I abandoned Grace Street and my usual four-mile walk today for the sake of a Heron Rookery Walk being offered by the city's Department of Parks & Recreation.
Like most everyone, I've seen herons down by the river, but I was curious about their city digs.
It was the perfect tie-in to the Loft Tour going on downtown today and I saw plenty of people waiting at the Loft Tour stops as I drove down to the north end of the Mayo Bridge to meet the group.
Usually these walks are led by the James River's most enthusiastic and articulate cheerleader, Ralph White.
Unfortunately, recent surgery had taken him out of the game temporarily, so we were being talked to and led by two birding guys who had plenty to share with the group.
Our leader did apologize in advance for not being able to live up to Ralph White's high standards of knowledge and entertainment, but then, who could (no one knows the river and parks like Ralph and his passion for it is contagious)?
As he began explaining the mating customs, he apologized again.
"Ralph actually demonstrates the breeding rituals, but I'm not going to do that," he said and blushed.
We headed down toward the river and after descending a metal ladder (to the obvious consternation of several of the group members), took the Pipeline Walkway to the first island.
It was a far cry from Grace Street to be standing on the sandy shore in the sun with the river lapping at it and admiring the heron population just across the active water.
The first surprise was this extensive heron rookery essentially in the center of the city.
It currently has about 45 nests in it as the herons begin breeding season.
The most amazing part of that is that as recently as 2006, there were no heron nests downtown.
In 2007, there were seven; obviously, the heron population has gotten the word out about the amenities of downtown living in RVA.
The second surprise for me was learning that these birds, despite a six-foot wingspan, only weigh about five pounds with their hollow bones.
There were many herons walking branches, sitting on nests and just generally doing the Saturday morning thing.
We were told that a few have already laid eggs and others are preparing to do so.
As it turns out, herons are monogamous for a year, so the males choose a mate (unlike most of the bird population where the female does the choosing) and do the nest-sitting during the day while females replace them at night.
An enormous osprey nest atop a tower was pointed out to the group and, serendipitously, an osprey swooped down into it, to our amazement.
Ducks swam by and geese honked.
We all used binoculars almost continually and one of the Audubon guys set up a high-powered scope for even closer viewing.
The true bird-lovers in the group were beside themselves.
Since we'd only come a short distance on the Pipeline Walkway, I wanted to explore the rest; this was my daily walk after all.
The walkway was a metal grid with metal side rails over a big pipeline and water on both sides. I continued walking to see where it went, only to discover that it abruptly ended.
Well, not ended, but the grid we were walking on and the handrails went away.
Now if I wanted to go on, I would have to walk on a cement-covered pipe, rough with pebbles and beside water that was far more agitated.
There was a guy from the group walking just ahead of me, so I figured if he was going to do it, why shouldn't I?
Once the surface changed, though, he turned to me so I asked if we should continue.
"I used to build bridges, so I can walk on a steel beam," he said with a grin. "I could dance on this!"
Okay, so he was telling me that we were going on sans walkway and guard rails.
I was in.
Not surprisingly, it turned out to be the best part of the walk. The water was so turbulent you could smell it.
We got out further and discovered two herons only a couple of rocks away; he took pictures and I admired them preening in the sunshine.
Eventually we got to the point that the pipe was underwater and had to give up and head back, both really pleased that we'd chosen to go this route.
Only at this point did my new companion think to turn and ask me, "You can swim can't you?"
NOW you ask?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Holy Happy Hour, Batman!
Best happy hour in recent memory: today from 5-7:30 at Garnett's.
Because during the arsenic hours, wine is only $3 a glass.
Because all the time, they have appetizers that only cost $6 or $7.
Because it ends up qualifying as dinner it's so satisfying.
And when the check comes, you'll marvel at how full and wine-happy you are for so little cost.
A couple of glasses of shiraz, a couple of malbecs, the smoked salmon plate with tomato, capers, red onion, brown bread, Benedictine spread and Mac's fabulous pickles as well as the cheese plate (Gorgonzola, Brie and Muenster) with oil-brushed toast points and we had enough food to keep my girlfriend and me occupied for most of our visit.
It also fueled the required girl talk, which was why we met up in the first place.
Perennial Garnett's customer Cy came in and sat down next to me with a companion.
He and my friend kept eyeing each other until they both acknowledged that they recognized the other.
A few quick questions and hints and voila!
The two degrees of separation in RVA were revealed. "Your were at so and so's party! You're the one who was dancing with all the middle-aged women!" my friend exclaimed when she figured it out.
Cy's blush and ducked head confirmed every word. Hilarious.
Up next was Gallery 5 and what an interesting experience that was.
The bands playing were Shark Attack (firmly rooted in the 70s), Duchess of York (technically proficient but seemingly without any passion) and Trillions (formed from the ashes of Prabir and the Substitutes).
Fear not, though, Prabir may be long-gone, but the rest of the band's coifs remain firmly in place.
I say that with tongue in cheek only because I remember seeing a Prabir gig in NOVA listed as a "must-see" in the Washington Post's "Going Out" section, with a reference to the band's poppy sound and hipster haircuts.
Present and accounted for.
Trillion's sound is still plenty poppy, but with a more recent angular heritage, including a lot of The Strokes' influence.
Appealing voices and well-played instruments made for the best set of the night.
I had met Charlie, the singer and organizer of the show, earlier and stumped him when I asked him what he was listening to lately.
"Romantic period classical," he finally said.
Anything recent. I wondered? Not that he could name, to his embarrassment.
Oddly enough, the same thing had happened when I'd asked the sound guy Matt that exact question earlier.
After he acknowledged his parents' classic rock and a few jam bands, he had a hard time citing any current music he's listening to.
Does this strike anyone else as odd?
If a 20-something musician or sound guy isn't paying attention to the music his generation is making, who is?
I probably already know the answer, but I think it needs addressing.
Talkin' 'bout your generation.
Because during the arsenic hours, wine is only $3 a glass.
Because all the time, they have appetizers that only cost $6 or $7.
Because it ends up qualifying as dinner it's so satisfying.
And when the check comes, you'll marvel at how full and wine-happy you are for so little cost.
A couple of glasses of shiraz, a couple of malbecs, the smoked salmon plate with tomato, capers, red onion, brown bread, Benedictine spread and Mac's fabulous pickles as well as the cheese plate (Gorgonzola, Brie and Muenster) with oil-brushed toast points and we had enough food to keep my girlfriend and me occupied for most of our visit.
It also fueled the required girl talk, which was why we met up in the first place.
Perennial Garnett's customer Cy came in and sat down next to me with a companion.
He and my friend kept eyeing each other until they both acknowledged that they recognized the other.
A few quick questions and hints and voila!
The two degrees of separation in RVA were revealed. "Your were at so and so's party! You're the one who was dancing with all the middle-aged women!" my friend exclaimed when she figured it out.
Cy's blush and ducked head confirmed every word. Hilarious.
Up next was Gallery 5 and what an interesting experience that was.
The bands playing were Shark Attack (firmly rooted in the 70s), Duchess of York (technically proficient but seemingly without any passion) and Trillions (formed from the ashes of Prabir and the Substitutes).
Fear not, though, Prabir may be long-gone, but the rest of the band's coifs remain firmly in place.
I say that with tongue in cheek only because I remember seeing a Prabir gig in NOVA listed as a "must-see" in the Washington Post's "Going Out" section, with a reference to the band's poppy sound and hipster haircuts.
Present and accounted for.
Trillion's sound is still plenty poppy, but with a more recent angular heritage, including a lot of The Strokes' influence.
Appealing voices and well-played instruments made for the best set of the night.
I had met Charlie, the singer and organizer of the show, earlier and stumped him when I asked him what he was listening to lately.
"Romantic period classical," he finally said.
Anything recent. I wondered? Not that he could name, to his embarrassment.
Oddly enough, the same thing had happened when I'd asked the sound guy Matt that exact question earlier.
After he acknowledged his parents' classic rock and a few jam bands, he had a hard time citing any current music he's listening to.
Does this strike anyone else as odd?
If a 20-something musician or sound guy isn't paying attention to the music his generation is making, who is?
I probably already know the answer, but I think it needs addressing.
Talkin' 'bout your generation.
Be the Boss of Me and Tell Me What to Eat
Let me tell you what I consider a most satisfying evening; the only requirements are well-prepared food and interesting conversation.
I went out tonight expecting the one and unexpectedly got the other.
I know, I know, I just seem to be lucky that way.
This week has been extraordinarily busy for me and it feels like I've been around people every single second of it.
So tonight was all about me going out by myself and enjoying my own company and the Post.
I wanted to eat at Aziza's on Main because so far I'd only done lunch there.
Taking a sat at the bar, the single unpleasant element was that big screen over the bar because otherwise the vibe was perfect, with a few tables laughing and eating, just the right amount of lighting and great smells coming from the kitchen.
My server and I recognized each other right away; we'd met at Garnett's the night it opened and had each swooned over a different chocolate dessert.
A couple of months later, we had run into each other at Balliceaux and talked wine and men.
She offered me wine tonight and I was impressed to see that glasses were only $5.50 and, although the selection was limited to two reds, one white and one sparkling by the glass, the bottles were so reasonable ($18 to $40ish with just a couple that were more) that I'm guessing most people go the bottle route.
For dinner, I chose the jumbo lump crab with lime and basil and was rewarded with a nice-sized portion consisting of huge lumps of crab meat chilled and seasoned just enough to let the crab flavor shine through.
Wisely I also got the white beans and pancetta; the pancetta bits were small but plentiful and the warm beans swimming in that broth were sop-worthy; three pieces of Billy bread took care of every bit of it.
I'd planned my meal to allow room for one of Billy's renowned cream puffs with chocolate ganache.
A nearby bar sitter, upon seeing it, commented, "You guys keep making those things bigger, don't you?"
It was a very generously-sized piece of pastry, frosted thickly with ganache, and I had no trouble finishing it.
In between eating so much good food, my server and I talked about the in-progress wood-burning pizza oven being built; in fact, I even got a tour of the back room and the partially completed oven.
It's going to be magnificent.
A few more months and they'll be serving their pizzas and I'll wager it's going to be much harder to find an open table at Aziza's once that happens.
Best of all, the plan is to have a "baker's table" back where the oven is housed.
It'll seat eight and there will only be two seatings, at 6:00 and 8:00.
You'll pay a flat fee and will be served whatever they want to serve you from that oven; you'll hand over the decision-making to the pro.
Since I'm just a lowly eater, I'm more than happy to let someone more qualified tell me what to put in my mouth.
It'll be entertainment and sustenance all rolled into one experience and, frankly, I can't wait.
Conveniently, they plan to be up and running in May, which just happens to be my birthday month.
Can I come up with seven friends game enough to join me for an evening of the unknown?
Oh, I bet I can.
I went out tonight expecting the one and unexpectedly got the other.
I know, I know, I just seem to be lucky that way.
This week has been extraordinarily busy for me and it feels like I've been around people every single second of it.
So tonight was all about me going out by myself and enjoying my own company and the Post.
I wanted to eat at Aziza's on Main because so far I'd only done lunch there.
Taking a sat at the bar, the single unpleasant element was that big screen over the bar because otherwise the vibe was perfect, with a few tables laughing and eating, just the right amount of lighting and great smells coming from the kitchen.
My server and I recognized each other right away; we'd met at Garnett's the night it opened and had each swooned over a different chocolate dessert.
A couple of months later, we had run into each other at Balliceaux and talked wine and men.
She offered me wine tonight and I was impressed to see that glasses were only $5.50 and, although the selection was limited to two reds, one white and one sparkling by the glass, the bottles were so reasonable ($18 to $40ish with just a couple that were more) that I'm guessing most people go the bottle route.
For dinner, I chose the jumbo lump crab with lime and basil and was rewarded with a nice-sized portion consisting of huge lumps of crab meat chilled and seasoned just enough to let the crab flavor shine through.
Wisely I also got the white beans and pancetta; the pancetta bits were small but plentiful and the warm beans swimming in that broth were sop-worthy; three pieces of Billy bread took care of every bit of it.
I'd planned my meal to allow room for one of Billy's renowned cream puffs with chocolate ganache.
A nearby bar sitter, upon seeing it, commented, "You guys keep making those things bigger, don't you?"
It was a very generously-sized piece of pastry, frosted thickly with ganache, and I had no trouble finishing it.
In between eating so much good food, my server and I talked about the in-progress wood-burning pizza oven being built; in fact, I even got a tour of the back room and the partially completed oven.
It's going to be magnificent.
A few more months and they'll be serving their pizzas and I'll wager it's going to be much harder to find an open table at Aziza's once that happens.
Best of all, the plan is to have a "baker's table" back where the oven is housed.
It'll seat eight and there will only be two seatings, at 6:00 and 8:00.
You'll pay a flat fee and will be served whatever they want to serve you from that oven; you'll hand over the decision-making to the pro.
Since I'm just a lowly eater, I'm more than happy to let someone more qualified tell me what to put in my mouth.
It'll be entertainment and sustenance all rolled into one experience and, frankly, I can't wait.
Conveniently, they plan to be up and running in May, which just happens to be my birthday month.
Can I come up with seven friends game enough to join me for an evening of the unknown?
Oh, I bet I can.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Don't Call Me a Foodie
I have no taste, nor do I claim to; I am not a gourmet although most definitely a gourmand.
I eat what I like and make no apologies for it.
My penchant for putting meat on a white pizza has been fodder for discussion, my omission of shrimp in a mussels and shrimp dish was questioned and the list goes on.
Just this week, a friend read my post about having Mahi-Mahi souvlakia the other night at Basilis and took me to task for having a fish version of something he deemed should have been pork, or at the very least, lamb.
But Mahi-Mahi? Blasphemous apparently, not that his chiding mattered to me.
Actually, I think it made me a little defiant, which paid off in spades today in the most unexpected place.
I was craving broccoli at lunch (always a sure sign that I've been eating more salad greens than true veggies of late), so I decided to get lunch at Peking, good old Peking.
Like a lot of people, I order pretty much the same thing whenever I do Chinese and for me, that's Hunan something.
I don't really care what the protein in it is and I've eaten them all: shrimp, chicken, pork, beef. I like this dish because of its heat and the abundance of broccoli and mushies.
But one of today's specials was Hunan Fish and I admit, I was curious. The fish was tilapia, a fish I never seek out since it seems to be pretty much defined by its preparation.
But in this case, it made my taste buds sing because it was such a good conduit for all that spicy sauce.
The fish was so completely infused with the Hunan flavor as to take the dish to a whole new level. Its texture was perfect and each bite brought another hit of that heat; the flavor of the sauce was one with the tilapia.
And of course, it's not on the regular menu.
Okay, now I've laid myself bare again by eating something that will undoubtedly be scoffed at by someone with superior taste buds.
Not that it matters, because I'm the one who had the exceptional lunch.
But then, I always concede to the superiority of just about everyone else's palate over mine.
I just like to eat.
I eat what I like and make no apologies for it.
My penchant for putting meat on a white pizza has been fodder for discussion, my omission of shrimp in a mussels and shrimp dish was questioned and the list goes on.
Just this week, a friend read my post about having Mahi-Mahi souvlakia the other night at Basilis and took me to task for having a fish version of something he deemed should have been pork, or at the very least, lamb.
But Mahi-Mahi? Blasphemous apparently, not that his chiding mattered to me.
Actually, I think it made me a little defiant, which paid off in spades today in the most unexpected place.
I was craving broccoli at lunch (always a sure sign that I've been eating more salad greens than true veggies of late), so I decided to get lunch at Peking, good old Peking.
Like a lot of people, I order pretty much the same thing whenever I do Chinese and for me, that's Hunan something.
I don't really care what the protein in it is and I've eaten them all: shrimp, chicken, pork, beef. I like this dish because of its heat and the abundance of broccoli and mushies.
But one of today's specials was Hunan Fish and I admit, I was curious. The fish was tilapia, a fish I never seek out since it seems to be pretty much defined by its preparation.
But in this case, it made my taste buds sing because it was such a good conduit for all that spicy sauce.
The fish was so completely infused with the Hunan flavor as to take the dish to a whole new level. Its texture was perfect and each bite brought another hit of that heat; the flavor of the sauce was one with the tilapia.
And of course, it's not on the regular menu.
Okay, now I've laid myself bare again by eating something that will undoubtedly be scoffed at by someone with superior taste buds.
Not that it matters, because I'm the one who had the exceptional lunch.
But then, I always concede to the superiority of just about everyone else's palate over mine.
I just like to eat.
Spoon-Fed and Satisfied
Can you really have too much music in one evening?
And what about if some of it is unintentional; what if you just stumble into music before your planned music?
And aren't I the wrong person to pose this question to?
Our challenge was a limited amount of time to eat before going to see Spoon at the National tonight.
I wanted to catch at least part of the first opening band and all of the second, so we didn't have much time and decided to choose a place between my house and the venue, a distance of less than a dozen blocks.
That's how we ended up at Marshall Street Cafe, a restaurant I hadn't eaten at in at least a year and a half.
It's small but attractive with white tablecloths and flowers on the tables.
And, as we found out on walking in, they had live music tonight.
It was a three-piece, consisting of Skip Gailes on keyboard and sax, Wayne Short on guitar and Kat on vocals, which were mostly from the Great American Songbook.
I wasn't familiar with her, but the other two have been around for ages and their talent is already a given.
Given some excellent happy hour specials on beverages, including $2 off on any appetizer, I was surprised that more people were eating than drinking.
I ordered the tarragon chicken salad on a bed of mixed greens and my friend got a Philly Cheese Steak, but helped himself to my excellent chicken salad while I scored a few of his sauteed onions.
Both dishes were tasty and satisfying and they helpfully got us in and out quickly.
As we walked in, we caught the last few notes of the Strange Boys, so I can't really speak to their performance at all.
A musician friend there dismissed them as "fifties-sounding rock; both of us were eagerly anticipating hearing Deerhunter, though.
