You gotta love the Camel for their Sunday night shows; when nothing's happening at other venues, they frequently have music with which to end the weekend. Tonight it was Lux Vacancy and Glows in the Dark, two bands I knew were worth seeing again.
Last time I saw Lydia Ooghe was at the Listening Room, here, and tonight she'd added Cameron Ralston on bass, a worthy addition to the band's sound. Her quirky lyrics ("You make my timbers shiver" was a personal favorite) on topics such as falling in love with a rat or Dad being a waffle cone and Mom being a scoop of strawberry ice cream are ear-catching, especially given her unique voice.
Introducing a cover, she said it was "...a Bill withers song. You've probably heard it," and handed off her guitar, crossed her legs, clutched the chair seat and launched into "Ain't' No Sunshine." It was brilliant. Closing with the song "Jam, Baby," she sang, "I quit you, but you stuck to my shoe." In her little girl voice, it was a charming finish to a fine set.
Then it was on to Glows in the Dark, a band I love for many reasons. First, the beauty of their music is that any song sounds like it could have been lifted from an atmospheric scene in a movie. If I ever want the story of my life scored, they're doing the soundtrack.
Also, with song titles like "Gary Glitter" and "Europe" the listener is inevitably surprised at how the music develops, given the improvisational quality of it. There were plenty of musicians in the audience, all nodding in appreciation as the melodies took off on various tangents.
And then there was dancing guy, the one who planted himself front and center while the rest of the audience sat. The problem being that free jazz is a bit tough to dance and clap to, what with musicians improvising all over the place and ever-changing time signatures, not that this guy didn't try anyway.
You could see the smiles and murmured conversations around the room from his first shout-out to the band through his ever-twitching dance moves. I have no doubt that he thought he was one with the music and he did provide some stellar entertainment, sometimes dropping to the ground, other times just shaking his head so hard you thought his neck would snap.
Not that I'm making fun of dancing guy; he was obviously a music lover and was demonstrating that with his body. It wasn't that the audience was embarrassed for him, but he got to be a little distracting after the first few minutes.
And you don't really want distractions when Glows in the Dark is playing. Their music is an aural trip on its own, taking the listener wherever his or her head wants to go.
I like to just sit back and imagine which episode in my life each song is describing...or perhaps even predicting. No visuals needed.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
This Usher Got Lucky
I don't want to brag or anything, but if you went to the matinee of A Doll's House at Henley Street Theater today, I was the one handing you your program.
That's right, I ushered for the first time in my life and I think I did a damn fine job, if I do say so myself. I'd received an e-mail soliciting ushers for the run of the play and since I wanted to see it anyway, I figured, why not do it for free?
A Doll's House is one of those plays I've read more than once yet never seen produced When I last reread it in the early aughts, I put it on my short list of plays I intended to see live. The funny thing is, a 70-something playgoer told me today that she's been waiting 50 years (since she was in college) to see it produced. A teacher had told her it was one play she must see and she'd never forgotten his words. So there were at least two of us in this afternoon's audience crossing something off our lifetime to-do list.
And it was so worth it.
The production was excellent, perfectly cast, nicely paced and with beautiful costumes and a set composed of antiques. I know it's been referred to as the first feminist play, and deservedly so, but the dialog was still striking in its chauvinism.
Nora: Correct me like you usually do.
Torvald: With pleasure.
In addition to a clutch of the Red Hat Society ladies, there was a group of students from the Appomattox Governor's School at the performance and the more egregious lines elicited titters from them.
Torvald: I wouldn't be a man if you being helpless didn't make you doubly attractive.
Gender cliches aside, I considered it a real treat to usher in exchange for a seat, but I got an even bigger surprise when mine was one of two names pulled from the bowl to win free tickets to next season's opener, Waiting for Godot.
And unlike Nora, who at the end tells Torvald that, "I no longer believe that something glorious can happen," I'm still of the opinion that it can. True, seeing such a well-done play for free and winning tickets might not qualify as glorious, but it made for an especially fine Sunday afternoon for someone like me.
Which tells me that the something glorious is still out there just waiting to happen to me. Bring it on.
That's right, I ushered for the first time in my life and I think I did a damn fine job, if I do say so myself. I'd received an e-mail soliciting ushers for the run of the play and since I wanted to see it anyway, I figured, why not do it for free?
