food was. Hold on, cream puffs, I'll be back.
For Want of A Husband
I paused before crossing Robinson Street this morning when a guy rode up on his bike to wait for the light with me. I recoghnized him because we've said good morning to each other plenty of times, so I smiled.
Him: Morning. Somebody told me that your husband works downtown at the Federal Courts Building.
Me: That's not true.
Him: But he said your husband works downtown.
Me: Who said that?
Him: I don't remember (I think he did and just didn't want to say), but he definitely told me that.
Me: He's mistaken.
Him: (indignantly) Well next time I see him, I'm going to tell him I talked to you personally and you said that's not true about your husband.
So there it is: two men who are virtually strangers to me are going to argue about which one knows me better.
Sigh. This is my life.
Him: Morning. Somebody told me that your husband works downtown at the Federal Courts Building.
Me: That's not true.
Him: But he said your husband works downtown.
Me: Who said that?
Him: I don't remember (I think he did and just didn't want to say), but he definitely told me that.
Me: He's mistaken.
Him: (indignantly) Well next time I see him, I'm going to tell him I talked to you personally and you said that's not true about your husband.
So there it is: two men who are virtually strangers to me are going to argue about which one knows me better.
Sigh. This is my life.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
More Poetic Than We Know
My plans for the evening got postponed due to my friend's root canal recovery, so for a change I stayed in and listened to music and read, two of my absolute favorite past times. I purposely pulled out some CDs that I hadn't listened to in a while, years in some cases.
What struck me as I was listening was how the lyrics to some songs immediately came back to me, even ones I hadn't heard in forever; word for word, I remembered them as if I'd heard them yesterday.
And it occurred to me that we learn song lyrics now like people once learned poetry: as something to be committed to memory and recited back for our own or others' pleasure. I don't know many people who could recite a poem at the drop of a hat, but what are song lyrics if not poetry set to music? This line of thinking somehow made me feel better about the poetic literacy of our culture, not to mention my mental faculties.
I see a dog upon the road
Running hard to catch a cat
My car is pulling to a halt
The truck behind me doesn't know
Everything is in the balance
Of a moment I can't control
Your sympathetic strings
Are like stirrings in my soul
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Find the meaning of the act
Remember how it goes
Every time you take the water
You swim against the flow
The world is all around us
The days are flying past
And fear is so contagious
But I'm not afraid to laugh
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Anytime
Come without warning
Anytime
It could be so easy
A walk in the park
Or maybe when I'm sleeping
Anytime
See the clouds come over
I feel like I'm in love
With a stranger I'll never know
Although you're still a mystery
I'm so glad I'm not alone
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
Make it so easy to fly in the night
I could go anytime
Poetry, right? I don't think I even realized I knew those words until I heard the song and they came out of my head. And that was just one of several such instances tonight. Such fatalistic lyrics make for great poetry, whether you can sing or not (I can't). It's satisfying enough just to read or recite them.
What struck me as I was listening was how the lyrics to some songs immediately came back to me, even ones I hadn't heard in forever; word for word, I remembered them as if I'd heard them yesterday.
And it occurred to me that we learn song lyrics now like people once learned poetry: as something to be committed to memory and recited back for our own or others' pleasure. I don't know many people who could recite a poem at the drop of a hat, but what are song lyrics if not poetry set to music? This line of thinking somehow made me feel better about the poetic literacy of our culture, not to mention my mental faculties.
I see a dog upon the road
Running hard to catch a cat
My car is pulling to a halt
The truck behind me doesn't know
Everything is in the balance
Of a moment I can't control
Your sympathetic strings
Are like stirrings in my soul
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Find the meaning of the act
Remember how it goes
Every time you take the water
You swim against the flow
The world is all around us
The days are flying past
And fear is so contagious
But I'm not afraid to laugh
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Anytime
Come without warning
Anytime
It could be so easy
A walk in the park
Or maybe when I'm sleeping
Anytime
See the clouds come over
I feel like I'm in love
With a stranger I'll never know
Although you're still a mystery
I'm so glad I'm not alone
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
Make it so easy to fly in the night
I could go anytime
Poetry, right? I don't think I even realized I knew those words until I heard the song and they came out of my head. And that was just one of several such instances tonight. Such fatalistic lyrics make for great poetry, whether you can sing or not (I can't). It's satisfying enough just to read or recite them.