And they didn't disappoint with their significantly pop version of shoegaze and post-punk.
The first few songs stayed closer to the pop realm and then they were off and running with their more ambient punk sound.
Around this time, the guy standing next to me in an already overcrowded room struck up a conversation and within five minutes, we had discovered our three degrees of separation.
It's so true that you barely have to scratch the surface in RVA to discover mutual acquaintances and unexpected connections.
In this case, we had a radio connection (he's till in it); he somehow even knew one of my exes from the early '90s and pulled his name out of thin air.
What are the chances?
Then it was Spoon time and since they define the band's sound as simply as 'rock and roll,' we got an evening of rock and roll.
Britt Daniel started on the stage alone with his guitar (as my friend noted, "That takes balls."), then was augmented by the keyboard player and soon the entire band, which, after seventeen years, were incredibly tight.
The thrill for me was hearing his voice with its gravely resonance; the charming grin doesn't hurt, either.
As expected (finally!) it was a sold-out show, although most fans seemed to be of the fairly recent variety, reacting most strongly to the most recent material.
Of course, there were a number of people there for some reason other than to hear the music, including two guys who simply walked a path through the masses the entire evening, every ten minutes or so, they looped around by us again.
Personally, I was thrilled to hear "Everything Hits at Once" from 2001's Girls Can Tell.
They ended their encore with what is undoubtedly one of their hardest rocking songs, "Jonathon Fisk" from 2002's Kill the Moonlight, scoring major points with long-time fans in the audience.
For me, it just capped off a superb evening of music that began at dinner.
Because, the truth is, I really can't have too much music, especially when I can incorporate dinner and making new friends into the mix.
Or, as Spoon would sing, "That's just how we get by."
And what about if some of it is unintentional; what if you just stumble into music before your planned music?
And aren't I the wrong person to pose this question to?
Our challenge was a limited amount of time to eat before going to see Spoon at the National tonight.
I wanted to catch at least part of the first opening band and all of the second, so we didn't have much time and decided to choose a place between my house and the venue, a distance of less than a dozen blocks.
That's how we ended up at Marshall Street Cafe, a restaurant I hadn't eaten at in at least a year and a half.
It's small but attractive with white tablecloths and flowers on the tables.
And, as we found out on walking in, they had live music tonight.
It was a three-piece, consisting of Skip Gailes on keyboard and sax, Wayne Short on guitar and Kat on vocals, which were mostly from the Great American Songbook.
I wasn't familiar with her, but the other two have been around for ages and their talent is already a given.
Given some excellent happy hour specials on beverages, including $2 off on any appetizer, I was surprised that more people were eating than drinking.
I ordered the tarragon chicken salad on a bed of mixed greens and my friend got a Philly Cheese Steak, but helped himself to my excellent chicken salad while I scored a few of his sauteed onions.
Both dishes were tasty and satisfying and they helpfully got us in and out quickly.
As we walked in, we caught the last few notes of the Strange Boys, so I can't really speak to their performance at all.
A musician friend there dismissed them as "fifties-sounding rock; both of us were eagerly anticipating hearing Deerhunter, though.
And they didn't disappoint with their significantly pop version of shoegaze and post-punk.
The first few songs stayed closer to the pop realm and then they were off and running with their more ambient punk sound.
Around this time, the guy standing next to me in an already overcrowded room struck up a conversation and within five minutes, we had discovered our three degrees of separation.
It's so true that you barely have to scratch the surface in RVA to discover mutual acquaintances and unexpected connections.
In this case, we had a radio connection (he's till in it); he somehow even knew one of my exes from the early '90s and pulled his name out of thin air.
What are the chances?
Then it was Spoon time and since they define the band's sound as simply as 'rock and roll,' we got an evening of rock and roll.
Britt Daniel started on the stage alone with his guitar (as my friend noted, "That takes balls."), then was augmented by the keyboard player and soon the entire band, which, after seventeen years, were incredibly tight.
The thrill for me was hearing his voice with its gravely resonance; the charming grin doesn't hurt, either.
As expected (finally!) it was a sold-out show, although most fans seemed to be of the fairly recent variety, reacting most strongly to the most recent material.
Of course, there were a number of people there for some reason other than to hear the music, including two guys who simply walked a path through the masses the entire evening, every ten minutes or so, they looped around by us again.
Personally, I was thrilled to hear "Everything Hits at Once" from 2001's Girls Can Tell.
They ended their encore with what is undoubtedly one of their hardest rocking songs, "Jonathon Fisk" from 2002's Kill the Moonlight, scoring major points with long-time fans in the audience.
For me, it just capped off a superb evening of music that began at dinner.
Because, the truth is, I really can't have too much music, especially when I can incorporate dinner and making new friends into the mix.
Or, as Spoon would sing, "That's just how we get by."
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Starting Greek at Basilis, Ending Satisfied at the Listening Room
I got props from three different guys tonight and that's a damn fine showing for a Tuesday night, if I do say so myself.
I've said before that I blog for compliments, but sometimes the payoff isn't immediate, which only makes the eventual nod all the more satisfying.
Almost a month ago, a friend read yet another of my Listening Room posts and asked if he could go with me to the next one and naturally I agreed.
Another friend had also been swayed by my rave reviews of the experience and was planning to come.
Friend #1 and I began in Carytown to check out the new Greek restaurant, Basilis, for dinner.
The place is not elaborate, but that's part of its charm along with a menu that'll remind you of the Greek festival.
When we got there, they were down to their last order of one of the two specials, the Mahi-Mahi Souvlakia and it had my name on it.
My friend ordered the moussaka and we shared a spanikopita and a tiropita, craving that buttery, flaky goodness.
My stick o' fish was perfectly cooked and, with the green beans in tomatoes and pita, a practically perfect meal (it came with white rice, too).
My friend enjoyed his moussaka so much we had to sit around for 45 minutes before he had room for dessert, which we chose from the dessert case.
It was the fruit tart, but let me explain Basilis version; it was ladyfingers with whipped chocolate cream (like a light chocolate mousse) and a thin layer of tiny pieces of fruit in the center.
It was light and not in the least guilt-inducing, but not much like any fruit tart you might know.
Before we left, I went to the ladies' room, which turned out to be a lengthy process because of how I'd dressed for the evening.
In order to do what I needed to do, I had to unbutton first a jacket and then a sweater and then unzip my dress, because it had a split skirt I couldn't just pull up, and then remove two pairs of tights, black and magenta.
I felt like I was in there for days.
I tell you this only because I'm renowned for my fast bathroom visits, so I felt I had to tell my friend why when I came out of the loo as an explanation for my extended absence.
As I'm telling him, the guy behind the counter walks by us and says to me, "You're so cute," and walks into the kitchen.
Random.
Yet another example of a totally random comment from a stranger directed at me.
But it was nice, so I'll take it.
And then there was the Listening Room, with coffee from Apropos Roasters and coffee cake from Garnett's. We found seats and the music began with Paul Watson, a trumpeter I've seen on multiple occasions.
Tonight he had a guitarist with him and he played trumpet on some songs and sang on others.
At one point, Jonathan Vassar joined him on stage and the two of them puffed up their cheeks and made mock trumpet noises for part of the song, an impressive thing to watch.
By song #3, my companion turned to me and mouthed the word, "AMAZING," with a big grin, followed by a silent, "thank you."
Paul mentioned being tired of playing in bars where people are more interested in partying than listening to the music.
" But that's just me," he rationalized.
No, Paul, it's me and lots of other people, too.
After the first intermission, one of the organizers, Chris Edwards, announced the beginning of the second group's set by teasing his co-organizer.
"Jonathan Vassar, less talking, more sitting."
Can you tell that Chris usually works with children?
Hezekiah Jones, a four-piece from Philly consisting of guitar, lap steel, bass and violin with two members singing, captured the audience with a beautiful folky sound and compelling lyrics.
"This is called 'Cupcakes for the Army," lead singer Raphael said, "and it's about baking."
Or war, but we got his drift.
A couple of songs were written during the three blizzards this past winter and the resulting time stuck inside.
Midway through their set, my other friend, sitting in front of me, turned and mouthed, "WOW!" (Oh, I know.)
Last up was Chris Kasper and for most of his set, all but Raphael of H.J. joined him on stage, adding another dimension to his voice and acoustic guitar.
Chris mentioned how lucky he felt to find people he could stand on stage who could also play their instruments; this is apparently key to a good musical relationship.
They did a song of theirs currently getting a bit of airplay in Philly and acknowledged the thrill of it.
Favorite lyric:"Find me when I'm a bit older...and my tongue a bit bolder." (Oh, is that how I got this way?)
Both the friends who attended for the first time tonight came because they'd read my last four posts about this event and I'd somehow convinced them that they just had to experience the audio pleasure that is the Listening Room.
Sure, I could say I told (wrote) them so, but the real satisfaction is in having turned them on to one of RVA's hidden treasures.
It's all part of my top secret movement to convince the music-going public that the best way to enjoy a show is with their lips sealed and their ears wide open.
But I did tell them so.
I've said before that I blog for compliments, but sometimes the payoff isn't immediate, which only makes the eventual nod all the more satisfying.
Almost a month ago, a friend read yet another of my Listening Room posts and asked if he could go with me to the next one and naturally I agreed.
Another friend had also been swayed by my rave reviews of the experience and was planning to come.
Friend #1 and I began in Carytown to check out the new Greek restaurant, Basilis, for dinner.
The place is not elaborate, but that's part of its charm along with a menu that'll remind you of the Greek festival.
When we got there, they were down to their last order of one of the two specials, the Mahi-Mahi Souvlakia and it had my name on it.
My friend ordered the moussaka and we shared a spanikopita and a tiropita, craving that buttery, flaky goodness.
My stick o' fish was perfectly cooked and, with the green beans in tomatoes and pita, a practically perfect meal (it came with white rice, too).
My friend enjoyed his moussaka so much we had to sit around for 45 minutes before he had room for dessert, which we chose from the dessert case.
It was the fruit tart, but let me explain Basilis version; it was ladyfingers with whipped chocolate cream (like a light chocolate mousse) and a thin layer of tiny pieces of fruit in the center.
It was light and not in the least guilt-inducing, but not much like any fruit tart you might know.
Before we left, I went to the ladies' room, which turned out to be a lengthy process because of how I'd dressed for the evening.
In order to do what I needed to do, I had to unbutton first a jacket and then a sweater and then unzip my dress, because it had a split skirt I couldn't just pull up, and then remove two pairs of tights, black and magenta.
I felt like I was in there for days.
I tell you this only because I'm renowned for my fast bathroom visits, so I felt I had to tell my friend why when I came out of the loo as an explanation for my extended absence.
As I'm telling him, the guy behind the counter walks by us and says to me, "You're so cute," and walks into the kitchen.
Random.
Yet another example of a totally random comment from a stranger directed at me.
But it was nice, so I'll take it.
And then there was the Listening Room, with coffee from Apropos Roasters and coffee cake from Garnett's. We found seats and the music began with Paul Watson, a trumpeter I've seen on multiple occasions.
Tonight he had a guitarist with him and he played trumpet on some songs and sang on others.
At one point, Jonathan Vassar joined him on stage and the two of them puffed up their cheeks and made mock trumpet noises for part of the song, an impressive thing to watch.
By song #3, my companion turned to me and mouthed the word, "AMAZING," with a big grin, followed by a silent, "thank you."
Paul mentioned being tired of playing in bars where people are more interested in partying than listening to the music.
" But that's just me," he rationalized.
No, Paul, it's me and lots of other people, too.
After the first intermission, one of the organizers, Chris Edwards, announced the beginning of the second group's set by teasing his co-organizer.
"Jonathan Vassar, less talking, more sitting."
Can you tell that Chris usually works with children?
Hezekiah Jones, a four-piece from Philly consisting of guitar, lap steel, bass and violin with two members singing, captured the audience with a beautiful folky sound and compelling lyrics.
"This is called 'Cupcakes for the Army," lead singer Raphael said, "and it's about baking."
Or war, but we got his drift.
A couple of songs were written during the three blizzards this past winter and the resulting time stuck inside.
Midway through their set, my other friend, sitting in front of me, turned and mouthed, "WOW!" (Oh, I know.)
Last up was Chris Kasper and for most of his set, all but Raphael of H.J. joined him on stage, adding another dimension to his voice and acoustic guitar.
Chris mentioned how lucky he felt to find people he could stand on stage who could also play their instruments; this is apparently key to a good musical relationship.
They did a song of theirs currently getting a bit of airplay in Philly and acknowledged the thrill of it.
Favorite lyric:"Find me when I'm a bit older...and my tongue a bit bolder." (Oh, is that how I got this way?)
Both the friends who attended for the first time tonight came because they'd read my last four posts about this event and I'd somehow convinced them that they just had to experience the audio pleasure that is the Listening Room.
Sure, I could say I told (wrote) them so, but the real satisfaction is in having turned them on to one of RVA's hidden treasures.
It's all part of my top secret movement to convince the music-going public that the best way to enjoy a show is with their lips sealed and their ears wide open.
But I did tell them so.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Getting a Brazilian Fix
Everyone should have a neighborhood restaurant where they know they can go and get great food and interesting conversation.
And when I want that combination with a Brazilian accent, I go to Bistro 27 for a surefire evening.
You see, the beauty of being a familiar face is the unexpected, like pheasant ravioli in sage butter sauce that arrived unbidden and melted in my mouth.
It's also the reliable, like the scallops wrapped in bacon with the most perfect al dente lentils, which I've had before and still can't resist for only $11.
Or getting my chocolate cup with mixed berries but instead of just mascarpone, the cold mascarpone on the plate is flavored with coffee and the mascarpone on top of the cup is heated.
It's a divine combination suggested by Chef Carlos to change up a dessert I've had before.
Usually he plants himself on the stool next to me, but I'd brought a friend tonight, so instead he just stood next to me to provide dinner banter.
He'd like to see a movement to move Valentine's Day to the second Sunday of February, thus assuring men plenty of time to shop for their women ("You know, the chocolates, underwear. Priscilla's will do a great business.").
The business benefits to restaurants of a full weekend devoted to the holiday wasn't lost on him, either.
He raved about the Big Apple, a Latino market on Jeff Davis Highway.
With its butcher and fishmonger, Carlos was caught up in all the un-American protein choices they offered.
I found out that brains are in stock at the Big Apple, since brains have been a hot topic around this blog lately.
He left with goat and beef tongue, which he promptly used to make tongue tacos; I would have loved to have tasted those.
He raved so much about the selection that I feel sure I'll be heading southward soon.
At the James River Film festival tonight, we saw Big River, a sequel to King Corn, and Big River Man, a documentary about a Slovenian endurance swimmer, Martin Strel, who swam the Danube, the Yangtze and the Mississippi Rivers before taking on the full length of the Amazon.
His intention was to draw attention to the plight of the rain forests and it ended up being a winner at the 2009 Sundance Festival.
Originally a gambler, now when he isn't swimming he gives flamenco guitar lessons; to say this is an unusual man is a colossal understatement.
When he begins the swim, the river is at flood stage and that turns out to be one of the minor bumps in this journey.
His navigator is a young Wisconsin poker player who took a leave of absence from his job at Walmart to make this trip.
Strel loses twelve pounds in the first nine days and by day 45 he is beginning to show mental illness from the stress.
Three weeks later the crew no longer treat him like a human being but rather like an animal or monster who had no energy for anything except swimming; they even spoon-feed him.
Much of the land they go through in Peru and ultimately Brazil is completely uninhabited.
When they do see a city, it's almost foreign to them, eliciting religious babble from the navigator about heaven and hell; he too appeared to be coming unhinged.
The footage of Strel's descent as his brain struggles to function under the stress is disturbing in that way that good documentaries put you right there.
Finally reaching the end of the swim in Brazil, Strel is met by huge crowds and media from twenty countries, but his health is so precarious he is immediately taken to hospital.
The final images of him in a Speedo and skull cap sprawled on a couch, looking at promotional posters of himself after squandering the sponsorship money are heartbreaking.
But the film itself is a testament to commitment and it wasn't hard to see why it had taken a Sundance prize.
It was also the first U.S. showing of the film tonight (besides Sundance) and it was a free event, put on by the Biggest Picture, RVA's environmental film fest of the last two years as part of the James River Film Fest.
Leave it to Richmond to provide me a very Brazilian evening to feed my belly as well as my mind.
And when I want that combination with a Brazilian accent, I go to Bistro 27 for a surefire evening.
You see, the beauty of being a familiar face is the unexpected, like pheasant ravioli in sage butter sauce that arrived unbidden and melted in my mouth.
It's also the reliable, like the scallops wrapped in bacon with the most perfect al dente lentils, which I've had before and still can't resist for only $11.
Or getting my chocolate cup with mixed berries but instead of just mascarpone, the cold mascarpone on the plate is flavored with coffee and the mascarpone on top of the cup is heated.
It's a divine combination suggested by Chef Carlos to change up a dessert I've had before.
Usually he plants himself on the stool next to me, but I'd brought a friend tonight, so instead he just stood next to me to provide dinner banter.
He'd like to see a movement to move Valentine's Day to the second Sunday of February, thus assuring men plenty of time to shop for their women ("You know, the chocolates, underwear. Priscilla's will do a great business.").
The business benefits to restaurants of a full weekend devoted to the holiday wasn't lost on him, either.
He raved about the Big Apple, a Latino market on Jeff Davis Highway.
With its butcher and fishmonger, Carlos was caught up in all the un-American protein choices they offered.
I found out that brains are in stock at the Big Apple, since brains have been a hot topic around this blog lately.
He left with goat and beef tongue, which he promptly used to make tongue tacos; I would have loved to have tasted those.
He raved so much about the selection that I feel sure I'll be heading southward soon.
At the James River Film festival tonight, we saw Big River, a sequel to King Corn, and Big River Man, a documentary about a Slovenian endurance swimmer, Martin Strel, who swam the Danube, the Yangtze and the Mississippi Rivers before taking on the full length of the Amazon.