A Doll's House is one of those plays I've read more than once yet never seen produced When I last reread it in the early aughts, I put it on my short list of plays I intended to see live. The funny thing is, a 70-something playgoer told me today that she's been waiting 50 years (since she was in college) to see it produced. A teacher had told her it was one play she must see and she'd never forgotten his words. So there were at least two of us in this afternoon's audience crossing something off our lifetime to-do list.
And it was so worth it.
The production was excellent, perfectly cast, nicely paced and with beautiful costumes and a set composed of antiques. I know it's been referred to as the first feminist play, and deservedly so, but the dialog was still striking in its chauvinism.
Nora: Correct me like you usually do.
Torvald: With pleasure.
In addition to a clutch of the Red Hat Society ladies, there was a group of students from the Appomattox Governor's School at the performance and the more egregious lines elicited titters from them.
Torvald: I wouldn't be a man if you being helpless didn't make you doubly attractive.
Gender cliches aside, I considered it a real treat to usher in exchange for a seat, but I got an even bigger surprise when mine was one of two names pulled from the bowl to win free tickets to next season's opener, Waiting for Godot.
And unlike Nora, who at the end tells Torvald that, "I no longer believe that something glorious can happen," I'm still of the opinion that it can. True, seeing such a well-done play for free and winning tickets might not qualify as glorious, but it made for an especially fine Sunday afternoon for someone like me.
Which tells me that the something glorious is still out there just waiting to happen to me. Bring it on.
821 Cafe Changes and Stays the Same
Back when 821 Cafe first opened (back in, what '95, '96?) I convinced a friend to join me for lunch at what was then a most unlikely location.
That was back in the days when it was 821 Bakery and Cafe and we enjoyed a couple of excellent sandwiches and cookies while we perused their offbeat magazine collection.
All in all, he had good memories of the place and it's still a frequent destination for me.
That friend moved away from RVA in '98, but he's back this week visiting, here, and wanted to have breakfast together today before he flew back to Minneapolis.
It occurred to me that with the recent relocation of 821 to 825, there could be no better person to experience the new and improved space with.
So at the ungodly early hour of 9:30 on a Sunday morning, we met up.
Much the way Garnett's is the anti-Ipanema, the new 821 couldn't be more of a contrast; it's wide where it was narrow, bright where it was dark and open where it was tight.
Fortunately, enough of the old remains to be reassuring.
The Formica tables and unmatched chairs moved, as did the magazine rack.
Sitting at the bar, you still have a great view of the kitchen and the menus are still plastic-coated.
Whew! It's different, but it's the same.
Breakfast was my friend's last chance to enjoy east coast crabmeat, so he had scrambled eggs with crab, which made him very happy.
He could have just gotten the crab, spinach, tomato and Swiss cheese omelet, but he worried that the other ingredients would drown out the crab meat.
Somehow he didn't worry about his sausage patties overwhelming the delicate crab meat (although I ate half his sausage, so there wasn't all that much to overwhelm, I guess).
I was plenty happy with The Works, an everything bagel with cream cheese, tomato, capers and red onion.
Because it's Richmond, I knew the couple at the next table and my friend enlisted her to take pictures of us and our food.
He's been documenting his escapades in rva all week and posting them to Facebook, but we'd neglected to take any pictures when he'd dined at Bonvenu the other night and he was determined to correct that.
As he was leaving, he assured me that he'd post them the minute he got to the airport.
No hurry, I assured him, sad to see him go but not needing pictures to remember his visit.
No question, 821 feels very different than the original location but in the best possible way.
I'm not going to rhapsodize about the old because as long as the food stays good and cheap, the art continues to change and intrigue (I've bought several pieces off their walls) and the staff still remember me, I'll be a regular until 821 is no more.
And given their following, I have no doubt they'll outlast me.
The only thing missing at the new place is my regular stool.
Looks like I'll just have to establish a new one as mine.
Not a problem.
That was back in the days when it was 821 Bakery and Cafe and we enjoyed a couple of excellent sandwiches and cookies while we perused their offbeat magazine collection.
All in all, he had good memories of the place and it's still a frequent destination for me.
That friend moved away from RVA in '98, but he's back this week visiting, here, and wanted to have breakfast together today before he flew back to Minneapolis.