Silent Movies in the Basement
As part of the Silent Classics series that the Richmond Moving Image Co-Op is currently putting on, today I saw perhaps the first successful sequel ever, Son of the Sheik, starring Rudolph Valentino. I'd never even seen a Valentino movie before, much less the original The Sheik, not that it mattered given the plot: hero falls in love, is duped and tortured, finds lover is loyal, wipes out bad guys and rides into sunset. All in 68 minutes.
It was Valentino's last film before an early death at age 31 and, as it came out in 1926, made only shortly before the advent of talkies. By that time in silent film production, fewer and fewer title cards were used and the actors conveyed quite a bit themselves, without the crutch of cards. Valentino seemed to rely on a lot of sultry looks and cigarette smoking, which was apparently what the female portion of the audience liked. I tend to agree with his critics of the era; he seemed a tad foppish, which may well have translated as continental at the time. He was, I learned, Italian.
The final film in the series will be Sunrise, made in 1927 and supposedly much copied for its use of lighting and camera. I think I'm spoiled, though, because I miss the musical accompaniment with a silent film. The last credit in the movie was the composer of the organ score, which obviously was not being played in the downtown library's auditorium. Too bad, really, because music, like bacon, makes practically everything better. Even Valentino.
It was Valentino's last film before an early death at age 31 and, as it came out in 1926, made only shortly before the advent of talkies. By that time in silent film production, fewer and fewer title cards were used and the actors conveyed quite a bit themselves, without the crutch of cards. Valentino seemed to rely on a lot of sultry looks and cigarette smoking, which was apparently what the female portion of the audience liked. I tend to agree with his critics of the era; he seemed a tad foppish, which may well have translated as continental at the time. He was, I learned, Italian.
The final film in the series will be Sunrise, made in 1927 and supposedly much copied for its use of lighting and camera. I think I'm spoiled, though, because I miss the musical accompaniment with a silent film. The last credit in the movie was the composer of the organ score, which obviously was not being played in the downtown library's auditorium. Too bad, really, because music, like bacon, makes practically everything better. Even Valentino.
Lee's Fried Chicken at the Library of Virginia
I realize most people would have no interest in a brown bag lunchtime lecture, but I like them and even went when I was a worker bee. The key to enjoying such a dorky pastime is bringing the right lunch. If you're going to spend your lunch hour being enlightened, you need food that will satisfy your baser instincts, something like my lunch today: Lee's Fried Chicken. Let's just say I was the envy of every attendee within smelling distance at the Library of Virginia lecture, "Abagail Adams" by UR's Woody Holton.
Hotlon's book of the same name is a social history about a woman far ahead of her time in terms of women's roles. While her husband was dealing with the Revolution and doing diplomatic time in Europe, the savvy Abagail was reselling goods he shipped her from overseas, buying up huge hunks of Vermont and buying Continental bonds for pennies on the dollar, only to reap 25% interest until finally cashing them in at full value.
John Adams always referred to his wife as "saucy," in part because of remarks she made to him and the framers of the Declaration of Independence to, "remember the ladies!" Of course, we all know they ignored the ladies and it was all about all men being created equal. Abagail made her point even in death, leaving only token amounts to her sons and bequeathing the bulk of her financial estate to only her female relatives.
Holton's talk made it clear that it was the collaboration between Adams and Abagail that made them the most significant couple of all the Founding Fathers' relationships.