His intention was to draw attention to the plight of the rain forests and it ended up being a winner at the 2009 Sundance Festival.
Originally a gambler, now when he isn't swimming he gives flamenco guitar lessons; to say this is an unusual man is a colossal understatement.
When he begins the swim, the river is at flood stage and that turns out to be one of the minor bumps in this journey.
His navigator is a young Wisconsin poker player who took a leave of absence from his job at Walmart to make this trip.
Strel loses twelve pounds in the first nine days and by day 45 he is beginning to show mental illness from the stress.
Three weeks later the crew no longer treat him like a human being but rather like an animal or monster who had no energy for anything except swimming; they even spoon-feed him.
Much of the land they go through in Peru and ultimately Brazil is completely uninhabited.
When they do see a city, it's almost foreign to them, eliciting religious babble from the navigator about heaven and hell; he too appeared to be coming unhinged.
The footage of Strel's descent as his brain struggles to function under the stress is disturbing in that way that good documentaries put you right there.
Finally reaching the end of the swim in Brazil, Strel is met by huge crowds and media from twenty countries, but his health is so precarious he is immediately taken to hospital.
The final images of him in a Speedo and skull cap sprawled on a couch, looking at promotional posters of himself after squandering the sponsorship money are heartbreaking.
But the film itself is a testament to commitment and it wasn't hard to see why it had taken a Sundance prize.
It was also the first U.S. showing of the film tonight (besides Sundance) and it was a free event, put on by the Biggest Picture, RVA's environmental film fest of the last two years as part of the James River Film Fest.
Leave it to Richmond to provide me a very Brazilian evening to feed my belly as well as my mind.
Alone, but Not for Long
Isn't it always the way that when you think you'll have a simple little evening that it snowballs into something else altogether?
Tonight was Project Resolution at the Firehouse Theater, a regular event on my calendar, so I knew I'd spend a couple of hours watching local films-in-progress with the audience providing comments and constructive criticism afterwards.
But tonight there were only three offerings, making for a much shorter screening than usual.
We saw Through the Looking Glass, a short about a cat wanting to escape his house for the outdoors, which included a scene of the cat using the litter box and a scene where a gloved finger substituted for a cat's paw.
The second was an animated music video called Cad for a DC artist, Celeste Starchild; it was vintage 30s-style animation with a catchy hook-filled song behind it.
The last was another animated film, this one called Survival of the Fetish, about rekindling the spark in a marriage through perversion. Hey, whatever works.
Because it ended so early, I was unexpectedly able to make another night of the James River Film Festival and see The Lady from Shanghai at the Grace Street Theater.
Director Orson Welles set out to make this studio-ordered film noir a disorienting experience and he definitely succeeded.
His final cut was 155 minutes, but the studio edited it to 87 minutes, probably causing it to be even more confusing for the audience.
Welles' fake Irish brogue and the shoot-out in the hall of mirrors alone were worth the price of admission, though.
And I not only ran into the P-Res guys there, but a couple of other friends as well, giving us a chance to compare who'd seen what so far at the festival.
I scored pretty well with three films in three days.
Leaving the theater and walking up Grace Street, I heard my name called from Ipanema's patio and answered the call of some restaurant friends lounging on the patio.
Before long, a couple of other restaurant friends showed up and I heard how both their restaurant and Ipanema had been slammed tonight because of, what else, Wicked crowds.
This play has been very, very good to the local restaurant scene, if a bit overwhelming from 5:30ish to 7:40.
What about dessert, you ask?
Well, the blueberry-lemon cheesecake was to die for, especially for blueberry fans like me.
Around midnight, yet another restaurant friend showed up, just as wiped out.
We now had three places represented, so the dirt flew fast and furious and chef and owner comparisons were made and discussed.
Before anyone realized, it was after 1:00 and Monday.
So my low-key early evening alone had morphed into something far more social, to my great pleasure.
The joy of going out alone is who I may meet and chat up along the way and tonight offered up some choice conversations.
Let's just say I had a wicked good time. GB, that was for you.
Tonight was Project Resolution at the Firehouse Theater, a regular event on my calendar, so I knew I'd spend a couple of hours watching local films-in-progress with the audience providing comments and constructive criticism afterwards.
But tonight there were only three offerings, making for a much shorter screening than usual.
We saw Through the Looking Glass, a short about a cat wanting to escape his house for the outdoors, which included a scene of the cat using the litter box and a scene where a gloved finger substituted for a cat's paw.
The second was an animated music video called Cad for a DC artist, Celeste Starchild; it was vintage 30s-style animation with a catchy hook-filled song behind it.
The last was another animated film, this one called Survival of the Fetish, about rekindling the spark in a marriage through perversion. Hey, whatever works.
Because it ended so early, I was unexpectedly able to make another night of the James River Film Festival and see The Lady from Shanghai at the Grace Street Theater.
Director Orson Welles set out to make this studio-ordered film noir a disorienting experience and he definitely succeeded.
His final cut was 155 minutes, but the studio edited it to 87 minutes, probably causing it to be even more confusing for the audience.
Welles' fake Irish brogue and the shoot-out in the hall of mirrors alone were worth the price of admission, though.
And I not only ran into the P-Res guys there, but a couple of other friends as well, giving us a chance to compare who'd seen what so far at the festival.
I scored pretty well with three films in three days.
Leaving the theater and walking up Grace Street, I heard my name called from Ipanema's patio and answered the call of some restaurant friends lounging on the patio.
Before long, a couple of other restaurant friends showed up and I heard how both their restaurant and Ipanema had been slammed tonight because of, what else, Wicked crowds.
This play has been very, very good to the local restaurant scene, if a bit overwhelming from 5:30ish to 7:40.
What about dessert, you ask?
Well, the blueberry-lemon cheesecake was to die for, especially for blueberry fans like me.
Around midnight, yet another restaurant friend showed up, just as wiped out.
We now had three places represented, so the dirt flew fast and furious and chef and owner comparisons were made and discussed.
Before anyone realized, it was after 1:00 and Monday.
So my low-key early evening alone had morphed into something far more social, to my great pleasure.
The joy of going out alone is who I may meet and chat up along the way and tonight offered up some choice conversations.
Let's just say I had a wicked good time. GB, that was for you.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Hermitage Grill: Retro and Raunchy
I've been accused of being a city snob because I so rarely go beyond its borders for a restaurant meal, although I did venture out to Patterson and Libbie just the other day to eat.
And today, as we start another week, I found myself eating in the county again, so let my detractors please take note. I'm not sure I can be made fun of anymore for a solely city-centric worldview.
Instead of going west, today I went north to meet my friend Holly who's a regular and a big fan of the Hermitage Grill. She assured me that the place was friendly and the food consistently good. What more could I want for Sunday brunch except directions to the place since I had no clear idea where it was?
It's a small, square place (capacity 40) with a Royal Crown Cola clock and a neon Rx sign that was acquired during the demolition of Lakeside Pharmacy in exchange for two barbecue sandwiches.
That's a damn good deal, I'd say.
There are only three bar stools and my friend and I took up two thirds of them. A regular named Jason took the third, but I suspect most of the people in there today were regulars based on the greetings they got from the staff.
The menu kept the retro charm going with Fried Bologna and Onion Ring Eggs Benedict and Don's SOS (Shit on a Shingle) over Texas Toast. If you were looking for something truly different, there was Cornmeal-Crusted Catfish with Tarragon Bernaise.
I ordered the Spicy Black Bean Burrito and was pleased to find that it contained just enough eggs and cheese to bind the beans and was not stuffed with inexpensive green peppers as filler, a pet peeve of mine. My friend had the Flank Steak and Eggs, pounded out and blackened; she ate every bite.
Afterwards, we moved outside to the long picnic table that serves as a smoking area and is covered with crab meat cans for ashtrays. There, we sat in the sunshine catching up on each other's lives and watching the non-stop parade of shoppers at the Lakeside Market just across the street, a place I've obviously never frequented or I'd have known where the Hermitage Grill was.
And maybe because it's Sunday and maybe because it's a beautiful day, but of the dozen or more people we watched go in, only one came out with anything but beer (he got a newspaper).
At one point, the owner came out, locked the store and went to his car to get something. As he returned, an approaching customer starting giving him a hard time, saying, "You're supposed to be in the store selling beer, not out here."
I'm sure it was a lighthearted exchange, but I also guess that it points to the store's role in the neighborhood.
We finally went back inside to cool off and pay our bill.
My friend had mentioned how tiny and unusual the bathrooms were, so I went to find out. In the ladies' room were a toilet and a mirror on the door. The only part of the mirror not painted over was the face; a woman's body and even a hat covered the rest of the mirror.
When I sat down, my face filled the mirror, making it look like I was sitting on a beach reading The First Wives Club. It was cute and clever and I mentioned it when I got back to the bar.
Steve, the bartender, told me that most, but not every, woman agreed with me. Seems a woman was having dinner with friends one evening and went to use the bathroom just before her food came. She came out sputtering, saying she was appalled and would not eat at such a restaurant.
Her complaint?
When she stood up after using the toilet and looked down, apparently her "stuff" was front and center in the mirror. "I shouldn't have had to see that!" she told Steve and stalked out, never to return.
So here's your fair warning, ladies. If you don't want to see your naughty bits in the bathroom mirror of the Hermitage Grill, pull up your drawers as you stand up.
Or, better yet, get a grip.
And today, as we start another week, I found myself eating in the county again, so let my detractors please take note. I'm not sure I can be made fun of anymore for a solely city-centric worldview.
Instead of going west, today I went north to meet my friend Holly who's a regular and a big fan of the Hermitage Grill. She assured me that the place was friendly and the food consistently good. What more could I want for Sunday brunch except directions to the place since I had no clear idea where it was?
It's a small, square place (capacity 40) with a Royal Crown Cola clock and a neon Rx sign that was acquired during the demolition of Lakeside Pharmacy in exchange for two barbecue sandwiches.
That's a damn good deal, I'd say.
There are only three bar stools and my friend and I took up two thirds of them. A regular named Jason took the third, but I suspect most of the people in there today were regulars based on the greetings they got from the staff.
The menu kept the retro charm going with Fried Bologna and Onion Ring Eggs Benedict and Don's SOS (Shit on a Shingle) over Texas Toast. If you were looking for something truly different, there was Cornmeal-Crusted Catfish with Tarragon Bernaise.
I ordered the Spicy Black Bean Burrito and was pleased to find that it contained just enough eggs and cheese to bind the beans and was not stuffed with inexpensive green peppers as filler, a pet peeve of mine. My friend had the Flank Steak and Eggs, pounded out and blackened; she ate every bite.
Afterwards, we moved outside to the long picnic table that serves as a smoking area and is covered with crab meat cans for ashtrays. There, we sat in the sunshine catching up on each other's lives and watching the non-stop parade of shoppers at the Lakeside Market just across the street, a place I've obviously never frequented or I'd have known where the Hermitage Grill was.
And maybe because it's Sunday and maybe because it's a beautiful day, but of the dozen or more people we watched go in, only one came out with anything but beer (he got a newspaper).
At one point, the owner came out, locked the store and went to his car to get something. As he returned, an approaching customer starting giving him a hard time, saying, "You're supposed to be in the store selling beer, not out here."
I'm sure it was a lighthearted exchange, but I also guess that it points to the store's role in the neighborhood.
We finally went back inside to cool off and pay our bill.
My friend had mentioned how tiny and unusual the bathrooms were, so I went to find out. In the ladies' room were a toilet and a mirror on the door. The only part of the mirror not painted over was the face; a woman's body and even a hat covered the rest of the mirror.
When I sat down, my face filled the mirror, making it look like I was sitting on a beach reading The First Wives Club. It was cute and clever and I mentioned it when I got back to the bar.
Steve, the bartender, told me that most, but not every, woman agreed with me. Seems a woman was having dinner with friends one evening and went to use the bathroom just before her food came. She came out sputtering, saying she was appalled and would not eat at such a restaurant.
Her complaint?
When she stood up after using the toilet and looked down, apparently her "stuff" was front and center in the mirror. "I shouldn't have had to see that!" she told Steve and stalked out, never to return.
So here's your fair warning, ladies. If you don't want to see your naughty bits in the bathroom mirror of the Hermitage Grill, pull up your drawers as you stand up.
Or, better yet, get a grip.
Women as Advertisements
Tonight I was the poster girl for eating out, apparently. My plans were for later, so I intended to have a leisurely dinner at Tarrant's, knowing I'd have to wait until after the pre-Wicked/Symphony crowd cleared out. I could tell by the harried looks on the staff's faces when I arrived that it had been a crazy day. Between Saturday Stroll, drunken post-Irish festival attendees and then the theater crowd, they'd already been through the wringer.
Need proof? By 7:30, Tarrant's was out of their renowned garlic knots, those yeasty rolls they make and douse in oil and garlic. I know people who go there just for those rolls. I sat at the end of the bar and made it simple by just getting a Cobb salad and while I say "just," I think their Cobb is the best in the city. The bands of bacon, red onion, avocado, tomato and bleu cheese are generous and rest on top of a varied array of mixed greens.
Moments after my salad came, a foursome entered and one of the girls immediately stepped over to me and said, "That looks amazing. What is it?" I told her and she ogled it for a while until her date grabbed her arm and pulled her away. Not even five minutes later, a group of six came in and a girl looked at me, looked at my Cobb and said, "Omigod, that looks so good. It's like you're an advertisement for this restaurant looking so content with that salad in front of you! What is it?" So if you haven't had it, it's a big, beautiful-looking salad that's perfectly delicious.
As I was winding down, local artist and noted character Nate Motely came in for coffee and pliers (don't ask) and insisted on giving me one of his drawings. We see each other a lot around town (821 especially) and he loves to talk art with me; I'm guessing that's why he gifted me with this piece out of the blue. I'll admit, it made my night.
Then it was on to Plant Zero for another night of the James River Film Fest and to see Patti Smith: Dream of Life. Shot over a decade, the film was as interesting visually as it was for its content. It began with Smith saying, "Life is an adventure of our own design, intersecting fate in a series of lucky and unlucky accidents," and went on from there to show her in concert, on the road, visiting grave sites and at readings and protests. Directed by Steven Sebring and for the most part black and white, it was a compelling look at a fascinating woman.
In an elevator scene, she comments on someone asking her what it feels like to be a rock icon. "When they say that, it makes me feel like Mount Rushmore," she wryly notes. With her androgynous face and strong bones, she'd actually be a magnificent addition to that monument.
Her 1931 Gibson guitar was a gift from Sam Shepard and she named it Beau. Naturally, it had a lot of allure to musicians and she told of how when they came over, inevitably they'd compliment the guitar. She'd ask them if they wanted to play it, of course they'd accept and begin by tuning it. "And I'd get my guitar tuned!" she said gleefully. Even the mighty Bob Dylan tuned Smith's guitar this way.
Sebring had originally been scheduled to talk after the film, but scheduling conflicts prevented it. I would have liked to have heard the discourse afterwards because it appeared that the audience members were long-time devotees of Smith and undoubtedly would have had questions and information to share with the man who filmed her for ten years.
The documentary was fascinating for me because I didn't know enough about this seminal female figure in music history. Her one-upmanship stories of her skill at peeing in unusual places endeared her to me; I've been there myself, all urge and no place to go.
I came away feeling like Smith could be an advertisement for women carving out their own path in life. I wouldn't mind being thought of in that way myself.
Need proof? By 7:30, Tarrant's was out of their renowned garlic knots, those yeasty rolls they make and douse in oil and garlic. I know people who go there just for those rolls. I sat at the end of the bar and made it simple by just getting a Cobb salad and while I say "just," I think their Cobb is the best in the city. The bands of bacon, red onion, avocado, tomato and bleu cheese are generous and rest on top of a varied array of mixed greens.
Moments after my salad came, a foursome entered and one of the girls immediately stepped over to me and said, "That looks amazing. What is it?" I told her and she ogled it for a while until her date grabbed her arm and pulled her away. Not even five minutes later, a group of six came in and a girl looked at me, looked at my Cobb and said, "Omigod, that looks so good. It's like you're an advertisement for this restaurant looking so content with that salad in front of you! What is it?" So if you haven't had it, it's a big, beautiful-looking salad that's perfectly delicious.
As I was winding down, local artist and noted character Nate Motely came in for coffee and pliers (don't ask) and insisted on giving me one of his drawings. We see each other a lot around town (821 especially) and he loves to talk art with me; I'm guessing that's why he gifted me with this piece out of the blue. I'll admit, it made my night.
Then it was on to Plant Zero for another night of the James River Film Fest and to see Patti Smith: Dream of Life. Shot over a decade, the film was as interesting visually as it was for its content. It began with Smith saying, "Life is an adventure of our own design, intersecting fate in a series of lucky and unlucky accidents," and went on from there to show her in concert, on the road, visiting grave sites and at readings and protests. Directed by Steven Sebring and for the most part black and white, it was a compelling look at a fascinating woman.
In an elevator scene, she comments on someone asking her what it feels like to be a rock icon. "When they say that, it makes me feel like Mount Rushmore," she wryly notes. With her androgynous face and strong bones, she'd actually be a magnificent addition to that monument.
Her 1931 Gibson guitar was a gift from Sam Shepard and she named it Beau. Naturally, it had a lot of allure to musicians and she told of how when they came over, inevitably they'd compliment the guitar. She'd ask them if they wanted to play it, of course they'd accept and begin by tuning it. "And I'd get my guitar tuned!" she said gleefully. Even the mighty Bob Dylan tuned Smith's guitar this way.
Sebring had originally been scheduled to talk after the film, but scheduling conflicts prevented it. I would have liked to have heard the discourse afterwards because it appeared that the audience members were long-time devotees of Smith and undoubtedly would have had questions and information to share with the man who filmed her for ten years.