It occurred to me that with the recent relocation of 821 to 825, there could be no better person to experience the new and improved space with.
So at the ungodly early hour of 9:30 on a Sunday morning, we met up.
Much the way Garnett's is the anti-Ipanema, the new 821 couldn't be more of a contrast; it's wide where it was narrow, bright where it was dark and open where it was tight.
Fortunately, enough of the old remains to be reassuring.
The Formica tables and unmatched chairs moved, as did the magazine rack.
Sitting at the bar, you still have a great view of the kitchen and the menus are still plastic-coated.
Whew! It's different, but it's the same.
Breakfast was my friend's last chance to enjoy east coast crabmeat, so he had scrambled eggs with crab, which made him very happy.
He could have just gotten the crab, spinach, tomato and Swiss cheese omelet, but he worried that the other ingredients would drown out the crab meat.
Somehow he didn't worry about his sausage patties overwhelming the delicate crab meat (although I ate half his sausage, so there wasn't all that much to overwhelm, I guess).
I was plenty happy with The Works, an everything bagel with cream cheese, tomato, capers and red onion.
Because it's Richmond, I knew the couple at the next table and my friend enlisted her to take pictures of us and our food.
He's been documenting his escapades in rva all week and posting them to Facebook, but we'd neglected to take any pictures when he'd dined at Bonvenu the other night and he was determined to correct that.
As he was leaving, he assured me that he'd post them the minute he got to the airport.
No hurry, I assured him, sad to see him go but not needing pictures to remember his visit.
No question, 821 feels very different than the original location but in the best possible way.
I'm not going to rhapsodize about the old because as long as the food stays good and cheap, the art continues to change and intrigue (I've bought several pieces off their walls) and the staff still remember me, I'll be a regular until 821 is no more.
And given their following, I have no doubt they'll outlast me.
The only thing missing at the new place is my regular stool.
Looks like I'll just have to establish a new one as mine.
Not a problem.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Borrowing a Husband at Julep
You know how some childless people say they love interacting with other people's kids because they know they can hand them back? Does the same basic principle hold when I share a meal with someone else's husband? I ask because I have several married friends, all in satisfying relationships, with whom I greatly enjoy hanging out, begging the question would I enjoy them any less if they were single?
Tonight's dinner companion was a perfect example: smart, funny, food savvy, observant and a great conversationalist. We met at Julep where he and the valet watched me park, critiquing all the while. I must have done alright, though, because the valet asked if I was trying to put him out of a job (hmm, possible new career path?).
We arrived sans reservation to a fully reserved restaurant (even well-heeled prom couples) and had to wait a bit for two bar stools to open up. The bartender had called in sick (too much Strawberry Hill, if you know what I'm sayin') so one of the servers was doing double duty, making what seemed to be an endless stream of mint juleps while waiting on a full bar. We assured him we were in no hurry, which he seemed to appreciate.
My friend got his usual bruised martini and I opted for the Domaine du Pagot Sauvignon Blanc, a mid-palate delight without a lot of mineral taste. Friend and I had just about finalized our food choices when we were told that the mussels and calamari had not been up to the chef's standards so were unavailable tonight. Does this really mean they forgot to order them? Inquiring minds want to know. No matter, actually; there were plenty of other good choices.
I had the mixed spring lettuces with applewood smoked bacon, Stilton bleu cheese and pecan hush puppies with lemon-balsamic vinaigrette. The salad was supposed to have cukes too, but they were out of them. Luckily for me, they were the least important ingredient in the salad. My friend started with pan-fried goat cheese fondue with sun dried apricot-black pepper emulsion and crystallized pecan over greens, counting on it not being a true fondue, which it was not.
I'd had the hush puppies before and loved their sweet savoriness, but the crystallized pecan was an unknown entity. It tasted like a pecan meringue, solid and chewy; I loved it. We thought it added a lot to the dish.
Next up he had the Hudson Valley foie gras with pineapple-preserved lemon jam, rice paper crisp, and balsamic beef jus reduction. Verdict: decadent and divine. I scored with the sweet corn griddle cakes with lobster, avocado, Parmesan crisp and lemon-basil aioli. The dish had a generous amount of lobster complemented by perfectly ripe avocado; the crisp was almost overkill.