As you can probably tell, I found the lecture about a strong, long-term relationship fascinating stuff, but my spicy fried chicken, biscuit and cole slaw may have had something to do with that, too. John Adams said that Abagail never wrote a boring letter and their correspondence included over 1500 missives, which says a lot about the personality of the woman. For all we know, she might have also cooked up a mean fried chicken.
Hotlon's book of the same name is a social history about a woman far ahead of her time in terms of women's roles. While her husband was dealing with the Revolution and doing diplomatic time in Europe, the savvy Abagail was reselling goods he shipped her from overseas, buying up huge hunks of Vermont and buying Continental bonds for pennies on the dollar, only to reap 25% interest until finally cashing them in at full value.
John Adams always referred to his wife as "saucy," in part because of remarks she made to him and the framers of the Declaration of Independence to, "remember the ladies!" Of course, we all know they ignored the ladies and it was all about all men being created equal. Abagail made her point even in death, leaving only token amounts to her sons and bequeathing the bulk of her financial estate to only her female relatives.
Holton's talk made it clear that it was the collaboration between Adams and Abagail that made them the most significant couple of all the Founding Fathers' relationships.
As you can probably tell, I found the lecture about a strong, long-term relationship fascinating stuff, but my spicy fried chicken, biscuit and cole slaw may have had something to do with that, too. John Adams said that Abagail never wrote a boring letter and their correspondence included over 1500 missives, which says a lot about the personality of the woman. For all we know, she might have also cooked up a mean fried chicken.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Photography at The Belvidere
Two different people gave me crap about my monosyllabic responses to their e-mails today, but I more than made up for my earlier brevity with an evening of non-stop conversation. I went to the art opening at The Belvidere tonight to see "Mynamar Impressions," an exhibit of the photographs of Khanh Duong. It was a good-sized show and various photographs grabbed me for different reasons; some clearly hinted at a back story, some were visually arresting for their line or color and some were absolutely haunting in their imagery.
I met the artist, a charming and driven immigrant from VietNam, who dual-majored in chemistry and photography. I'd like to say I was once that ambitious, but that would be a lie. It was fascinating to hear Khanh talk about trying to finally enjoy his life more and work less; he's already enlisted me to send him info about upcoming music shows so that he can, as he said, "get back in the loop." I'm more than happy to be a cheerleader for the local music scene.
Part of our conversation included a new-to-me neighbor of mine, who lives literally around the corner, once again proving just how small this town is. We had a spirited discussion of our top ten albums of all time, involving several other nearby bar sitters. Nothing on their lists would be on mine: Exile on Main Street,10, Nevermind, London Calling, Siamese Dream, Sgt. Pepper (please note that everyone in this discussion appeared to be under 35. I want to understand, but I don't.) And I could never come up with such a list on the spot. That kind of major topic would require time and thought before I would venture a list.
After a couple of Khanh's friends left, he told me that they were enamoured of my tights and boots, but didn't have the nerve to tell me so and that was nice. I was introduced to another of his friends, who teaches motorcycle skills to the Army (huh?) and asked what I was doing tomorrow. I gave him the full run-down of my afternoon and tenative early evening plans so as to effectively squelch that. Maybe I should just wear a button that says "I don't date."
Tonight's soup was Wild Mushroom with Brie and it was an earthy, rich taste delight. I convinced no less than four other people (including the artist) to try it and they all loved it as much as I did; I told the bartender that I should get a commission for my persuasive skills. I followed that with a dessert big enough for two people and somehow ate it all.
Which isn't nearly as important as how verbose I was all evening; nary a monosyllabic utterance crossed my lips. Everyone there was probably wondering if I'd ever shut up. It's really all about having someone you want to talk to, though. That seems to be what I'm lacking these days.