The documentary was fascinating for me because I didn't know enough about this seminal female figure in music history. Her one-upmanship stories of her skill at peeing in unusual places endeared her to me; I've been there myself, all urge and no place to go.
I came away feeling like Smith could be an advertisement for women carving out their own path in life. I wouldn't mind being thought of in that way myself.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Sipping Moonshine in Carytown
A nerd like me goes to book readings to learn and to be read to.
And sometimes, like today, I am rewarded with not only words, but moonshine.
And is there really a better way to let the words wash over you than sitting in front of an open window while passing a quart Mason jar of moonshine around the audience?
I'm not sure there is.
I showed up at Chop Suey Books to hear Max Watman discuss and read from his new book, Chasing the White Dog: An Amateur Outlaw's Adventures in Moonshine."
What I didn't anticipate was getting to experience the glories of "corn squeezins" firsthand.
Watman offered it up first thing and I was one of only three in the audience brave enough to give it a try.
Interestingly enough, as the reading progressed, more people reached out for the jar as it went by.
The first thing we learned was who drinks moonshine and while you might guess that it's a favorite at bluegrass jams and stock car races, the bulk of it is consumed by African-Americans in nip joints and shot houses.
Apparently Philly has an extremely high percentage of such places, but the author was put off by its size and crime, so much of his search for nip joints was centered around Danville, VA.
Despite romantic ideas of what such a place would be (dark, smokey, women in bright dresses dancing, customers sipping 'shine, circa 1935), what he finally realized was that the reality was probably going to be much seedier.
Nips joints, he was told, were rough places where cops don't rush in to stop a fight in a place that technically doesn't exist.
He gleaned this information from a guy named Skillet, his antics and those of his friend, Tuba who grew up in his family-owned nip joint ("If it was a Saturday night, Tuba was cutting someone," Skillet boasted).
And although the moonshine Skillet procured for Watman came in Sierra Mist bottle, he described it as smelling "...like poison, vile and sharp. Like stomach acid and Sierra Mist."
He said it had no lingering finish; rather it pushed into his mouth and exploded and his right cheek immediately went numb.
The fine 'shine we shared today was nothing like that, though.
Instead, it was sweet and a little grainy although the smell still made my nose hairs react.
I've tasted moonshine a few times in the past and this was much better than what had come before it.
The older woman sitting behind me, who had grown up with grandparents who made moonshine on their farm, announced midway through the lecture, "Someone take this away from me or it'll be gone."
Clearly she had a connoisseur's appreciation for good 'shine.
Me, I was just happy to have a tasting aid to enhance my pleasure and understanding of the subject.
Dispelling the notion that author readings can be dry affairs was just icing on the cake.
And sometimes, like today, I am rewarded with not only words, but moonshine.
And is there really a better way to let the words wash over you than sitting in front of an open window while passing a quart Mason jar of moonshine around the audience?
I'm not sure there is.
I showed up at Chop Suey Books to hear Max Watman discuss and read from his new book, Chasing the White Dog: An Amateur Outlaw's Adventures in Moonshine."
What I didn't anticipate was getting to experience the glories of "corn squeezins" firsthand.
Watman offered it up first thing and I was one of only three in the audience brave enough to give it a try.
Interestingly enough, as the reading progressed, more people reached out for the jar as it went by.
The first thing we learned was who drinks moonshine and while you might guess that it's a favorite at bluegrass jams and stock car races, the bulk of it is consumed by African-Americans in nip joints and shot houses.
Apparently Philly has an extremely high percentage of such places, but the author was put off by its size and crime, so much of his search for nip joints was centered around Danville, VA.
Despite romantic ideas of what such a place would be (dark, smokey, women in bright dresses dancing, customers sipping 'shine, circa 1935), what he finally realized was that the reality was probably going to be much seedier.
Nips joints, he was told, were rough places where cops don't rush in to stop a fight in a place that technically doesn't exist.
He gleaned this information from a guy named Skillet, his antics and those of his friend, Tuba who grew up in his family-owned nip joint ("If it was a Saturday night, Tuba was cutting someone," Skillet boasted).
And although the moonshine Skillet procured for Watman came in Sierra Mist bottle, he described it as smelling "...like poison, vile and sharp. Like stomach acid and Sierra Mist."
He said it had no lingering finish; rather it pushed into his mouth and exploded and his right cheek immediately went numb.
The fine 'shine we shared today was nothing like that, though.
Instead, it was sweet and a little grainy although the smell still made my nose hairs react.
I've tasted moonshine a few times in the past and this was much better than what had come before it.
The older woman sitting behind me, who had grown up with grandparents who made moonshine on their farm, announced midway through the lecture, "Someone take this away from me or it'll be gone."
Clearly she had a connoisseur's appreciation for good 'shine.
Me, I was just happy to have a tasting aid to enhance my pleasure and understanding of the subject.
Dispelling the notion that author readings can be dry affairs was just icing on the cake.
Stellar Saturday Stroll in Jackson Ward
Hard as it is for me to accept, I know that there are people who only come to Jackson Ward for First Fridays.
Of course, it's their loss; they're missing out on experiencing an area of the city that has much more to offer than just one night's activities.
And while that's only my opinion, apparently it's also the motivation behind the newest reason to get you here, the Saturday Stroll.
Put aside your concerns because you'll be coming to J-Ward in broad daylight, but you're not going to be disappointed.
These strolls will take place on the third Saturdays of the month and feature all kinds of ways to shop RVA.
And don't we all want to support the local economy?
Businesses are open, artists and craft vendors are located all along the streets and in front of galleries and the restaurants and food carts are ready to feed you; here's your chance to try out the Belvidere @ Broad for lunch, a meal they don't normally serve!
Over at Gallery 5, Amanda's amazing cupcakes are for sale.
Of course there's music; do you have any idea how many musicians live here?
Josh Small was playing today, the hula hoopers were out shimmying and you could have a caricature done.
Galleries had doors flung wide open, inviting you to come in; there was even an artist's talk over at the Black History Museum.
There were artists creating graffiti projects on boards near Quirk Gallery. Bizhan from Gallery 5 was one of the artists spray-painting away and I teased him about going back to his roots; he was a fairly active street artists years ago.
He laughed and acknowledged that he was out of practice and his index finger was already sore.
The other issue was the limitations of the size of the board.
With street art, one tends to have a much bigger "canvas" to work on.
Next month, he's planning to add some wheat pasting to the painting he'll do.
And let me point out that it's really pretty cool to be able to watch street art being created since most of it is done late at night and away from the view of the public.
I only wish Richmond would designate some of its old and derelict buildings for graffiti artists to better visually.
Imagine what a win/win situation it would be to artistically improve the ugly facades and give artists an outlet for their large scale work.
Maybe someday RVA will see the benefit to the city in such an endeavor.
I saw lots of people I knew, neighbors and locals, but there were plenty of visitors, too, out enjoying a beautiful day in Jackson Ward.
Anything that gets people down here to see what we have to offer is a very good thing in my book.
And I know we have some convincing to do; not everyone is as sold on the 'hood as me.
One woman with a stroller suggested to her posse (another family with a stroller), "Let's go eat at Lift. They actually have good sandwiches."
No shit, Sherlock.
We actually have a lot of very good things down here and now there's an easy way for you to check them out.
Just save the third Saturday of the month and we'll knock your socks off, J-Ward style.
Of course, it's their loss; they're missing out on experiencing an area of the city that has much more to offer than just one night's activities.
And while that's only my opinion, apparently it's also the motivation behind the newest reason to get you here, the Saturday Stroll.
Put aside your concerns because you'll be coming to J-Ward in broad daylight, but you're not going to be disappointed.
These strolls will take place on the third Saturdays of the month and feature all kinds of ways to shop RVA.
And don't we all want to support the local economy?
Businesses are open, artists and craft vendors are located all along the streets and in front of galleries and the restaurants and food carts are ready to feed you; here's your chance to try out the Belvidere @ Broad for lunch, a meal they don't normally serve!
Over at Gallery 5, Amanda's amazing cupcakes are for sale.
Of course there's music; do you have any idea how many musicians live here?
Josh Small was playing today, the hula hoopers were out shimmying and you could have a caricature done.
Galleries had doors flung wide open, inviting you to come in; there was even an artist's talk over at the Black History Museum.
There were artists creating graffiti projects on boards near Quirk Gallery. Bizhan from Gallery 5 was one of the artists spray-painting away and I teased him about going back to his roots; he was a fairly active street artists years ago.
He laughed and acknowledged that he was out of practice and his index finger was already sore.
The other issue was the limitations of the size of the board.
With street art, one tends to have a much bigger "canvas" to work on.
Next month, he's planning to add some wheat pasting to the painting he'll do.
And let me point out that it's really pretty cool to be able to watch street art being created since most of it is done late at night and away from the view of the public.
I only wish Richmond would designate some of its old and derelict buildings for graffiti artists to better visually.
Imagine what a win/win situation it would be to artistically improve the ugly facades and give artists an outlet for their large scale work.
Maybe someday RVA will see the benefit to the city in such an endeavor.
I saw lots of people I knew, neighbors and locals, but there were plenty of visitors, too, out enjoying a beautiful day in Jackson Ward.
Anything that gets people down here to see what we have to offer is a very good thing in my book.
And I know we have some convincing to do; not everyone is as sold on the 'hood as me.
One woman with a stroller suggested to her posse (another family with a stroller), "Let's go eat at Lift. They actually have good sandwiches."
No shit, Sherlock.
We actually have a lot of very good things down here and now there's an easy way for you to check them out.
Just save the third Saturday of the month and we'll knock your socks off, J-Ward style.
Friday, March 19, 2010
One Fine Day: Dishing, Fishing and Hotel X
I sold out again, only this time for a different reason (does that make it any better?).
A good friend wanted to meet for drinks at Can Can, but I'd just had lunch there yesterday.
Before I could even protest, though, she enticed me by saying she wanted me to meet a friend of hers whom she described as a "foodie" and who also happens to be a dining critic.
Okay, maybe I can repeat a location just this one last time.
It was a beautiful Friday, all the doors and windows were open and people just kept arriving.
Meanwhile we ordered carafes of Corbieres and a cheese plate (a triple creme, a mild bleu and a goat) and started telling each other what we knew.
It worked out well because we knew a lot of the same restaurant people and each of us had different details about them.
She told me a delicious story about a place she had intended to review but the experience was so off-putting that she told her editor, "You don't want me to do this review."
We discussed which restaurants consistently do things right and which have a habit of inconsistency.
The importance of quality front-of-the house management drew anecdotes from us both.
Only other commitments prevented us from doing this kind of talking all night.
Naturally, wine god Bob Talcott came over to say hello (and told me how great my magenta tights were; he mentioned something about blushing if he said more) and discuss the weather.
"This is going to turn out to be the finest day of the year," he proclaimed. It certainly ought to be in the running we agreed.
Afterwards, I went to Plant Zero to be part of the 17th Annual James River Film Fest and experience "Georges Melies Meets Hotel X."
It was a lot like the Silent Music Revival events, with a band accompanying a silent film.
I've seen some of Melies' films before (he made over 500) and he's known as the father of special effects.
Originally a magician, he was one of the first to use time-lapse, dissolves and multiple exposures, thereby translating his magic tricks onto the screen.
We saw three shorts tonight and one longer feature, The Impossible Voyage.
Besides its length, it stood out for the hand tinting, which must have been a laborious process back at the turn of the 20th century...cell by cell by cell.
Hotel X did a superior job at intently watching the film and reacting to it musically. I've seen a lot of these silent film/live music shows and this were easily one of the very best I've seen.
It helped that the band had multiple percussionists given all the clamorous goings-on in the films. Later, when asked why the band had chosen these in particular, they said it was because three were short and only one was long; I don't doubt that live musical improv to a film would be challenging.
After the screening, James River Film Fest t-shirts were distributed to the band as a thank-you for their superlative performance.
One of the drummers and a personal favorite of mine, Lance Koehler (also of No BS Brass Band) draped his over his snare drum and played it that way for the two songs the band did after the films.
Eventually Hotel X's groove became too much for some members of the audience, who began to dance in the areas around the movie screen, totally into it.
Driving back into the city across the Mayo Bridge, I think I got confirmation about Bob's assessment of the weather today.
There were a couple of guys, one leaning over the bridge and one comfortably seated in a folding chair, fishing off the bridge.
They had their bait buckets, they had their coolers, they had their back-up rods and at 10:30 on a March evening, they were still out there enjoying this weather.
The wine god may have been right about this fine day, but these gentlemen seemed to be putting in their vote for it as a fine night, too.
I'm willing to bet that the sliver of a moon in the clear sky wasn't hurting the mood any either.
A good friend wanted to meet for drinks at Can Can, but I'd just had lunch there yesterday.
Before I could even protest, though, she enticed me by saying she wanted me to meet a friend of hers whom she described as a "foodie" and who also happens to be a dining critic.
Okay, maybe I can repeat a location just this one last time.
It was a beautiful Friday, all the doors and windows were open and people just kept arriving.
Meanwhile we ordered carafes of Corbieres and a cheese plate (a triple creme, a mild bleu and a goat) and started telling each other what we knew.
It worked out well because we knew a lot of the same restaurant people and each of us had different details about them.
She told me a delicious story about a place she had intended to review but the experience was so off-putting that she told her editor, "You don't want me to do this review."
We discussed which restaurants consistently do things right and which have a habit of inconsistency.
The importance of quality front-of-the house management drew anecdotes from us both.
Only other commitments prevented us from doing this kind of talking all night.
Naturally, wine god Bob Talcott came over to say hello (and told me how great my magenta tights were; he mentioned something about blushing if he said more) and discuss the weather.
"This is going to turn out to be the finest day of the year," he proclaimed. It certainly ought to be in the running we agreed.
Afterwards, I went to Plant Zero to be part of the 17th Annual James River Film Fest and experience "Georges Melies Meets Hotel X."
It was a lot like the Silent Music Revival events, with a band accompanying a silent film.
I've seen some of Melies' films before (he made over 500) and he's known as the father of special effects.
Originally a magician, he was one of the first to use time-lapse, dissolves and multiple exposures, thereby translating his magic tricks onto the screen.
We saw three shorts tonight and one longer feature, The Impossible Voyage.
Besides its length, it stood out for the hand tinting, which must have been a laborious process back at the turn of the 20th century...cell by cell by cell.
Hotel X did a superior job at intently watching the film and reacting to it musically. I've seen a lot of these silent film/live music shows and this were easily one of the very best I've seen.
It helped that the band had multiple percussionists given all the clamorous goings-on in the films. Later, when asked why the band had chosen these in particular, they said it was because three were short and only one was long; I don't doubt that live musical improv to a film would be challenging.
After the screening, James River Film Fest t-shirts were distributed to the band as a thank-you for their superlative performance.
One of the drummers and a personal favorite of mine, Lance Koehler (also of No BS Brass Band) draped his over his snare drum and played it that way for the two songs the band did after the films.
Eventually Hotel X's groove became too much for some members of the audience, who began to dance in the areas around the movie screen, totally into it.
Driving back into the city across the Mayo Bridge, I think I got confirmation about Bob's assessment of the weather today.
There were a couple of guys, one leaning over the bridge and one comfortably seated in a folding chair, fishing off the bridge.
They had their bait buckets, they had their coolers, they had their back-up rods and at 10:30 on a March evening, they were still out there enjoying this weather.
The wine god may have been right about this fine day, but these gentlemen seemed to be putting in their vote for it as a fine night, too.
I'm willing to bet that the sliver of a moon in the clear sky wasn't hurting the mood any either.
The Grill at Patterson & Libbie: No Brains!
I didn't know a lot of people who went to Freckles restaurant on Patterson Avenue, but I was a regular there for years because I worked nearby.
In the past five years, I'd been more of a semi-regular, but the staff always knew me (and my order) and I still saw a lot of the same faces that I had seen there for years.
Their breakfast business had a devout following, maybe because they were one of the few places you could always get brains with your eggs.
Or maybe it was just their price points.
The place had looked like a bad rec-room from the 70s with smoke-stained wails and ceiling tiles (with ads on them!), an obviously homemade bar and family and dog pictures everywhere.
The bathroom was literally a hole in the wall, barely big enough for a toilet.
The atmosphere screamed old school family restaurant and the owner and her son were almost always there, although in recent years, her health had deteriorated and all he wanted was to sell the restaurant and finally have a life independent of it.
The reason I kept coming back was twofold and probably unlikely to have mattered to anyone else in RVA.
I always got the chef salad (minus the ham and cheese) with blue cheese dressing.
Big deal, right?
Well, actually it was because the owner made the most amazing croutons, big and sauteed in oil with nothing crouton-like about them except that they began as bread.
They were barely crunchy because of how much oil they contained.
Secondly, she made her own blue cheese dressing and I use the term dressing loosely because hers was mainly chunks of blue cheese with just enough of a creamy binder to prevent it from being a bowl of cheese chunks.
It was the best blue cheese dressing I have ever had anywhere and I've eaten a lot of it.
So, with the opening of the Grill at Patterson & Libbie, I was naturally curious to see what changes had been wrought, both in terms of the interior and the menu.
A friend and I lunched there today, not sure what to expect, but hoping for the best since she lives in the neighborhood.
Let's just say the renovation is tansformative.
The blue pleather booths are gone, replaced by larger and lovelier booths,
The bar is no longer low-hanging and seedy looking.
There are even two spacious bathrooms.
The waitresses all appear to be seasoned vets and everybody was hustling.
With their patio, they're sure to be a popular destination now that the weather is nice.
Since there was no chef salad on the menu (no brains, either, and that's a real loss in terms of an offbeat breakfast option), I decided to try the wedge salad.
It wouldn't have croutons, but it would have blue cheese.
When our server brought it to me, it was two large iceberg lettuce wedges drizzled in balsamic and a side dish of dressing.
Looking at it as she set it down, she observed, "They forgot the bacon," which was funny, since it's a three-ingredient dish.