We were observing the kitchen staff through the window as we chatted and they were a focused bunch. It was almost 9:30 before we heard any laughter or much conversation at all. My friend, who works part-time in a restaurant kitchen, commented on the absence of jocularity and interaction, saying it wouldn't appeal to him. On the other hand they had a full house, so perhaps on slower evenings they enjoy themselves a bit more. Besides, who were we to judge?
And speaking of such, I wouldn't want to judge my friends by their marital status either. I have single male friends whose company I enjoy. But let's face it, my married friends are taken for a reason: they're interesting guys. I don't begrudge the women who got to them first, but I see no reason not to enjoy their company as long as their wives have no problem with it.
You see, I'm just borrowing them for an evening and handing them back. It's not my honey-do list they'll be working on tomorrow.
Tonight's dinner companion was a perfect example: smart, funny, food savvy, observant and a great conversationalist. We met at Julep where he and the valet watched me park, critiquing all the while. I must have done alright, though, because the valet asked if I was trying to put him out of a job (hmm, possible new career path?).
We arrived sans reservation to a fully reserved restaurant (even well-heeled prom couples) and had to wait a bit for two bar stools to open up. The bartender had called in sick (too much Strawberry Hill, if you know what I'm sayin') so one of the servers was doing double duty, making what seemed to be an endless stream of mint juleps while waiting on a full bar. We assured him we were in no hurry, which he seemed to appreciate.
My friend got his usual bruised martini and I opted for the Domaine du Pagot Sauvignon Blanc, a mid-palate delight without a lot of mineral taste. Friend and I had just about finalized our food choices when we were told that the mussels and calamari had not been up to the chef's standards so were unavailable tonight. Does this really mean they forgot to order them? Inquiring minds want to know. No matter, actually; there were plenty of other good choices.
I had the mixed spring lettuces with applewood smoked bacon, Stilton bleu cheese and pecan hush puppies with lemon-balsamic vinaigrette. The salad was supposed to have cukes too, but they were out of them. Luckily for me, they were the least important ingredient in the salad. My friend started with pan-fried goat cheese fondue with sun dried apricot-black pepper emulsion and crystallized pecan over greens, counting on it not being a true fondue, which it was not.
I'd had the hush puppies before and loved their sweet savoriness, but the crystallized pecan was an unknown entity. It tasted like a pecan meringue, solid and chewy; I loved it. We thought it added a lot to the dish.
Next up he had the Hudson Valley foie gras with pineapple-preserved lemon jam, rice paper crisp, and balsamic beef jus reduction. Verdict: decadent and divine. I scored with the sweet corn griddle cakes with lobster, avocado, Parmesan crisp and lemon-basil aioli. The dish had a generous amount of lobster complemented by perfectly ripe avocado; the crisp was almost overkill.
We were observing the kitchen staff through the window as we chatted and they were a focused bunch. It was almost 9:30 before we heard any laughter or much conversation at all. My friend, who works part-time in a restaurant kitchen, commented on the absence of jocularity and interaction, saying it wouldn't appeal to him. On the other hand they had a full house, so perhaps on slower evenings they enjoy themselves a bit more. Besides, who were we to judge?
And speaking of such, I wouldn't want to judge my friends by their marital status either. I have single male friends whose company I enjoy. But let's face it, my married friends are taken for a reason: they're interesting guys. I don't begrudge the women who got to them first, but I see no reason not to enjoy their company as long as their wives have no problem with it.
You see, I'm just borrowing them for an evening and handing them back. It's not my honey-do list they'll be working on tomorrow.
Truth is Stranger than Fiction
There's fiction and there's non-fiction and I find it amusing that some people can't tell the difference.
With my journalistic background, I have a bent for non-fiction; whenever I'm asked why I don't try writing fiction, I claim a lack of imagination.
Fiction writers are a different breed.
Reading at the von Gribley Reading series at Chop Suey Books this afternoon was 'zine writer Eric Nelson.
He recently had his 'zine published as a collection of short stories called The Silk City, on the subject of the everyday lives of the working class in Paterson, NJ.
I had a boyfriend from Paterson once and, come to think of it, he had a lot of great stories about the city's colorful characters, too.
Before reading one of them, he mentioned how frequently he hears comments like, "Boy, I can't believe that really happened to you!" to which he always responds, "It didn't!"
He's one of those talented people who can make stuff up.