I met the artist, a charming and driven immigrant from VietNam, who dual-majored in chemistry and photography. I'd like to say I was once that ambitious, but that would be a lie. It was fascinating to hear Khanh talk about trying to finally enjoy his life more and work less; he's already enlisted me to send him info about upcoming music shows so that he can, as he said, "get back in the loop." I'm more than happy to be a cheerleader for the local music scene.
Part of our conversation included a new-to-me neighbor of mine, who lives literally around the corner, once again proving just how small this town is. We had a spirited discussion of our top ten albums of all time, involving several other nearby bar sitters. Nothing on their lists would be on mine: Exile on Main Street,10, Nevermind, London Calling, Siamese Dream, Sgt. Pepper (please note that everyone in this discussion appeared to be under 35. I want to understand, but I don't.) And I could never come up with such a list on the spot. That kind of major topic would require time and thought before I would venture a list.
After a couple of Khanh's friends left, he told me that they were enamoured of my tights and boots, but didn't have the nerve to tell me so and that was nice. I was introduced to another of his friends, who teaches motorcycle skills to the Army (huh?) and asked what I was doing tomorrow. I gave him the full run-down of my afternoon and tenative early evening plans so as to effectively squelch that. Maybe I should just wear a button that says "I don't date."
Tonight's soup was Wild Mushroom with Brie and it was an earthy, rich taste delight. I convinced no less than four other people (including the artist) to try it and they all loved it as much as I did; I told the bartender that I should get a commission for my persuasive skills. I followed that with a dessert big enough for two people and somehow ate it all.
Which isn't nearly as important as how verbose I was all evening; nary a monosyllabic utterance crossed my lips. Everyone there was probably wondering if I'd ever shut up. It's really all about having someone you want to talk to, though. That seems to be what I'm lacking these days.
John Cage: Composer as Painter at UR
I find the UR campus to be a circuitous exercise in futility, despite having been there many times. I'm most successful when I'm going to the Modlin Center, because I've been there more than anywhere else.
And today I was going to the Harnett Museum of Art which is in the Modlin Center and I still made a needless loop around the campus, mostly due to several major construction projects impeding my progress.
Our destination was the exhibit, "John Cage: Zen Ox-Herding Pictures,"displaying the composer John Cage's experiments in watercolor painting on paper towels.
All I knew of Cage was his work in music, so I was intrigued to see what so unorthodox a composer would have created visually.
I knew his interest in East Asian and Indian philosophy took him in the direction of putting aside memory and intention and focusing on process and chance.
I was curious how that would manifest itself in painting.
The images were used to illustrate the East Asian parable of the path to and beyond enlightenment (Zen Ox-Herding) and each watercolor was accompanied by a fragment of Cage's writing that could be tied to the parable.
Since the writing was not done specifically for the images, it was unexpected how utterly poetic and completely appropriate they were in furthering the story.
Looking for
something irrelevant, I found I
couldn't find it
The fifty-five watercolors are striking in their lyricism, especially knowing the man was using the medium for the first time.
They were abstract, some with elements of calligraphy to them, many suggesting activity or motion.
If music can be translated to the visual, Cage did so and he did it on brown paper towels with words that evoke in the same way that music does, meaningfully and beautifully.
Nothing's changed yet
something immense
asking.
The exhibit is most definitely worth seeing...and I wish you luck in navigating that labyrinth of a campus.
And today I was going to the Harnett Museum of Art which is in the Modlin Center and I still made a needless loop around the campus, mostly due to several major construction projects impeding my progress.
Our destination was the exhibit, "John Cage: Zen Ox-Herding Pictures,"displaying the composer John Cage's experiments in watercolor painting on paper towels.
All I knew of Cage was his work in music, so I was intrigued to see what so unorthodox a composer would have created visually.
I knew his interest in East Asian and Indian philosophy took him in the direction of putting aside memory and intention and focusing on process and chance.
I was curious how that would manifest itself in painting.
The images were used to illustrate the East Asian parable of the path to and beyond enlightenment (Zen Ox-Herding) and each watercolor was accompanied by a fragment of Cage's writing that could be tied to the parable.