She hurried right off and returned immediately with a bowl containing five slices of bacon (a bit flabby to be crumbled, but a generous amount) and I realized that, oh! this was a deconstructed wedge salad.
No matter, I set about shredding my bacon and sprinkling it over my wedges.
The blue cheese dressing was quite good and by that I mean it wasn't as magnificent as Sue's, but it had a good amount of chunks in it, just not as many as in hers.
The dressing was slightly sweeter than hers, closer to the typical blue cheese dressings, but still better than most.
My friend had the three-cheese grilled cheese with coleslaw and got a side of mac and cheese.
It was the baked version; she deemed it quite good and she's a mac and cheese snob, so that's a good sign.
Looking around at the customers, I actually recognized a few from the Freckles days; others looked like neighborhood residents.
They don't have their liquor license yet, but they stay open until midnight Monday through Saturday (Sundays until 3), so I expect they will do a brisk business.
Entrees are served after 5:00 and not one was over ten bucks.
Whether or not they draw the fanatic breakfast following remains to be seen; they no longer have the center filled with tables they can combine to accommodate large groups.
They wisely serve breakfast until 3:00, so expect to see a carafe of syrup and assorted jams on your table if you go in for lunch.
And although there aren't any brains for breakfast anymore, they do have bologna (as well as city ham and country ham), so you can still have a non-standard side for your eggs.
I have to admit, I loved what Freckles represented.
Their inexpensive, old-fashioned way of doing business was downright quaint by the 21st century.
They even kept candy bars for sale by the register in case you needed something sweet to go.
When a regular need something and the staff was busy, we knew we could just go grab the cracker basket or a roll-up and they'd appreciate it.
So maybe the Grill at Patterson & Libbie is just the logical evolution of what a neighborhood place has to be these days.
I'll go back, but I'll also probably always compare it to what it was as Freckles.
Damn! Now I'm sounding like a Richmonder, always bemoaning change.
Luckily the blue cheese dressing didn't change too much.
In the past five years, I'd been more of a semi-regular, but the staff always knew me (and my order) and I still saw a lot of the same faces that I had seen there for years.
Their breakfast business had a devout following, maybe because they were one of the few places you could always get brains with your eggs.
Or maybe it was just their price points.
The place had looked like a bad rec-room from the 70s with smoke-stained wails and ceiling tiles (with ads on them!), an obviously homemade bar and family and dog pictures everywhere.
The bathroom was literally a hole in the wall, barely big enough for a toilet.
The atmosphere screamed old school family restaurant and the owner and her son were almost always there, although in recent years, her health had deteriorated and all he wanted was to sell the restaurant and finally have a life independent of it.
The reason I kept coming back was twofold and probably unlikely to have mattered to anyone else in RVA.
I always got the chef salad (minus the ham and cheese) with blue cheese dressing.
Big deal, right?
Well, actually it was because the owner made the most amazing croutons, big and sauteed in oil with nothing crouton-like about them except that they began as bread.
They were barely crunchy because of how much oil they contained.
Secondly, she made her own blue cheese dressing and I use the term dressing loosely because hers was mainly chunks of blue cheese with just enough of a creamy binder to prevent it from being a bowl of cheese chunks.
It was the best blue cheese dressing I have ever had anywhere and I've eaten a lot of it.
So, with the opening of the Grill at Patterson & Libbie, I was naturally curious to see what changes had been wrought, both in terms of the interior and the menu.
A friend and I lunched there today, not sure what to expect, but hoping for the best since she lives in the neighborhood.
Let's just say the renovation is tansformative.
The blue pleather booths are gone, replaced by larger and lovelier booths,
The bar is no longer low-hanging and seedy looking.
There are even two spacious bathrooms.
The waitresses all appear to be seasoned vets and everybody was hustling.
With their patio, they're sure to be a popular destination now that the weather is nice.
Since there was no chef salad on the menu (no brains, either, and that's a real loss in terms of an offbeat breakfast option), I decided to try the wedge salad.
It wouldn't have croutons, but it would have blue cheese.
When our server brought it to me, it was two large iceberg lettuce wedges drizzled in balsamic and a side dish of dressing.
Looking at it as she set it down, she observed, "They forgot the bacon," which was funny, since it's a three-ingredient dish.
She hurried right off and returned immediately with a bowl containing five slices of bacon (a bit flabby to be crumbled, but a generous amount) and I realized that, oh! this was a deconstructed wedge salad.
No matter, I set about shredding my bacon and sprinkling it over my wedges.
The blue cheese dressing was quite good and by that I mean it wasn't as magnificent as Sue's, but it had a good amount of chunks in it, just not as many as in hers.
The dressing was slightly sweeter than hers, closer to the typical blue cheese dressings, but still better than most.
My friend had the three-cheese grilled cheese with coleslaw and got a side of mac and cheese.
It was the baked version; she deemed it quite good and she's a mac and cheese snob, so that's a good sign.
Looking around at the customers, I actually recognized a few from the Freckles days; others looked like neighborhood residents.
They don't have their liquor license yet, but they stay open until midnight Monday through Saturday (Sundays until 3), so I expect they will do a brisk business.
Entrees are served after 5:00 and not one was over ten bucks.
Whether or not they draw the fanatic breakfast following remains to be seen; they no longer have the center filled with tables they can combine to accommodate large groups.
They wisely serve breakfast until 3:00, so expect to see a carafe of syrup and assorted jams on your table if you go in for lunch.
And although there aren't any brains for breakfast anymore, they do have bologna (as well as city ham and country ham), so you can still have a non-standard side for your eggs.
I have to admit, I loved what Freckles represented.
Their inexpensive, old-fashioned way of doing business was downright quaint by the 21st century.
They even kept candy bars for sale by the register in case you needed something sweet to go.
When a regular need something and the staff was busy, we knew we could just go grab the cracker basket or a roll-up and they'd appreciate it.
So maybe the Grill at Patterson & Libbie is just the logical evolution of what a neighborhood place has to be these days.
I'll go back, but I'll also probably always compare it to what it was as Freckles.
Damn! Now I'm sounding like a Richmonder, always bemoaning change.
Luckily the blue cheese dressing didn't change too much.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Buying Me at Bouchon
Allow me to acknowledge that I can be bought.
Granted, bought by a friend, but bought. A friend who hasn't seen me in several weeks, but bought.
Me: Where do you want to eat?
Friend: How about Bouchon? We always meet interesting people there.
Me: No, I just ate there less than a week ago.
Friend: How about if I buy the wine, then can we go?
Me: (Sigh)
Friend: Oh, come on.
Me: Okay.
It's not that I don't enjoy Bouchon; I do.
And last week's visit had been to experience the early prix fixe menu and tonight's plan was to sit at the bar and enjoy the frugal bar menu.
At least that's the rationalization I was working off of. I had to justify revisiting a restaurant so soon after having been there in a town rife with excellent and varied choices.
Bouchon was crawling with Gen Ass types when we arrived around 7:45; I mean suits as far as the eye could see.
We even had to wait for three of them to vacate their bar stools to even sit down ("I kept it warm for you," one of them told me, patting his stool).
So that you know, the wine for which I sold my preference down the river was a Lauverjat Sancerre Moulin des Vrilleres and I only had one glass.
As soon as the bartender saw me, he placed the framed bar menu in front of me, saying, "I know you like the bar menu."
It's true, the prices are the draw but the food always delivers.
Splurging on three $4 choices, I got the Bouchon salad, the quiche du jour (sun dried tomatoes, Swiss cheese and mushrooms) and the Croque Monsieur.
I've had the salad before and knew it was well done and found the quiche to be the deep-dish variety and full of flavor.
The Croque Monsieur was the highlight, thick with French ham and melted Gruyere on brioche. That was three very different tastes, more than enough food and all for a mere $12.
I patted myself on the back for a job well done.
For the same $12, my friend got a personal favorite there, the Coq au Vin, but then also splurged on pommes frittes (an itch I had scratched at lunch) and the speck tart (easily my favorite thing on the regular menu and one I've ordered far too often).
I think she was just jealous of my multi-tasting and couldn't settle for just one dish after all.
A nearby bar sitter was celebrating his birthday with some wine tasting with the chef once things settled down.
We toasted him and I asked if he wanted to tell me his age; he wound up as if to deliver the magic number in a big way and then said, "No."
His pregnant pause was so beautifully done that we both laughed out loud; I even felt it worthy of compliment.
The couple next to him, port drinkers, consisted of a guy raised in South Boston ("That's tobacco country, you know!") and his gal pal ("I was not a home wrecker. I am not the other woman.") who talked loudly and to anyone who would listen.
My friend, who travels constantly for work, gravitates to Bouchon because "it doesn't feel like it's in Richmond."
I don't know, with Gen Ass suits and tobacco country refugees, it certainly doesn't feel far off to me.
Not that it matters, what with the gift of wine and a $4 menu.
Some of us are just so easy to please.
Granted, bought by a friend, but bought. A friend who hasn't seen me in several weeks, but bought.
Me: Where do you want to eat?
Friend: How about Bouchon? We always meet interesting people there.
Me: No, I just ate there less than a week ago.
Friend: How about if I buy the wine, then can we go?
Me: (Sigh)
Friend: Oh, come on.
Me: Okay.
It's not that I don't enjoy Bouchon; I do.
And last week's visit had been to experience the early prix fixe menu and tonight's plan was to sit at the bar and enjoy the frugal bar menu.
At least that's the rationalization I was working off of. I had to justify revisiting a restaurant so soon after having been there in a town rife with excellent and varied choices.
Bouchon was crawling with Gen Ass types when we arrived around 7:45; I mean suits as far as the eye could see.
We even had to wait for three of them to vacate their bar stools to even sit down ("I kept it warm for you," one of them told me, patting his stool).
So that you know, the wine for which I sold my preference down the river was a Lauverjat Sancerre Moulin des Vrilleres and I only had one glass.
As soon as the bartender saw me, he placed the framed bar menu in front of me, saying, "I know you like the bar menu."
It's true, the prices are the draw but the food always delivers.
Splurging on three $4 choices, I got the Bouchon salad, the quiche du jour (sun dried tomatoes, Swiss cheese and mushrooms) and the Croque Monsieur.
I've had the salad before and knew it was well done and found the quiche to be the deep-dish variety and full of flavor.
The Croque Monsieur was the highlight, thick with French ham and melted Gruyere on brioche. That was three very different tastes, more than enough food and all for a mere $12.
I patted myself on the back for a job well done.
For the same $12, my friend got a personal favorite there, the Coq au Vin, but then also splurged on pommes frittes (an itch I had scratched at lunch) and the speck tart (easily my favorite thing on the regular menu and one I've ordered far too often).
I think she was just jealous of my multi-tasting and couldn't settle for just one dish after all.
A nearby bar sitter was celebrating his birthday with some wine tasting with the chef once things settled down.
We toasted him and I asked if he wanted to tell me his age; he wound up as if to deliver the magic number in a big way and then said, "No."
His pregnant pause was so beautifully done that we both laughed out loud; I even felt it worthy of compliment.
The couple next to him, port drinkers, consisted of a guy raised in South Boston ("That's tobacco country, you know!") and his gal pal ("I was not a home wrecker. I am not the other woman.") who talked loudly and to anyone who would listen.
My friend, who travels constantly for work, gravitates to Bouchon because "it doesn't feel like it's in Richmond."
I don't know, with Gen Ass suits and tobacco country refugees, it certainly doesn't feel far off to me.
Not that it matters, what with the gift of wine and a $4 menu.
Some of us are just so easy to please.
Improvising Our Way to Can Can
There's two ways to look at an unexpected change in plans.
A favorite friend and I thought we were going to a lecture, except that one of us had the date wrong (totally my fault, but totally understandable if you saw all the stuff I keep track of on my calendar).
Since we already had planned to eat together afterwords, we just changed our plans to replace the lecture with a walk and then eat lunch at Bonvenu, as we'd talked about.
Except that Bonvenue only does lunch on Saturdays and Sundays; instead we admired the lunch menu and hope to make it back some weekend to try it.
No problem, my friend said, let's go to Can Can and have moules and frites.
Given the beautiful day, the fact that she was off and out for a change and that we now had a bonus hour in which to goof off, it sounded like the most wonderful lunch we could have hoped for.
Plans? What plans?
Noonish at CanCan apparently means a crowd out the door to get in, so we made a beeline to our favorite table, known as the bar.
The front windows were wide open and the sunny air was pouring in.
Since we'd already determined what we'd be eating, the only decision remaining was the broth (white wine and garlic, natch) and the beverage.
She looked at me and asked, "Should we have a glass of wine?" and before I could answer she qualified it with, "But I can only have one!"
You know, as opposed to the four or five glasses we usually have at lunch.
Kidding.
We usually go dry at lunch, she and I; it's dinner where we're less circumspect (see: Sunday at Ipanema).
So it was that I enjoyed a glass of rose (complimentary because they didn't have a full pour left and it was the last bottle) and she the chenin blanc with our mussels and fries.
I was a little disappointed that at the end of my bowl, five of my mussels were still closed and thus inedible, but I made up for it by eating every last perfectly-cooked fry.
I'm not ashamed to say I even emptied the last little salty bits of the paper cone into my hand to make sure I didn't miss any.
The pace of our walk after lunch was decidedly slower than beforehand, but why rush on a day like this?
True, we hadn't improved our minds any without the lecture, but the drawn-out pleasures of a leisurely girls' lunch out (and with Style's State of the Plate issue to dish over) can't be overstated.
Or as my friend said midway through our sunny lunch, "It feels like I'm on vacation!"
A favorite friend and I thought we were going to a lecture, except that one of us had the date wrong (totally my fault, but totally understandable if you saw all the stuff I keep track of on my calendar).
Since we already had planned to eat together afterwords, we just changed our plans to replace the lecture with a walk and then eat lunch at Bonvenu, as we'd talked about.
Except that Bonvenue only does lunch on Saturdays and Sundays; instead we admired the lunch menu and hope to make it back some weekend to try it.
No problem, my friend said, let's go to Can Can and have moules and frites.
Given the beautiful day, the fact that she was off and out for a change and that we now had a bonus hour in which to goof off, it sounded like the most wonderful lunch we could have hoped for.
Plans? What plans?
Noonish at CanCan apparently means a crowd out the door to get in, so we made a beeline to our favorite table, known as the bar.
The front windows were wide open and the sunny air was pouring in.
Since we'd already determined what we'd be eating, the only decision remaining was the broth (white wine and garlic, natch) and the beverage.
She looked at me and asked, "Should we have a glass of wine?" and before I could answer she qualified it with, "But I can only have one!"
You know, as opposed to the four or five glasses we usually have at lunch.
Kidding.
We usually go dry at lunch, she and I; it's dinner where we're less circumspect (see: Sunday at Ipanema).
So it was that I enjoyed a glass of rose (complimentary because they didn't have a full pour left and it was the last bottle) and she the chenin blanc with our mussels and fries.
I was a little disappointed that at the end of my bowl, five of my mussels were still closed and thus inedible, but I made up for it by eating every last perfectly-cooked fry.
I'm not ashamed to say I even emptied the last little salty bits of the paper cone into my hand to make sure I didn't miss any.
The pace of our walk after lunch was decidedly slower than beforehand, but why rush on a day like this?
True, we hadn't improved our minds any without the lecture, but the drawn-out pleasures of a leisurely girls' lunch out (and with Style's State of the Plate issue to dish over) can't be overstated.
Or as my friend said midway through our sunny lunch, "It feels like I'm on vacation!"
Breaking the (Sette) Pizza Rules Again
Q: What do you wear when your evening starts with a Poetic Principles reading at the Virginia Museum and ends with a show at the Canal Club?
A: Something that makes the guard at the museum say to you, "You look mighty nice for a poetry reading," when what he really means is, "That's not how folks usually dress to come here, miss."
And actually it wasn't a poetry reading because Christine Schutt is no longer writing poetry; her latest book is "All Souls," a novel set in an all-girls' school.
As she read selections from it, though, her poetic roots became obvious. Her cadences were completely poetic.
Every sentence came across as a phrase in a poem; it was lovely. Reading about a group of feckless girls, she referenced their "wayward society swagger;" it's practically a poem title itself.
Tonight was the last of this year's Poetic Principles, a series that will restart in October.
Then I headed east to meet a friend at Sette Pizza before the music portion of the evening.
I began with a half Sette Chopped Salad (lettuce, tomato, Gorgonzola and bacon with a balsamic vinaigrette) because I was starving and couldn't wait for my friend any longer.
When he did arrive, we decided (SPOILER ALERT: Pizza purists, stop reading now) on the Florentine (white sauce, baby spinach, and goat cheese) and, with all the nerve in the world, we had them put bacon on it.
The bartender grinned at me and said, "Bacon is gooood," which supports my argument that bacon makes everything better.
The pizza was delicious, gooey with the two cheeses and amply sprinkled with the tiniest bacon bits.
When we got to the Canal Club, The Dig was midway through their set; I'd seen this NYC group before and was sorry to have missed all of their set.
Next up was Port O'Brien and I can see why people like M. Ward are calling them their favorite new band.
Their combination of folk and indie rock, drawing as much from the 60s as from 80s bands like the Replacements, is pure ear candy.
In talking to the audience, they asked if Richmond had lots of good things to do.
Someone shouted out GWAR and the lead singer said, "Really? GWAR is from here? That just made my day!"
Toward the end of their set, a box of sound was distributed to the audience, including pots, pans and spoons for us to make noise with.
They closed by saying, "Goodnight Richmond, home of GWAR!"
And then it was something completely different, the headliner, Portugal the Man.
Whereas Port O'Brien pulled from 60s and 80s pop, PtM is much more experimental and psychedelic.
There were even elements of prog rock; at one point, my friend said that the sound reminded him of early Yes and Genesis, extremely complex.