Today he read a conversational story called "One Night in a Railyard," to the enjoyment of the small crowd.
Also reading was Rydell Bixby and could there be a better author name than that?
Like so many of the artistic talents in RVA, he left for a while (four years in Chicago) but has returned, perhaps realizing what a great place this town can be.
His reading today was of a story called, "The Boardwalk," an evocative tale of a side show and the people affected by it.
His low-key delivery added an appropriate deadpan quality to the bizarre nature of the story.
Luckily for me, enough offbeat stuff happens to me and is said to me that I don't have to be creative.
I just share the madness; it's so much easier than creating it from whole cloth.
And surprisingly enough, I never get asked if things really happened to me.
Of course, if you spend any time at all with me, you'll bear witness to it and eventually just accept that this is my life.
As a friend once told me, "You must have the strongest pheromones."
Good thing, too, 'cause I couldn't make this shit up.
With my journalistic background, I have a bent for non-fiction; whenever I'm asked why I don't try writing fiction, I claim a lack of imagination.
Fiction writers are a different breed.
Reading at the von Gribley Reading series at Chop Suey Books this afternoon was 'zine writer Eric Nelson.
He recently had his 'zine published as a collection of short stories called The Silk City, on the subject of the everyday lives of the working class in Paterson, NJ.
I had a boyfriend from Paterson once and, come to think of it, he had a lot of great stories about the city's colorful characters, too.
Before reading one of them, he mentioned how frequently he hears comments like, "Boy, I can't believe that really happened to you!" to which he always responds, "It didn't!"
He's one of those talented people who can make stuff up.
Today he read a conversational story called "One Night in a Railyard," to the enjoyment of the small crowd.
Also reading was Rydell Bixby and could there be a better author name than that?
Like so many of the artistic talents in RVA, he left for a while (four years in Chicago) but has returned, perhaps realizing what a great place this town can be.
His reading today was of a story called, "The Boardwalk," an evocative tale of a side show and the people affected by it.
His low-key delivery added an appropriate deadpan quality to the bizarre nature of the story.
Luckily for me, enough offbeat stuff happens to me and is said to me that I don't have to be creative.
I just share the madness; it's so much easier than creating it from whole cloth.
And surprisingly enough, I never get asked if things really happened to me.
Of course, if you spend any time at all with me, you'll bear witness to it and eventually just accept that this is my life.
As a friend once told me, "You must have the strongest pheromones."
Good thing, too, 'cause I couldn't make this shit up.
Park Twice, Party Thrice
What does it say about my evening that I used porta-potties in two different locations tonight? Or that I had no clue about the downpour until hours later when someone mentioned it casually in conversation? Or that I turned down the one man who sincerely wanted to dance with me? Nothing much.
My friend and I began our evening at Aziza's at my suggestion and because it had been a good while since she'd been there. It seemed foolish to consider ordering glasses of wine when a bottle of Vino Verde could be had for $17. "It's my favorite wine on a day like this," our server told the two women who subsisted all last summer on vino verde and late night conversation. Still, it's always nice to have one's choices validated.
The cheese plate kept us occupied while we whittled down our dinner selections, finally deciding to share the griddled garlic shrimp, white beans and pancetta, a salad and a side of asparagus. It was more than enough food and, in truth, we weren't able to finish all the cheese. The white bean and pancetta dish was unexpectedly warm and dangerously close to comfort food if not for all that healthy fiber. Given my lunch today, that's a lot of musical fruit in one day.
Our next stop was Brown's Island for the Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show to close out the first day of Riverrock. We arrived shortly after the mud race, so we saw many people in various stages of muddiness and undress. Others still had their runners' numbers pinned to their shirts. My friend mentioned that she always feels like a fraud at such events given her non-athletic status (and mine is even lower than hers).
The last time I saw GP&tN was fall 2007 at Toad's Place as the opener for Govt. Mule (without a doubt the most patchoulie-stinking, hippie-like crowd of any show I'd ever been to). Clearly the record company had gotten hold of this band in the interim and gussied up their image; Grace was not a short-skirt wearing blond when last I saw her. Their bluesy rock sound harkens back to the 70s and the crowd present were clearly devoted fans, singing and dancing to every song. And why shouldn't they have been, given a free concert on a balmy May evening?