Since the writing was not done specifically for the images, it was unexpected how utterly poetic and completely appropriate they were in furthering the story.
Looking for
something irrelevant, I found I
couldn't find it
The fifty-five watercolors are striking in their lyricism, especially knowing the man was using the medium for the first time.
They were abstract, some with elements of calligraphy to them, many suggesting activity or motion.
If music can be translated to the visual, Cage did so and he did it on brown paper towels with words that evoke in the same way that music does, meaningfully and beautifully.
Nothing's changed yet
something immense
asking.
The exhibit is most definitely worth seeing...and I wish you luck in navigating that labyrinth of a campus.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Blue Talon Bistro: All About TV
I don't have a TV. If you look, it says so right on my blogger profile. It also says it on my Facebook profile and you'd almost surely notice its absence if you came to my apartment. And as you'd probably expect, I don't like them in restaurants, either.
Not long ago, I met a friend for a drink before a show and we got on this topic. As it happened, she's no fan of TVs in restaurants either, so we bonded over this and decided there should be a blanket rule against them. They're mood (one might even say "buzz") kills in a social situation like a restaurant. But since every rule must have its exception, we also agreed that only one place should have a TV and that's the Blue Talon in Williamsburg and that's because the only thing ever on it is old Julia Child cooking shows.
It's been well over a year since I'd been to the Blue Talon, and the drive out Route 5 to the 'burg is one of my favorites (winding roads, curving roads, rolling hills; it's easy to imagine it as being designed for horse travel, which, of course, it was). We're only one night away from the Full Cold Moon, which shone a beautiful, pure light on the road as I headed east with almost no traffic.
When I arrived, the place was busy and the bar, with the TV hanging over it, was completely full. Fortunately, the waitress found a two-top in an alcove on the banquette with a straight shot view of Julia for me.
I soon found out the reason for the crowd: on Tuesdays, wine by the bottle is half price. A good deal, sure, but an amazing deal when you look at their regular wine list, full of obscure and small production wines and with its pricing of $20, $30 and $40 bottles. So, yes, for $10 a bottle, or about the cost of a glass, one could get the entire bottle. It was tough to make an economic case for ordering a glass; I got a bottle of the Tilia Malbec. One of the few ABC laws of which I approve, I knew I could take it back up Route 5 with me.
To eat, I had an enormous bowl of the hearty lentil soup with braised oxtail and fresh herbs and the fried chicken liver salad with potato wedges, baby spinach, arugula and whole-grain mustard vinaigrette. Peasant-y goodness.
This alcove seated three other two-tops and our proximity to each other resulted in a lot of shared conversations...or maybe it was just my eavesdropping that resulted in them. In any case, I heard one couple mention Comfort, so I had to jump in, living, as I do, four blocks from it. The two guys next to me wanted to talk "Julia and Julie," which I'd seen, so that became open for discussion.
But I never got too distracted to prevent my eyes from occasionally wandering back to Julia. I saw eggs being poached, a turkey being dressed and omelets being made, all on a TV screen in a restaurant. It wasn't as satisfying as a good dinner conversational partner (because it doesn't talk back to me), I have to admit, but I did enjoy it.
So for all you naysayers: I watched TV today.
Not long ago, I met a friend for a drink before a show and we got on this topic. As it happened, she's no fan of TVs in restaurants either, so we bonded over this and decided there should be a blanket rule against them. They're mood (one might even say "buzz") kills in a social situation like a restaurant. But since every rule must have its exception, we also agreed that only one place should have a TV and that's the Blue Talon in Williamsburg and that's because the only thing ever on it is old Julia Child cooking shows.
It's been well over a year since I'd been to the Blue Talon, and the drive out Route 5 to the 'burg is one of my favorites (winding roads, curving roads, rolling hills; it's easy to imagine it as being designed for horse travel, which, of course, it was). We're only one night away from the Full Cold Moon, which shone a beautiful, pure light on the road as I headed east with almost no traffic.