To complement such complexity, lead singer John Gourley even adopted a sideways stance throughout the show, facing stage left and his backup singer rather than the audience.
The crowd wasn't huge; it was St. Patrick's Day after all and plenty of people had green beer to drink, but the people who were there were clearly fans, singing along to almost every song and cheering the band raucously.
An audience of true fans is always the best kind anyway for their contagious enthusiasm.
Let's just say we all left completely satisfied, even the friend I ran into who cut out a bit early (she knows who she is).
Most importantly, the designated duds did a seamless job of taking me from the literary to prog rock.
Not that anyone was looking.
A: Something that makes the guard at the museum say to you, "You look mighty nice for a poetry reading," when what he really means is, "That's not how folks usually dress to come here, miss."
And actually it wasn't a poetry reading because Christine Schutt is no longer writing poetry; her latest book is "All Souls," a novel set in an all-girls' school.
As she read selections from it, though, her poetic roots became obvious. Her cadences were completely poetic.
Every sentence came across as a phrase in a poem; it was lovely. Reading about a group of feckless girls, she referenced their "wayward society swagger;" it's practically a poem title itself.
Tonight was the last of this year's Poetic Principles, a series that will restart in October.
Then I headed east to meet a friend at Sette Pizza before the music portion of the evening.
I began with a half Sette Chopped Salad (lettuce, tomato, Gorgonzola and bacon with a balsamic vinaigrette) because I was starving and couldn't wait for my friend any longer.
When he did arrive, we decided (SPOILER ALERT: Pizza purists, stop reading now) on the Florentine (white sauce, baby spinach, and goat cheese) and, with all the nerve in the world, we had them put bacon on it.
The bartender grinned at me and said, "Bacon is gooood," which supports my argument that bacon makes everything better.
The pizza was delicious, gooey with the two cheeses and amply sprinkled with the tiniest bacon bits.
When we got to the Canal Club, The Dig was midway through their set; I'd seen this NYC group before and was sorry to have missed all of their set.
Next up was Port O'Brien and I can see why people like M. Ward are calling them their favorite new band.
Their combination of folk and indie rock, drawing as much from the 60s as from 80s bands like the Replacements, is pure ear candy.
In talking to the audience, they asked if Richmond had lots of good things to do.
Someone shouted out GWAR and the lead singer said, "Really? GWAR is from here? That just made my day!"
Toward the end of their set, a box of sound was distributed to the audience, including pots, pans and spoons for us to make noise with.
They closed by saying, "Goodnight Richmond, home of GWAR!"
And then it was something completely different, the headliner, Portugal the Man.
Whereas Port O'Brien pulled from 60s and 80s pop, PtM is much more experimental and psychedelic.
There were even elements of prog rock; at one point, my friend said that the sound reminded him of early Yes and Genesis, extremely complex.
To complement such complexity, lead singer John Gourley even adopted a sideways stance throughout the show, facing stage left and his backup singer rather than the audience.
The crowd wasn't huge; it was St. Patrick's Day after all and plenty of people had green beer to drink, but the people who were there were clearly fans, singing along to almost every song and cheering the band raucously.
An audience of true fans is always the best kind anyway for their contagious enthusiasm.
Let's just say we all left completely satisfied, even the friend I ran into who cut out a bit early (she knows who she is).
Most importantly, the designated duds did a seamless job of taking me from the literary to prog rock.
Not that anyone was looking.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
An Irish Music Mix Beats Green Beer
It's St. Patrick's Day, so I'm honoring my past and wearing green to avoid being pinched.
I will not, however, be drinking any green beer today (or any beer any day, for that matter) or even drinking whisky.
What I will be doing is listening to my new mix tape gift, a collection of Irish artists to celebrate this day.
Yea, yea, the usual suspects are represented: Sinead O'Connor, U2, Van Morrison, Boondock Saints.
But there's plenty of the less obvious, too, like the Waterboys, Boomtown Rats and My Bloody Valentine.
I even made a few suggestions for the mix that were included, for instance, Guggenheim Grotto (and, by default, The Frames and Swell Season), Snow Patrol featuring Martha Wainright on "Set Fire to the Third Bar" and an old 90s favorite, the Devlins' "Someone to Talk to."
I requested that the Thrills be on there and was rewarded with "The Irish Keep Gate Crashing."
The Magic Numbers, Damien Dempsey, the Icicle Works, the Irish bands just keep coming on this mix, to my great delight.
It's a two-hour tribute to my heritage that I'll still be enjoying long after March.
And, sure, you could drink green beer while you were listening, but why would you want to mess up a perfectly good listen like that?
The songs alone should be enough to get you off.
Or maybe that's just me and my Irish roots.
I will not, however, be drinking any green beer today (or any beer any day, for that matter) or even drinking whisky.
What I will be doing is listening to my new mix tape gift, a collection of Irish artists to celebrate this day.
Yea, yea, the usual suspects are represented: Sinead O'Connor, U2, Van Morrison, Boondock Saints.
But there's plenty of the less obvious, too, like the Waterboys, Boomtown Rats and My Bloody Valentine.
I even made a few suggestions for the mix that were included, for instance, Guggenheim Grotto (and, by default, The Frames and Swell Season), Snow Patrol featuring Martha Wainright on "Set Fire to the Third Bar" and an old 90s favorite, the Devlins' "Someone to Talk to."
I requested that the Thrills be on there and was rewarded with "The Irish Keep Gate Crashing."
The Magic Numbers, Damien Dempsey, the Icicle Works, the Irish bands just keep coming on this mix, to my great delight.
It's a two-hour tribute to my heritage that I'll still be enjoying long after March.
And, sure, you could drink green beer while you were listening, but why would you want to mess up a perfectly good listen like that?
The songs alone should be enough to get you off.
Or maybe that's just me and my Irish roots.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Mama's Subs for Croaker's Spot
It was going to be a neighborhood night 'cause we were going to end up at Gallery 5.
I had a hankering for soul food, so I planned to introduce my friend to Croaker's Spot and wow him with its retro charm, cornbread and fish.
Except Croaker's Spot was padlocked closed.
Not a problem in the neighborhood formerly known as the "Harlem of the South."
We just headed up the block and went to Mama's instead.
The handsome, well-dressed customer standing outside the door smiled and since he looked so satisfied, I asked him about the place.
He had nothing but good things to say about the food and that he'd been repeatedly.
We were sold.
Except for the TV screen over the bar (screens in general don't belong in restaurants except sports bars, imho), it was a charming place with a cozy neighborhood feel.
The place mats were fuzzy-feeling with colorful circles, very groovy, and looked like the kind of thing the Brady Bunch might have eaten off of.
The bartender was friendly and accommodating; I asked her what her favorite entree was and she gave me a big old grin, saying, "Well, I'm a pork chop kind of girl."
Amen to that, honey.
I ordered the fried trout because the guy outside had recommended it and it came with a corn muffin.
I told my companion that it was just like Fridays in my house growing up; some kind of fish, a veggie and corn bread or corn muffins.
He got the salmon cakes, another Friday staple in my family.
The trout was crispy fried perfect and his salmon cakes a lot like my mom's, perhaps a bit moister.
I got a side of the green beans after asking how they were ("They're really good today," our pork-loving server said) and boy, was she right.
I'm used to my family's salt-pork-infused overcooked green beans and these, while not crispy, were cooked just right and had a hint of sweetness ("white sugar," we were told)
Fans of the sweet, allow me alert you to the cake cabinet, located next to the bar.
Five different kinds were on display, although their most popular, the pineapple-coconut, was already sold out ("Come earlier," she told me, "It goes fast!").
They're made by the owner's sister, I was told, and that was enough.
I got the chocolate/chocolate cake to go and my friend got the almond cake and we ate them at G5.
Tasting like the kind of cakes my Richmond grandmother made when we used to come visit her (she cooled the layers on racks on the fire escape; to a 6-year old kid that's the most amazing thing you've ever seen).
Almost black, with a soft, gooey chocolate icing; it was quite the dessert fix.
My friend's almond cake was delicious, too, just not chocolate.
Next up was Gallery 5's free monthly documentary screening; it was "Heavy Metal in Baghdad," filmed over three years about the only heavy metal Iraqi band,
Acrassicuada, and their attempts to play despite the forces trying to shut them down.
The film felt very DIY and the film crew seemed to genuinely like the band, continuing to follow them for years to keep up with their efforts to bring heavy metal to the public.
When asked why heavy metal was their choice, one of the band members answered, "The reason is because we're in the middle of a war."
The rage he mentions about the bombing and and constant attacks was explained by the drummer as, "If I didn't get that anger out by playing drums so hard, I would kill somebody."
Understandably, given the environment.
During an interview with a band member and his brother outside about an upcoming show it shortly becomes clear that it is becoming less safe to be outside.
As the musician continues to answer questions, his brother digs his fingers into his knee and tersely asks, "Can we go now?" and inside they go for their own safety.
The band eventually become heavy metal refugees seeking sanctuary in Syria, where they also record the first heavy metal record there.
Only three songs long, it is the accomplishment of their lives and their euphoria is touching.
Bu, they're guys, after all, and they got into heavy metal for more than just an anger outlet.
"With this goatee, I get a lot of girls," one band member says proudly.
And isn't that what generations of bands have been about anyway?
Political statements are important, but there's more to music than just standing up for that you believe in.
Sometimes you just want to score a pork chop kind of a girl.
And in Baghdad, a goatee helps you do that.
Rock on, guys.
I had a hankering for soul food, so I planned to introduce my friend to Croaker's Spot and wow him with its retro charm, cornbread and fish.
Except Croaker's Spot was padlocked closed.
Not a problem in the neighborhood formerly known as the "Harlem of the South."
We just headed up the block and went to Mama's instead.
The handsome, well-dressed customer standing outside the door smiled and since he looked so satisfied, I asked him about the place.
He had nothing but good things to say about the food and that he'd been repeatedly.
We were sold.
Except for the TV screen over the bar (screens in general don't belong in restaurants except sports bars, imho), it was a charming place with a cozy neighborhood feel.
The place mats were fuzzy-feeling with colorful circles, very groovy, and looked like the kind of thing the Brady Bunch might have eaten off of.
The bartender was friendly and accommodating; I asked her what her favorite entree was and she gave me a big old grin, saying, "Well, I'm a pork chop kind of girl."
Amen to that, honey.
I ordered the fried trout because the guy outside had recommended it and it came with a corn muffin.
I told my companion that it was just like Fridays in my house growing up; some kind of fish, a veggie and corn bread or corn muffins.
He got the salmon cakes, another Friday staple in my family.
The trout was crispy fried perfect and his salmon cakes a lot like my mom's, perhaps a bit moister.
I got a side of the green beans after asking how they were ("They're really good today," our pork-loving server said) and boy, was she right.
I'm used to my family's salt-pork-infused overcooked green beans and these, while not crispy, were cooked just right and had a hint of sweetness ("white sugar," we were told)
Fans of the sweet, allow me alert you to the cake cabinet, located next to the bar.
Five different kinds were on display, although their most popular, the pineapple-coconut, was already sold out ("Come earlier," she told me, "It goes fast!").
They're made by the owner's sister, I was told, and that was enough.
I got the chocolate/chocolate cake to go and my friend got the almond cake and we ate them at G5.
Tasting like the kind of cakes my Richmond grandmother made when we used to come visit her (she cooled the layers on racks on the fire escape; to a 6-year old kid that's the most amazing thing you've ever seen).
Almost black, with a soft, gooey chocolate icing; it was quite the dessert fix.
My friend's almond cake was delicious, too, just not chocolate.
Next up was Gallery 5's free monthly documentary screening; it was "Heavy Metal in Baghdad," filmed over three years about the only heavy metal Iraqi band,
Acrassicuada, and their attempts to play despite the forces trying to shut them down.
The film felt very DIY and the film crew seemed to genuinely like the band, continuing to follow them for years to keep up with their efforts to bring heavy metal to the public.
When asked why heavy metal was their choice, one of the band members answered, "The reason is because we're in the middle of a war."
The rage he mentions about the bombing and and constant attacks was explained by the drummer as, "If I didn't get that anger out by playing drums so hard, I would kill somebody."
Understandably, given the environment.
During an interview with a band member and his brother outside about an upcoming show it shortly becomes clear that it is becoming less safe to be outside.
As the musician continues to answer questions, his brother digs his fingers into his knee and tersely asks, "Can we go now?" and inside they go for their own safety.
The band eventually become heavy metal refugees seeking sanctuary in Syria, where they also record the first heavy metal record there.
Only three songs long, it is the accomplishment of their lives and their euphoria is touching.
Bu, they're guys, after all, and they got into heavy metal for more than just an anger outlet.
"With this goatee, I get a lot of girls," one band member says proudly.
And isn't that what generations of bands have been about anyway?
Political statements are important, but there's more to music than just standing up for that you believe in.
Sometimes you just want to score a pork chop kind of a girl.
And in Baghdad, a goatee helps you do that.
Rock on, guys.
I Don't Always Eat Out
Someone asked me recently if I ever stay at home to eat and although he was really just teasing me about the frequency with which I dine out, let's be clear here: I do eat at home. Occasionally. Like last night, although a friend had offered to cook for me, so while I did my dining here, I didn't have to actually do anything besides open the wine. Does that still count as eating at home if no effort on my part is involved?
It turned out that my friend is a another oddball who, like me, has never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, so we celebrated our intentional oversight by going to the Byrd Theater to see Up in the Air. I found the movie's themes interesting (being attracted to someone like yourself can backfire on you) and a bit close to home still (endless scenes of people being given the packet and laid off), but satisfactory in that life isn't always as neatly wrapped up as we might hope for.
Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings' version of the folk classic, This Land is Your Land, behind the opening credits was an incredibly soulful version of a song I actually remember having to sing in music class in elementary school. Not to get off topic here, but do kids even learn about American folk music anymore? I know arts funding in schools has gone down the drain, but I remember how stoked we were as kids to be singing music from the not-too-distant 60s; maybe it was even part of my origins as a music geek.
My friend hadn't been to the Byrd in literally years, and it's always enjoyable to experience something so familiar with fresh eyes. Those seats, though! I try to support every benefit they do for the Byrd Theater Foundation just in hopes of someday being able to watch a film without squirming around in my seat in search of the least uncomfortable position. Luckily, Milk Duds make up for just about anything at the Byrd.
They can even count as dessert when I do eat dinner at home. Just don't look for it to happen again anytime soon.
It turned out that my friend is a another oddball who, like me, has never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark, so we celebrated our intentional oversight by going to the Byrd Theater to see Up in the Air. I found the movie's themes interesting (being attracted to someone like yourself can backfire on you) and a bit close to home still (endless scenes of people being given the packet and laid off), but satisfactory in that life isn't always as neatly wrapped up as we might hope for.
Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings' version of the folk classic, This Land is Your Land, behind the opening credits was an incredibly soulful version of a song I actually remember having to sing in music class in elementary school. Not to get off topic here, but do kids even learn about American folk music anymore? I know arts funding in schools has gone down the drain, but I remember how stoked we were as kids to be singing music from the not-too-distant 60s; maybe it was even part of my origins as a music geek.
My friend hadn't been to the Byrd in literally years, and it's always enjoyable to experience something so familiar with fresh eyes. Those seats, though! I try to support every benefit they do for the Byrd Theater Foundation just in hopes of someday being able to watch a film without squirming around in my seat in search of the least uncomfortable position. Luckily, Milk Duds make up for just about anything at the Byrd.
They can even count as dessert when I do eat dinner at home. Just don't look for it to happen again anytime soon.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Cafe Ole and My Friendly Rebuttal
Back when I worked downtown, a co-worker and I made regular pilgrimages to Cafe Ole on Thursdays for fish tacos, which we both loved. The place was always stupidly busy with an endless stream of people coming in to eat or grab take-out. Through my usual nosey conversations with other eaters, I had discovered how many of them frequented the place more than once a week because they enjoyed the food so much. And I hadn't been there in over a year.
With it being spring break this week, my teaching friend was free and asked me to lunch, suggesting Cafe Ole because he hadn't been in ages either. So we braced for the crowds and went off in search of mid-day Mexican. He knows the owner, Betsy, and sure enough, when she saw him, her first question was about when he was going to put up a show of his photographs on her walls. Apparently she's asked him before and he's been slow to respond. Too bad, really, considering how many people frequent this place and would get a chance to see his interesting work, here.
Maybe it was the cool, damp weather or maybe just Monday malaise, but the hordes that usually fill the place at lunch time were quite manageable today. We made the mistake of sitting in the front dining room, though, so with every time the front door opened, the room temperature dropped a little. I had the classic nachos and photo friend had a quesadilla, but helped me a bit with my overly-generous serving. With Cafe Ole, it's their chips that make them rise above the Mexican fray; everyone who eats there regularly mentions their thin, crispy, salty perfection. Buried under nacho toppings, they not only held their own but elevated a pretty standard dish (refried beans, tomatoes, onions, jalapenos and cheddar).
Afterwards, we went location scouting for a shoot my friend has on Wednesday. It's a futuristic-looking model he'll be using, so he was seeking an unidentifiable and industrial kind of setting. We did endless loops through a VCU building, finding any number of anonymous halls and sterile stairways that would suit his purpose; he did quick shots of each for consideration later.
Meanwhile, I peered into chemistry labs and dreary math classrooms and admired the third story view of Main Street, Harrison Street and the walkways below behind the tennis bubble. I saw giant beakers as tall as my legs and canisters of gas that reached my chest; it all felt kind of scientific and abandoned, like a movie set for a sci-fi film I'd undoubtedly never see.
And speaking of unseen movies, I spent the first half hour of our time together taking abuse from my friend who'd discovered on my blog that I've never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark. Let's just say he was in cultural shock over my oversight and wanted to rub it in for as long as possible. I make no apologies; I am not a fan of adventure films and I know a sufficient amount about it to understand the cultural references. That's enough for me.
When we'd first walked into the VCU building, a flier for a writing class had caught my eye. One of the things the class promised to teach its students was "how to make friends with your counter argument." I'm practically BFF with my rebuttal of his argument that I'm a film cretin for not having seen one of the seminal films of the 1980s.
Didn't want to, didn't have to. Getting along just fine without having seen it. I couldn't be friendlier with my counter argument, but it helps that I know what's right for me.
With it being spring break this week, my teaching friend was free and asked me to lunch, suggesting Cafe Ole because he hadn't been in ages either. So we braced for the crowds and went off in search of mid-day Mexican. He knows the owner, Betsy, and sure enough, when she saw him, her first question was about when he was going to put up a show of his photographs on her walls. Apparently she's asked him before and he's been slow to respond. Too bad, really, considering how many people frequent this place and would get a chance to see his interesting work, here.
Maybe it was the cool, damp weather or maybe just Monday malaise, but the hordes that usually fill the place at lunch time were quite manageable today. We made the mistake of sitting in the front dining room, though, so with every time the front door opened, the room temperature dropped a little. I had the classic nachos and photo friend had a quesadilla, but helped me a bit with my overly-generous serving. With Cafe Ole, it's their chips that make them rise above the Mexican fray; everyone who eats there regularly mentions their thin, crispy, salty perfection. Buried under nacho toppings, they not only held their own but elevated a pretty standard dish (refried beans, tomatoes, onions, jalapenos and cheddar).
Afterwards, we went location scouting for a shoot my friend has on Wednesday. It's a futuristic-looking model he'll be using, so he was seeking an unidentifiable and industrial kind of setting. We did endless loops through a VCU building, finding any number of anonymous halls and sterile stairways that would suit his purpose; he did quick shots of each for consideration later.
Meanwhile, I peered into chemistry labs and dreary math classrooms and admired the third story view of Main Street, Harrison Street and the walkways below behind the tennis bubble. I saw giant beakers as tall as my legs and canisters of gas that reached my chest; it all felt kind of scientific and abandoned, like a movie set for a sci-fi film I'd undoubtedly never see.
And speaking of unseen movies, I spent the first half hour of our time together taking abuse from my friend who'd discovered on my blog that I've never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark. Let's just say he was in cultural shock over my oversight and wanted to rub it in for as long as possible. I make no apologies; I am not a fan of adventure films and I know a sufficient amount about it to understand the cultural references. That's enough for me.
When we'd first walked into the VCU building, a flier for a writing class had caught my eye. One of the things the class promised to teach its students was "how to make friends with your counter argument." I'm practically BFF with my rebuttal of his argument that I'm a film cretin for not having seen one of the seminal films of the 1980s.
Didn't want to, didn't have to. Getting along just fine without having seen it. I couldn't be friendlier with my counter argument, but it helps that I know what's right for me.
Eating and Listening Ipanema-Style
Tonight was the twelfth installment of the year long series of the Live at Ipanema shows. That' s a full year of monthly shows featuring some of the top talent in the area playing free shows and being recorded every month. If you haven't caught one of these shows, you'd better have a good excuse, that's all I can say.
It's too tempting not to start the evening with a meal at Ipanema, so I did. My friend and I found prime viewing spots at the bar and ordered our meal. We began with beet salad, superior to many because of the thinness of the beet slices, the abundance of the goat cheese and the perfection of the vinaigrette.
I wanted the herbed polenta with an oyster mushroom ragout and roasted root veggies and she got the salmon. I loved the contrast of the bready polenta with the succulent mushrooms and surrounded by root veggies, a personal favorite.
Dessert was the brownie a la mode for me and the gluten-free strawberry cake for her. Mine took longer to finish, but I tasted hers and it was just as good. That pink icing more than made up for any absence of flour.
Tonight's band was Seas, who said they hailed from D.C. and rva; as one who has lived in both places, I was willing to give them a shot based solely on that. Before the show, the bass player Peter and I discussed the changes in D.C. in the past twenty years and agreed that it was no longer the same place it once was; in fact, in many ways, Richmond is far superior. It's always satisfying to find a kindred soul to discuss Adams Morgan and Chinatown in the old days.
The music, I had been warned, was heavily 70s-influenced in a John Fahey-kind of way. We weren't long into the set when that became apparent. In fact, I'd pinpoint it even further by saying that the band listened to a lot of Neil Young and Crazy Horse to arrive at this sound. But they were also twenty-somethings, which meant that when they paid tribute to Mark Linkous, what we heard was Sparklehorse filtered through Dinosaur, Jr.; it was an interesting rock lineage.
I ran into a music-obsessed friend and her partner, which gave us a chance to catch up on our recent music geekdom; turns out we'll meet again soon at the Canal Club. There were literary lions there as well; Richmond Noir is continuing to sell like gangbusters and those who still do not have a copy would be well advised to head on over to Chop Suey to correct that.
And best of all, I finally met Brandon Peck, the artist behind the silk-screen print that hangs framed in my living room (he's also in Mouthbreather I learned). But he's not just notable for his artistic talent; turns out he was at the same Fanfarlo show at the Iota as I was. Finally, another Fanfarlo fan with whom I could gush about their amazingness.
A secondary highlight of the evening was that finally signs were put up informing the audience that the show was being recorded and to shut the hell up. It was a pleasure to enjoy the music without the usual loud, drunken chatter for a change. Heading into the second year of this outstanding series, we can expect an ever-more-respectful audience, which benefits both the musicians and us.
So if you haven't gotten yourself off the couch to enjoy some excellent vegetarian food followed by free music, next month's event is the one-year anniversary and there's no telling what kinds of surprises are in order. At the very least cake and superior sounds, but the potential is actually much greater. Of course, you'll never know if you're not there.
And, yes, I'll be there and report back, but that's just not the same. Experiencing it yourself is really so much better. Besides, then you can challenge my take on it. What do I know, after all?
It's too tempting not to start the evening with a meal at Ipanema, so I did. My friend and I found prime viewing spots at the bar and ordered our meal. We began with beet salad, superior to many because of the thinness of the beet slices, the abundance of the goat cheese and the perfection of the vinaigrette.
I wanted the herbed polenta with an oyster mushroom ragout and roasted root veggies and she got the salmon. I loved the contrast of the bready polenta with the succulent mushrooms and surrounded by root veggies, a personal favorite.
Dessert was the brownie a la mode for me and the gluten-free strawberry cake for her. Mine took longer to finish, but I tasted hers and it was just as good. That pink icing more than made up for any absence of flour.
Tonight's band was Seas, who said they hailed from D.C. and rva; as one who has lived in both places, I was willing to give them a shot based solely on that. Before the show, the bass player Peter and I discussed the changes in D.C. in the past twenty years and agreed that it was no longer the same place it once was; in fact, in many ways, Richmond is far superior. It's always satisfying to find a kindred soul to discuss Adams Morgan and Chinatown in the old days.
The music, I had been warned, was heavily 70s-influenced in a John Fahey-kind of way. We weren't long into the set when that became apparent. In fact, I'd pinpoint it even further by saying that the band listened to a lot of Neil Young and Crazy Horse to arrive at this sound. But they were also twenty-somethings, which meant that when they paid tribute to Mark Linkous, what we heard was Sparklehorse filtered through Dinosaur, Jr.; it was an interesting rock lineage.
I ran into a music-obsessed friend and her partner, which gave us a chance to catch up on our recent music geekdom; turns out we'll meet again soon at the Canal Club. There were literary lions there as well; Richmond Noir is continuing to sell like gangbusters and those who still do not have a copy would be well advised to head on over to Chop Suey to correct that.
And best of all, I finally met Brandon Peck, the artist behind the silk-screen print that hangs framed in my living room (he's also in Mouthbreather I learned). But he's not just notable for his artistic talent; turns out he was at the same Fanfarlo show at the Iota as I was. Finally, another Fanfarlo fan with whom I could gush about their amazingness.
A secondary highlight of the evening was that finally signs were put up informing the audience that the show was being recorded and to shut the hell up. It was a pleasure to enjoy the music without the usual loud, drunken chatter for a change. Heading into the second year of this outstanding series, we can expect an ever-more-respectful audience, which benefits both the musicians and us.
So if you haven't gotten yourself off the couch to enjoy some excellent vegetarian food followed by free music, next month's event is the one-year anniversary and there's no telling what kinds of surprises are in order. At the very least cake and superior sounds, but the potential is actually much greater. Of course, you'll never know if you're not there.
And, yes, I'll be there and report back, but that's just not the same. Experiencing it yourself is really so much better. Besides, then you can challenge my take on it. What do I know, after all?
Sunday, March 14, 2010
My WIld Irish Great-Grandmother
While I refuse to participate in the nonsense that is the American St. Patrick's Day celebration, I actually appreciate the more obscure events that happen at this time of year that are tied in to the holiday, like the beef stew luncheon I went to yesterday.
And today I was honoring my Irish heritage by sitting in the tiny Keeper's House at Shockoe Hill Cemetery listening to a talk by Dr. Nicolas Wolf about 19th and early 20th-century Irish immigrants.
My O'Donnell great-grandparents arrived in this country in the first decade of the 20th century, so I was curious.
I'd never been to this cemetery, nor did I realize how close it was to J-Ward; next time I'll walk.
I wondered briefly if the rain would postpone the event before it occurred to me that this was exceptionally Irish weather, gray and drizzly.
Dr. Wolf's first comment was to that effect, "How about this balmy warm weather? In Ireland, they'd be wearing shorts."
I was surprised to learn that of the half a million Irish who came to the colonies in the 18th century, fully three quarters of them were Protestant.
Between the high birth rates and the fact that most were tenant farmers, there was understandably a lot of pressure to leave.
Another million came in the 19th century, including even poorer and less skilled people.
By 1850, Tredegar Iron Works' menial work force was predominately Irish.
Wolf put it more bluntly.
"If it involved a shovel or heavy lifting, the Irish did it."
Apparently subsistence farming gives a person few marketable skills.
And the first St. Patrick's Day Parade in this country?
Georgia 1833; who knew?
By the time of the Civil War, the Irish were celebrating St. Pat's Day throughout this country, including the 2,100 Irish in Richmond.
But, as Wolf pointed out, not celebrating it quite like it is currently being done a la Shamrock the Block in the Slip.
"Did you see it down there yesterday?"
No, I didn't and for a good reason.
By the time my great grandparents arrived on our shores, there were far more Irish living outside Ireland than in it.
Accordingly, Wolf said that the history of Ireland can't be written without acknowledging the Irish living outside Ireland.
Which brings me to my great-grandparents.
My favorite story of my Irish great-grandmother came from my grandmother's early days as a new bride, living with her in laws.
Apparently Mrs. O'Donnell (as my great grandmother was known to all) listened religiously to her "stories" on the radio every afternoon.
One time, my grandmother was in a nearby room using the sewing machine when her finger got caught under the needle, piercing it through.
My grandmother was too afraid of disturbing Mrs. O'Donnell's soap operas to holler for help so she sat there with the needle embedded in her finger until my great-grandmother's stories ended.
Needle, bloody needle.
Such is the power of an Irish matriarch.
And today I was honoring my Irish heritage by sitting in the tiny Keeper's House at Shockoe Hill Cemetery listening to a talk by Dr. Nicolas Wolf about 19th and early 20th-century Irish immigrants.
My O'Donnell great-grandparents arrived in this country in the first decade of the 20th century, so I was curious.
I'd never been to this cemetery, nor did I realize how close it was to J-Ward; next time I'll walk.
I wondered briefly if the rain would postpone the event before it occurred to me that this was exceptionally Irish weather, gray and drizzly.
Dr. Wolf's first comment was to that effect, "How about this balmy warm weather? In Ireland, they'd be wearing shorts."
I was surprised to learn that of the half a million Irish who came to the colonies in the 18th century, fully three quarters of them were Protestant.
Between the high birth rates and the fact that most were tenant farmers, there was understandably a lot of pressure to leave.
Another million came in the 19th century, including even poorer and less skilled people.
By 1850, Tredegar Iron Works' menial work force was predominately Irish.
Wolf put it more bluntly.
"If it involved a shovel or heavy lifting, the Irish did it."
Apparently subsistence farming gives a person few marketable skills.
And the first St. Patrick's Day Parade in this country?
Georgia 1833; who knew?
By the time of the Civil War, the Irish were celebrating St. Pat's Day throughout this country, including the 2,100 Irish in Richmond.
But, as Wolf pointed out, not celebrating it quite like it is currently being done a la Shamrock the Block in the Slip.
"Did you see it down there yesterday?"
No, I didn't and for a good reason.
By the time my great grandparents arrived on our shores, there were far more Irish living outside Ireland than in it.
Accordingly, Wolf said that the history of Ireland can't be written without acknowledging the Irish living outside Ireland.
Which brings me to my great-grandparents.
My favorite story of my Irish great-grandmother came from my grandmother's early days as a new bride, living with her in laws.
Apparently Mrs. O'Donnell (as my great grandmother was known to all) listened religiously to her "stories" on the radio every afternoon.
One time, my grandmother was in a nearby room using the sewing machine when her finger got caught under the needle, piercing it through.
My grandmother was too afraid of disturbing Mrs. O'Donnell's soap operas to holler for help so she sat there with the needle embedded in her finger until my great-grandmother's stories ended.
Needle, bloody needle.
Such is the power of an Irish matriarch.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
What Some Men Can Do with Their Mouths
Early start menu at Bistro 27. Arturo Sandoval playing with the Richmond Symphony. Storm strolling. That's the Cliff Notes version of my evening so that you don't have to keep reading if you don't care to.
Not long before 5:00, my friend Nicholas, who plays with the Richmond Symphony, suggested we meet at 6 for dinner and I offered 27 as a destination so I could try the early start menu (Fridays and Saturdays 5-6:30 for $20) and we could catch up before the performance. My bad; I had not allowed for the volumes of people wanting to eat before seeing Wicked and Sandoval. The place was 70% full when I walked in and 110% full within twenty minutes.
This week's early menu offered the Venti Sette salad, which I got, or a Caesar and for entrees, beef ravioli, cappelini with veggies, chicken picatta or pork loin in a mustard/caper sauce with mashed potatoes and mixed veggies (I had the pork); for dessert, it was cheesecake or chocolate torte with blueberries and strawberries (guess which one I had). The pork serving was generous and that mustard/caper sauce typical of Chef Carlos' deft hand with sauces.
As 27 continued to fill up and overflow with pre-culture attendees, I heard a nearby bar sitter ask the bartender to call them a cab for 7:45. He looked skeptical, knowing the taxi situation here when clearly they didn't, but graciously accommodated anyway. Meanwhile, the guest van from the Marriott showed up empty, only to have the driver come inside to pick up a take-out order for a hotel guest.
Because I was buying my ticket minutes before the performance, I was seated in the very last row of the Carpenter stage, a first for me. Everyone around me had been a last minute buyer and the show was sold out I was told, which wasn't surprising given our illustrious guest's appearance.
The Richmond Symphony played for the first half, with an emphasis on music that celebrated their own trumpet players. After the first piece, 'Raiders March' the guy next to me asked if it was from a movie because it had sounded familiar to him. My friend Nicholas had alerted me that they'd be playing this theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark, so I told the guy where it came from. The irony of this exchange is that I am undoubtedly the only person in the entire theater who has never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark and had Nicholas not given me the scoop, I'd have been completely clueless.
The second half was all about Arturo Sandoval, the Cuban-born trumpeter who was a protege of Dizzy Gillespie. In honor of him, I'd even worn my Barcelona tights (the only ones I have with a Spanish connection) for the occasion. He began by asking if he'd played here before, apologizing by saying, "Sorry. After fifty years, I can't remember all the gigs." When they went to play 'Someone to Watch Over Me,' he asked the conductor, "Is this George Gershwin?"
Sandoval said that piano playing was considered a girl thing in Cuba and if a boy asked to learn it, the reaction was, "Uh-oh. This boy has problems." Despite the cultural bias, Sandoval went on to learn piano when he moved to the U.S. He had expected the move to better his English, but as he explained, "We moved to Miami. It's impossible to improve your English there!"
Apparently the appeal of the piano was that, unlike the trumpet, there was no pain involved. He said that playing the piano allowed him to laugh or have a phone conversation or even talk to pretty girls, things prohibited by the all-consuming trumpet. After a couple of rollicking songs with Sandoval on piano, he again picked up his horn with, "Back to the pain."
During the course of the evening, he played not only trumpet and piano, but also drums and keyboard. And his feet never stopped moving. Finally, he asked if we wanted one more song. The thunderous ovation was his answer and he did come back after that for one last encore.
During the final number, a crazy, rhythmic dance piece he'd written and dedicated to his Spanish grandparents, he let out a "Babaloo," and then told the audience, "That's Ricky." I got it, but not a lot of other people laughed. But everyone was on their feet by the end of the song.
Walking out, I heard a guy in a Hawaiian shirt say to someone, "What did you think, man? It's a gas, ain't it?" That was as good a description as any for the Latin thrill we'd experienced there tonight.
And, as if that weren't enough perfection for one night, we were walking out of Center Stage into a thunderstorm, complete with heat lightening, distant thunder and a gentle rain. What made it so wonderful was the mid-50s temperature, so even without any sort of wrap except a scarf, it wasn't the least bit unpleasant to be out in. In fact, it was like a promise that spring is just around the corner.
And, congratulations if you skipped the abbreviated version of my night and read the whole thing, details, opinions and all. You get an A+.
Not long before 5:00, my friend Nicholas, who plays with the Richmond Symphony, suggested we meet at 6 for dinner and I offered 27 as a destination so I could try the early start menu (Fridays and Saturdays 5-6:30 for $20) and we could catch up before the performance. My bad; I had not allowed for the volumes of people wanting to eat before seeing Wicked and Sandoval. The place was 70% full when I walked in and 110% full within twenty minutes.