When I arrived, the place was busy and the bar, with the TV hanging over it, was completely full. Fortunately, the waitress found a two-top in an alcove on the banquette with a straight shot view of Julia for me.
I soon found out the reason for the crowd: on Tuesdays, wine by the bottle is half price. A good deal, sure, but an amazing deal when you look at their regular wine list, full of obscure and small production wines and with its pricing of $20, $30 and $40 bottles. So, yes, for $10 a bottle, or about the cost of a glass, one could get the entire bottle. It was tough to make an economic case for ordering a glass; I got a bottle of the Tilia Malbec. One of the few ABC laws of which I approve, I knew I could take it back up Route 5 with me.
To eat, I had an enormous bowl of the hearty lentil soup with braised oxtail and fresh herbs and the fried chicken liver salad with potato wedges, baby spinach, arugula and whole-grain mustard vinaigrette. Peasant-y goodness.
This alcove seated three other two-tops and our proximity to each other resulted in a lot of shared conversations...or maybe it was just my eavesdropping that resulted in them. In any case, I heard one couple mention Comfort, so I had to jump in, living, as I do, four blocks from it. The two guys next to me wanted to talk "Julia and Julie," which I'd seen, so that became open for discussion.
But I never got too distracted to prevent my eyes from occasionally wandering back to Julia. I saw eggs being poached, a turkey being dressed and omelets being made, all on a TV screen in a restaurant. It wasn't as satisfying as a good dinner conversational partner (because it doesn't talk back to me), I have to admit, but I did enjoy it.
So for all you naysayers: I watched TV today.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Texas de Brazil for The Beginner
A friend once expressed surprise when he learned that I go to Target.
Seems he couldn't imagine me as part of the Target masses, but, really, who isn't a part of that club at least occasionally?
No telling what his response will be when he hears that I went to a West End restaurant tonight; and not just surprised because of the location, but because it was a chain.
Friends had invited me to join them, with the caveat,"You'd better put on your A carnivore game."
That's right, we went to Texas de Brazil at Regency Square. (!)
I'm sure plenty of people have experienced this excess of protein palace, but it was all new to me.
The dining room was over the top, the number of servers who stopped by our table was excessive and the paper hand towels in the bathrooms had the name and logo on them.
Oh, yes, and there was an overwhelming amount of meat offered to us repeatedly.
I tasted what I could: leg of lamb, filet mignon wrapped in bacon, Brazilian sausage, a lamb chop, and Cordeiro so bloody rare as to be carpaccio (my favorite hunk o' meat of the evening actually).
The red light/green light system of announcing your meat lust seemed glutton-like to a neophyte like me, but apparently that's how it's done.
Although I began with a huge plate of greens and veggies so as to aid the digestion of my mega-meat meal, I feel certain that my arteries noticeably narrowed during our three hours there.
I tried to save my heart with red wine, namely the 2005 Vale dos Vinhedos Mioto Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon, but even Brazilian wine couldn't offset so much animal flesh.
Texas de Brazil, I am not worthy.
Or, more accurately, I just don't think you're my type.
Seems he couldn't imagine me as part of the Target masses, but, really, who isn't a part of that club at least occasionally?
No telling what his response will be when he hears that I went to a West End restaurant tonight; and not just surprised because of the location, but because it was a chain.
Friends had invited me to join them, with the caveat,"You'd better put on your A carnivore game."
That's right, we went to Texas de Brazil at Regency Square. (!)
I'm sure plenty of people have experienced this excess of protein palace, but it was all new to me.
The dining room was over the top, the number of servers who stopped by our table was excessive and the paper hand towels in the bathrooms had the name and logo on them.
Oh, yes, and there was an overwhelming amount of meat offered to us repeatedly.
I tasted what I could: leg of lamb, filet mignon wrapped in bacon, Brazilian sausage, a lamb chop, and Cordeiro so bloody rare as to be carpaccio (my favorite hunk o' meat of the evening actually).
The red light/green light system of announcing your meat lust seemed glutton-like to a neophyte like me, but apparently that's how it's done.
Although I began with a huge plate of greens and veggies so as to aid the digestion of my mega-meat meal, I feel certain that my arteries noticeably narrowed during our three hours there.
I tried to save my heart with red wine, namely the 2005 Vale dos Vinhedos Mioto Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon, but even Brazilian wine couldn't offset so much animal flesh.
Texas de Brazil, I am not worthy.
Or, more accurately, I just don't think you're my type.
Competitive Obedience: Really?
I never know what I'll get when I go to Project Resolution, the free monthly event featuring local filmmakers' films and discussion after each.
It's just about guaranteed to be interesting in one way or another and sometimes I am blown away by what I see.
Last night's event started with a film of stills from the Zombie Walk, set to music by Screamin' Jay Hawkins.
Another, "Blackbeard Attacks Hampton, VA," was shot on a pirate reenactment day and appealed to the (male) filmmaker because of all the guns being fired.
Sometimes the film is a rough cut, as with the "Cupcake" film we saw and the audience made suggestions about how to better end it.
"Red Light Syndrome" was about all the roadblocks that inevitably happen once a person realizes how badly they need to go to the bathroom.
"Santo Diablo" was about "borrowing" a roommate's can of chili and the dire consequences of doing so.
Obviously, inspiration comes from many sources.
One of the most charming was a film about a dog following his ball around town. The film was very much a postcard to RVA, showing various scenic locations as the dog sought someone to play with him.
Afterwards, we learned from the filmmaker that she spent a great deal of time training the dog, who will eventually participate in, get this, "competitive obedience" trials.
I think the term "competitive obedience" could be used in a whole lot of creative ways to describe human behavior, especially in a mocking way.
You know, like, "She dumped her boyfriend because he wasn't competitively obedient enough to suit her."
Think about it.
Project Resolution: not just a movie-going experience; sometimes you can expand your cultural vocabulary at the same time and you're always going to be at least entertained.
There's a bar, free popcorn, a raffle of DVDs and a chance to tell local filmmakers what you really think of their work.
That's a lot of entertainment for a Sunday night, if you ask me.
It's just about guaranteed to be interesting in one way or another and sometimes I am blown away by what I see.
Last night's event started with a film of stills from the Zombie Walk, set to music by Screamin' Jay Hawkins.
Another, "Blackbeard Attacks Hampton, VA," was shot on a pirate reenactment day and appealed to the (male) filmmaker because of all the guns being fired.
Sometimes the film is a rough cut, as with the "Cupcake" film we saw and the audience made suggestions about how to better end it.
"Red Light Syndrome" was about all the roadblocks that inevitably happen once a person realizes how badly they need to go to the bathroom.
"Santo Diablo" was about "borrowing" a roommate's can of chili and the dire consequences of doing so.
Obviously, inspiration comes from many sources.
One of the most charming was a film about a dog following his ball around town. The film was very much a postcard to RVA, showing various scenic locations as the dog sought someone to play with him.
Afterwards, we learned from the filmmaker that she spent a great deal of time training the dog, who will eventually participate in, get this, "competitive obedience" trials.
I think the term "competitive obedience" could be used in a whole lot of creative ways to describe human behavior, especially in a mocking way.
You know, like, "She dumped her boyfriend because he wasn't competitively obedient enough to suit her."
Think about it.
Project Resolution: not just a movie-going experience; sometimes you can expand your cultural vocabulary at the same time and you're always going to be at least entertained.
There's a bar, free popcorn, a raffle of DVDs and a chance to tell local filmmakers what you really think of their work.