This week's early menu offered the Venti Sette salad, which I got, or a Caesar and for entrees, beef ravioli, cappelini with veggies, chicken picatta or pork loin in a mustard/caper sauce with mashed potatoes and mixed veggies (I had the pork); for dessert, it was cheesecake or chocolate torte with blueberries and strawberries (guess which one I had). The pork serving was generous and that mustard/caper sauce typical of Chef Carlos' deft hand with sauces.
As 27 continued to fill up and overflow with pre-culture attendees, I heard a nearby bar sitter ask the bartender to call them a cab for 7:45. He looked skeptical, knowing the taxi situation here when clearly they didn't, but graciously accommodated anyway. Meanwhile, the guest van from the Marriott showed up empty, only to have the driver come inside to pick up a take-out order for a hotel guest.
Because I was buying my ticket minutes before the performance, I was seated in the very last row of the Carpenter stage, a first for me. Everyone around me had been a last minute buyer and the show was sold out I was told, which wasn't surprising given our illustrious guest's appearance.
The Richmond Symphony played for the first half, with an emphasis on music that celebrated their own trumpet players. After the first piece, 'Raiders March' the guy next to me asked if it was from a movie because it had sounded familiar to him. My friend Nicholas had alerted me that they'd be playing this theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark, so I told the guy where it came from. The irony of this exchange is that I am undoubtedly the only person in the entire theater who has never seen Raiders of the Lost Ark and had Nicholas not given me the scoop, I'd have been completely clueless.
The second half was all about Arturo Sandoval, the Cuban-born trumpeter who was a protege of Dizzy Gillespie. In honor of him, I'd even worn my Barcelona tights (the only ones I have with a Spanish connection) for the occasion. He began by asking if he'd played here before, apologizing by saying, "Sorry. After fifty years, I can't remember all the gigs." When they went to play 'Someone to Watch Over Me,' he asked the conductor, "Is this George Gershwin?"
Sandoval said that piano playing was considered a girl thing in Cuba and if a boy asked to learn it, the reaction was, "Uh-oh. This boy has problems." Despite the cultural bias, Sandoval went on to learn piano when he moved to the U.S. He had expected the move to better his English, but as he explained, "We moved to Miami. It's impossible to improve your English there!"
Apparently the appeal of the piano was that, unlike the trumpet, there was no pain involved. He said that playing the piano allowed him to laugh or have a phone conversation or even talk to pretty girls, things prohibited by the all-consuming trumpet. After a couple of rollicking songs with Sandoval on piano, he again picked up his horn with, "Back to the pain."
During the course of the evening, he played not only trumpet and piano, but also drums and keyboard. And his feet never stopped moving. Finally, he asked if we wanted one more song. The thunderous ovation was his answer and he did come back after that for one last encore.
During the final number, a crazy, rhythmic dance piece he'd written and dedicated to his Spanish grandparents, he let out a "Babaloo," and then told the audience, "That's Ricky." I got it, but not a lot of other people laughed. But everyone was on their feet by the end of the song.
Walking out, I heard a guy in a Hawaiian shirt say to someone, "What did you think, man? It's a gas, ain't it?" That was as good a description as any for the Latin thrill we'd experienced there tonight.
And, as if that weren't enough perfection for one night, we were walking out of Center Stage into a thunderstorm, complete with heat lightening, distant thunder and a gentle rain. What made it so wonderful was the mid-50s temperature, so even without any sort of wrap except a scarf, it wasn't the least bit unpleasant to be out in. In fact, it was like a promise that spring is just around the corner.
And, congratulations if you skipped the abbreviated version of my night and read the whole thing, details, opinions and all. You get an A+.
Honoring My Irish Beef Stew Roots
In the interest of furthering my community eating experience, I ate today at the St. Patrick's Day Beef Stew Luncheon at the Hanover Courthouse Volunteer Fire Company, just a short drive up scenic Route 301. As I exited my car, an older gentleman was getting into his so I asked him how the stew was.
"Good," and he paused to gauge me. "Only problem is they didn't peel the potatoes." He makes a peeling gesture with his hand. "Needs sharp knives. Irish can't be trusted." Then he winked at me, "Drunk...enjoy your lunch!" How could I not, after that?
Inside, the room had four rows of tables covered in green, white and shamrocked tablecloths and adorned only with bowls of whipped spread and packets of salt and pepper. But it immediately became a luncheon when after paying my $6, I was told to take a seat and I would be served.
"What kind of bread would you like: soda bread, cornbread muffin or roll?"
"Oh, I should get the soda bread."
"Well, yes, you should, but you don't have to."
"Yes, I do."
"I'll bring it out to you with your stew."
What I meant was that the O'Donnell half of me knows that my mother is busy this weekend making vats of potato soup and loaves of soda bread for her annual Woman's Day luncheon and having soda bread is as good a nod to my ancestry as any.
The steaming hot stew and bread arrived and while I waited for the stew to cool, I enjoyed one of the rye variations. Meanwhile, I heard my server tell the men behind me, "You done, guys? Now you have your bellies full, you can go home and take naps."
The stew was flavored exactly like the kind my mother made when we were kids. Nothing but chunks of carrots, potatoes, loads of onion and long-cooked beef in there. The stew liquid itself was not as thick as my mom's, but that's actually a good thing. Some of the meat was braised to the point of falling apart in my mouth and other bites were more toothsome and full of flavor; it's a great way to enjoy meat both ways.
As I was finishing my bowl, one of the volunteers came over to see how I liked it. I told him I had really enjoyed it and he told me I could have seconds. I told him I wanted to save room for dessert. He leaned down low and stage-whispered, "You don't have to get a whole bowl," and that was all the incentive I needed to throw back another half bowl.
The couple nearest me were older, maybe 70s, and just finishing their stew when I sat down. He ordered a quart to go. It didn't take her long to stand up and say to him, "Gotta have something chocolate," and head over to the dessert table, which boasted chocolate/chocolate cake, red velvet cake, strawberry cake, white cake, some kind of light green colored cake and brownies.
Eating her chocolate cake, the women turned to her husband and said, "We ought to get a piece of this cake to take to Mom on Monday. You know how much she likes chocolate." Mom? Wow, longevity, another good reason to keep eating chocolate. I got the same cake that her Mom was going to get.
And what's the appropriate music for a St. Patrick's day lunch? The first song I heard when I walked in was the Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams" followed later by Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time." By the time they played MJ's "Rock with You," a group in the back was talking the joys of grandparent hood ("...still so precious, but not your responsibility..."), I was heading over to the firehouse, not to check out the yard sale inside, but to ask to look at the equipment.
"The cooking equipment?" the volunteer asked me. "We do a lot of cooking here!" No, actually I meant the fire equipment. But maybe I should go back for a tour of their other equipment some time; it's obviously turning out the kind of camaraderie and stew that make for a delightful Saturday mid-day meal.
"Good," and he paused to gauge me. "Only problem is they didn't peel the potatoes." He makes a peeling gesture with his hand. "Needs sharp knives. Irish can't be trusted." Then he winked at me, "Drunk...enjoy your lunch!" How could I not, after that?
Inside, the room had four rows of tables covered in green, white and shamrocked tablecloths and adorned only with bowls of whipped spread and packets of salt and pepper. But it immediately became a luncheon when after paying my $6, I was told to take a seat and I would be served.
"What kind of bread would you like: soda bread, cornbread muffin or roll?"
"Oh, I should get the soda bread."
"Well, yes, you should, but you don't have to."
"Yes, I do."
"I'll bring it out to you with your stew."
What I meant was that the O'Donnell half of me knows that my mother is busy this weekend making vats of potato soup and loaves of soda bread for her annual Woman's Day luncheon and having soda bread is as good a nod to my ancestry as any.
The steaming hot stew and bread arrived and while I waited for the stew to cool, I enjoyed one of the rye variations. Meanwhile, I heard my server tell the men behind me, "You done, guys? Now you have your bellies full, you can go home and take naps."
The stew was flavored exactly like the kind my mother made when we were kids. Nothing but chunks of carrots, potatoes, loads of onion and long-cooked beef in there. The stew liquid itself was not as thick as my mom's, but that's actually a good thing. Some of the meat was braised to the point of falling apart in my mouth and other bites were more toothsome and full of flavor; it's a great way to enjoy meat both ways.
As I was finishing my bowl, one of the volunteers came over to see how I liked it. I told him I had really enjoyed it and he told me I could have seconds. I told him I wanted to save room for dessert. He leaned down low and stage-whispered, "You don't have to get a whole bowl," and that was all the incentive I needed to throw back another half bowl.
The couple nearest me were older, maybe 70s, and just finishing their stew when I sat down. He ordered a quart to go. It didn't take her long to stand up and say to him, "Gotta have something chocolate," and head over to the dessert table, which boasted chocolate/chocolate cake, red velvet cake, strawberry cake, white cake, some kind of light green colored cake and brownies.
Eating her chocolate cake, the women turned to her husband and said, "We ought to get a piece of this cake to take to Mom on Monday. You know how much she likes chocolate." Mom? Wow, longevity, another good reason to keep eating chocolate. I got the same cake that her Mom was going to get.
And what's the appropriate music for a St. Patrick's day lunch? The first song I heard when I walked in was the Eurythmics "Sweet Dreams" followed later by Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time." By the time they played MJ's "Rock with You," a group in the back was talking the joys of grandparent hood ("...still so precious, but not your responsibility..."), I was heading over to the firehouse, not to check out the yard sale inside, but to ask to look at the equipment.
"The cooking equipment?" the volunteer asked me. "We do a lot of cooking here!" No, actually I meant the fire equipment. But maybe I should go back for a tour of their other equipment some time; it's obviously turning out the kind of camaraderie and stew that make for a delightful Saturday mid-day meal.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Bouchon and Bargain Art
After playing recessionista at the thrift store this afternoon, it seemed only natural to follow up with a bargain of a dinner. And if there's one good thing about us mucking about in this recession for so long, it's the proliferation of prix fixe menus around town. Tonight my friend and I decided to check out what Bouchon had to offer.
They're strict about the rules, though; you have from 5:00 to 6:00 to get your order in to qualify for the three-course $20 meal. The choices were simple and pre-determined: soup or salad, meat or fish and two dessert choices (neither chocolate).
Tonight's soup was lentil and bacon and there's no way I'd pass up on either of those ingredients; the salad was mixed greens with tomato and cucumber in a house dressing. The soup was heavenly, rich and flavorful and ideal for sopping with the excellent crusty bread once the bacon and lentils were eaten.
For entrees we could choose either shepherd's pie or flounder in a lemon/butter sauce over sauteed spinach, which was what I got. The fish was perfectly cooked and both it and the spinach were sitting in a delicate pool of lemon butter.
Dessert choices were creme brulee or vanilla ice cream and while I ordered the creme brulee tonight, I've had their vanilla ice cream before and it's decadently worth it, even if it isn't chocolate.
The couple nearest us provided amusement during our meal; she arrived first and told her server she was waiting for her boyfriend. He may as well have been a stranger, though, because when they weren't actually eating, they were on their devices and almost no real interaction between them occurred the entire time they dined together. Not my definition of romance...or even a shared meal. What's the point really?
Afterwards I went to the opening at Eric Schindler Gallery of J. Pocklington's "Thrift Junk Scrap Dollar Store Sculpture." Are you seeing a recurring them throughout my day? The pieces were mixed media, a combination of found and cheaply bought items put together and then painted, some uniformly in one color and others painted in great detail. Two had already sold before I even arrived. which wasn't too surprising given their uniqueness.
I ran into my favorite Jackson Ward art collector (his is undoubtedly the best collection in the 'hood), who introduced me to Kirsten Gray, the owner and director of the gallery. We got to talking about buying local art and I told her that my biggest sacrifice these days is not being able to buy anything. She told me about her grandmother who had the same regret during the Great Depression.
Her solution was threefold according to Kirsten; she frequently visited galleries, she played rummy and she danced. And by the time the economy finally improved, she'd honed her artistic sense to the point that she knew what she liked and what she wanted to own.
Now I realize that that's what I've been doing this past year. Well, not the rummy and the dancing because I'm terrible at both, but the admiring and absorbing and imagining what I'd add to my collection.
So I'll continue to shop at thrift stores and put my money towards supporting local artists. And maybe when all is said and done, I could work toward having the second best local art collection in J-Ward.
I think Kirsten's grandma would approve.
They're strict about the rules, though; you have from 5:00 to 6:00 to get your order in to qualify for the three-course $20 meal. The choices were simple and pre-determined: soup or salad, meat or fish and two dessert choices (neither chocolate).
Tonight's soup was lentil and bacon and there's no way I'd pass up on either of those ingredients; the salad was mixed greens with tomato and cucumber in a house dressing. The soup was heavenly, rich and flavorful and ideal for sopping with the excellent crusty bread once the bacon and lentils were eaten.
For entrees we could choose either shepherd's pie or flounder in a lemon/butter sauce over sauteed spinach, which was what I got. The fish was perfectly cooked and both it and the spinach were sitting in a delicate pool of lemon butter.
Dessert choices were creme brulee or vanilla ice cream and while I ordered the creme brulee tonight, I've had their vanilla ice cream before and it's decadently worth it, even if it isn't chocolate.
The couple nearest us provided amusement during our meal; she arrived first and told her server she was waiting for her boyfriend. He may as well have been a stranger, though, because when they weren't actually eating, they were on their devices and almost no real interaction between them occurred the entire time they dined together. Not my definition of romance...or even a shared meal. What's the point really?
Afterwards I went to the opening at Eric Schindler Gallery of J. Pocklington's "Thrift Junk Scrap Dollar Store Sculpture." Are you seeing a recurring them throughout my day? The pieces were mixed media, a combination of found and cheaply bought items put together and then painted, some uniformly in one color and others painted in great detail. Two had already sold before I even arrived. which wasn't too surprising given their uniqueness.
I ran into my favorite Jackson Ward art collector (his is undoubtedly the best collection in the 'hood), who introduced me to Kirsten Gray, the owner and director of the gallery. We got to talking about buying local art and I told her that my biggest sacrifice these days is not being able to buy anything. She told me about her grandmother who had the same regret during the Great Depression.
Her solution was threefold according to Kirsten; she frequently visited galleries, she played rummy and she danced. And by the time the economy finally improved, she'd honed her artistic sense to the point that she knew what she liked and what she wanted to own.
Now I realize that that's what I've been doing this past year. Well, not the rummy and the dancing because I'm terrible at both, but the admiring and absorbing and imagining what I'd add to my collection.
So I'll continue to shop at thrift stores and put my money towards supporting local artists. And maybe when all is said and done, I could work toward having the second best local art collection in J-Ward.
I think Kirsten's grandma would approve.
Eavesdropping at Diversity Thrift
For me, shopping at Diversity Thrift is not just about buying clothes, although it does save my ass since I refuse to shop at malls or real clothing stores.
Part of it is the whole reuse, and recycle thing; the other part is just that I truly detest the conspicuous consumer mentality and don't want any part of it.
But I'm not a guy and sometimes I want new-to-me clothes to wear and that's when I head to the cultural wonderland that is Diversity Thrift.
It was obvious that lots of other people besides me had decided that the perfect way to spend a rainy afternoon was thrifting, maybe for some warmer weather attire now that the constraints of winter appear to be behind us.
I'm tired of padding my body with endless layers just to leave the house.
Walking into the women's clothing area, I encountered a threesome of girls busy perusing and comparing notes on their finds.
"Isn't this such an Amanda shirt?"
"How about this one? Come on, this sweater has balls on it!"
"Hey, lady, are you afraid of balls?"
"No, I'm okay with balls."
"I only have issues with people who think with them."
That's what I'm talking about; Diversity is as enjoyable for the great bargains as for the social observations.
And another twosome:
"How about this? Would you wear this?"
"Come on, just because I'm from Florida doesn't mean I dress like a mom!"
"But you said you were looking for some mom jeans."
"Yea, I am getting kind of a pooch lately."
Meanwhile, I've found all kinds of great stuff in my size and have to leave this fascinating cultural study to try them on.
At the register, I'm behind an old guy who is telling the cashier that every item he wants to buy has come from the half-off table and she's challenging him on most of them.
He finally gets a smile out of her by insisting that they should have come off the half-price table because he's a poor man and needs a deal.
When it's my turn, I get two dresses, two skirts and two tops for $15.23.
I'd call that a deal, no poor-mouthing required.
And the overheard conversations?
Priceless.
Part of it is the whole reuse, and recycle thing; the other part is just that I truly detest the conspicuous consumer mentality and don't want any part of it.
But I'm not a guy and sometimes I want new-to-me clothes to wear and that's when I head to the cultural wonderland that is Diversity Thrift.
It was obvious that lots of other people besides me had decided that the perfect way to spend a rainy afternoon was thrifting, maybe for some warmer weather attire now that the constraints of winter appear to be behind us.
I'm tired of padding my body with endless layers just to leave the house.
Walking into the women's clothing area, I encountered a threesome of girls busy perusing and comparing notes on their finds.
"Isn't this such an Amanda shirt?"
"How about this one? Come on, this sweater has balls on it!"
"Hey, lady, are you afraid of balls?"
"No, I'm okay with balls."
"I only have issues with people who think with them."
That's what I'm talking about; Diversity is as enjoyable for the great bargains as for the social observations.
And another twosome:
"How about this? Would you wear this?"
"Come on, just because I'm from Florida doesn't mean I dress like a mom!"
"But you said you were looking for some mom jeans."
"Yea, I am getting kind of a pooch lately."
Meanwhile, I've found all kinds of great stuff in my size and have to leave this fascinating cultural study to try them on.
At the register, I'm behind an old guy who is telling the cashier that every item he wants to buy has come from the half-off table and she's challenging him on most of them.
He finally gets a smile out of her by insisting that they should have come off the half-price table because he's a poor man and needs a deal.
When it's my turn, I get two dresses, two skirts and two tops for $15.23.
I'd call that a deal, no poor-mouthing required.
And the overheard conversations?
Priceless.
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