That's a lot of entertainment for a Sunday night, if you ask me.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Wining Away A Beautful Day
When you wake up on the next to the last day of November to discover a warm, balmy day outside and it's three weeks until the official start of winter, it's time celebrate.
I don't know if you noticed, but it didn't even smell like November today. The scent of the warm air overtook the smell of decaying leaves, a truly lovely thing.
But what to do with such a gorgeous day?
In my book, a great way to appreciate a beautiful day is a road trip and it didn't take any convincing at all to get B.G.F. on board and heading west to Pollak Vineyards in Greenwood, on the other side of Charlottesville.
Founded in 2003 and opened to the public in 2008, this small family-owned winery was a first for both us, which is saying something because B.G.F. has made a hobby of tasting his way across the state.
None of the reds had the kind of weight and body I seek out, but they're new to this, so perhaps there will be improvement with time.
After all, you can't expect a 22-year old girl to have the personality and intellect of a 40-year old woman, either.
There's no substitute for time, as a stoned musician once sang.
Heading east to Barboursville, we went to Burnley Vineyards, one of the older vineyards in that area. B.G.F. knows the owners and had visited many times, so we had a very cordial and leisurely tasting as everyone caught up with each other.
There was even some wine geek talk of Thomas Jefferson's wine preferences and drinking habits.
B.G.F. is particularly fond of their Riesling, so some came back with us in the trunk of his car.
I was surprised to see they had a Zinfandel for tasting since it's not a grape grown in Virginia. I was not surprised to learn that they buy the grapes elsewhere.
The last time B.G.F. and I spent the day wine tasting was over the Labor Day weekend and the temperature was much cooler than today.
On the other hand, the drive back that time was in broad daylight and tonight's was post-sunset and getting darker by the mile, despite having left at close to the same time.
Tonight, the darkening sky was really something to behold with a dramatic cloud band of contrasting blues and grays, gradually giving way to those cotton batting type clouds surrounding the moon.
I think the weather gods would heartily approve of our spending today driving the countryside, admiring the scenery and tasting the fruits of the earth.
It certainly worked for me.
I don't know if you noticed, but it didn't even smell like November today. The scent of the warm air overtook the smell of decaying leaves, a truly lovely thing.
But what to do with such a gorgeous day?
In my book, a great way to appreciate a beautiful day is a road trip and it didn't take any convincing at all to get B.G.F. on board and heading west to Pollak Vineyards in Greenwood, on the other side of Charlottesville.
Founded in 2003 and opened to the public in 2008, this small family-owned winery was a first for both us, which is saying something because B.G.F. has made a hobby of tasting his way across the state.
None of the reds had the kind of weight and body I seek out, but they're new to this, so perhaps there will be improvement with time.
After all, you can't expect a 22-year old girl to have the personality and intellect of a 40-year old woman, either.
There's no substitute for time, as a stoned musician once sang.
Heading east to Barboursville, we went to Burnley Vineyards, one of the older vineyards in that area. B.G.F. knows the owners and had visited many times, so we had a very cordial and leisurely tasting as everyone caught up with each other.
There was even some wine geek talk of Thomas Jefferson's wine preferences and drinking habits.
B.G.F. is particularly fond of their Riesling, so some came back with us in the trunk of his car.
I was surprised to see they had a Zinfandel for tasting since it's not a grape grown in Virginia. I was not surprised to learn that they buy the grapes elsewhere.
The last time B.G.F. and I spent the day wine tasting was over the Labor Day weekend and the temperature was much cooler than today.
On the other hand, the drive back that time was in broad daylight and tonight's was post-sunset and getting darker by the mile, despite having left at close to the same time.
Tonight, the darkening sky was really something to behold with a dramatic cloud band of contrasting blues and grays, gradually giving way to those cotton batting type clouds surrounding the moon.
I think the weather gods would heartily approve of our spending today driving the countryside, admiring the scenery and tasting the fruits of the earth.
It certainly worked for me.
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