The people watching in a crowd like that was stellar and luckily there were enough porta-potties to keep the lines short. There was a guy dancing in front of us who kept turning around and glancing toward my feet. My friend had concerns that he had a foot fetish until we noticed his recording device and mics near my feet and realized he was just checking his power levels. Of course, for all we know, he had a foot fetish too.
We made our last stop Capital Ale House to hear Bio Ritmo, a band neither of us had heard in years, despite having a friend in the band (we've sen him far more often in one of his other projects). It's tough not to enjoy a Bio Ritmo show given their enthusiasm, the nature of the music and all that percussion. It was there that someone mentioned the earlier rain of which we had been completely unaware, tucked away as we were in beerland (and not drinking beer).
Tonight, the dance floor was filled with dancing couples showing off their salsa and merengue moves. some more successfully than others. There was even a guy doing his pop and lock moves when he wasn't trying to entice some hapless woman to join him on the dance floor. In other words, the floor show alone was worth the price of admission.
We had parked once to party twice, so it was a bit of a hike and as we walked back to the car, I found nature calling. In a fortuitous find, there was a random porta-potty on Canal Street, so I ducked in while my friend stood outside talking to me through the door. She was sharing her concerns about the wisdom of me using a porta-potty on a deserted street at 1 a.m. while she stood there appearing to talk to herself; I assure her that she didn't look any more foolish than the bluetooth set.
Or any more foolish than I'd have looked on the dance floor. It's important to know one's limitations, whether they apply to pit stops or tripping the light fantastic.
My friend and I began our evening at Aziza's at my suggestion and because it had been a good while since she'd been there. It seemed foolish to consider ordering glasses of wine when a bottle of Vino Verde could be had for $17. "It's my favorite wine on a day like this," our server told the two women who subsisted all last summer on vino verde and late night conversation. Still, it's always nice to have one's choices validated.
The cheese plate kept us occupied while we whittled down our dinner selections, finally deciding to share the griddled garlic shrimp, white beans and pancetta, a salad and a side of asparagus. It was more than enough food and, in truth, we weren't able to finish all the cheese. The white bean and pancetta dish was unexpectedly warm and dangerously close to comfort food if not for all that healthy fiber. Given my lunch today, that's a lot of musical fruit in one day.
Our next stop was Brown's Island for the Grace Potter and the Nocturnals show to close out the first day of Riverrock. We arrived shortly after the mud race, so we saw many people in various stages of muddiness and undress. Others still had their runners' numbers pinned to their shirts. My friend mentioned that she always feels like a fraud at such events given her non-athletic status (and mine is even lower than hers).
The last time I saw GP&tN was fall 2007 at Toad's Place as the opener for Govt. Mule (without a doubt the most patchoulie-stinking, hippie-like crowd of any show I'd ever been to). Clearly the record company had gotten hold of this band in the interim and gussied up their image; Grace was not a short-skirt wearing blond when last I saw her. Their bluesy rock sound harkens back to the 70s and the crowd present were clearly devoted fans, singing and dancing to every song. And why shouldn't they have been, given a free concert on a balmy May evening?
The people watching in a crowd like that was stellar and luckily there were enough porta-potties to keep the lines short. There was a guy dancing in front of us who kept turning around and glancing toward my feet. My friend had concerns that he had a foot fetish until we noticed his recording device and mics near my feet and realized he was just checking his power levels. Of course, for all we know, he had a foot fetish too.
We made our last stop Capital Ale House to hear Bio Ritmo, a band neither of us had heard in years, despite having a friend in the band (we've sen him far more often in one of his other projects). It's tough not to enjoy a Bio Ritmo show given their enthusiasm, the nature of the music and all that percussion. It was there that someone mentioned the earlier rain of which we had been completely unaware, tucked away as we were in beerland (and not drinking beer).
Tonight, the dance floor was filled with dancing couples showing off their salsa and merengue moves. some more successfully than others. There was even a guy doing his pop and lock moves when he wasn't trying to entice some hapless woman to join him on the dance floor. In other words, the floor show alone was worth the price of admission.
We had parked once to party twice, so it was a bit of a hike and as we walked back to the car, I found nature calling. In a fortuitous find, there was a random porta-potty on Canal Street, so I ducked in while my friend stood outside talking to me through the door. She was sharing her concerns about the wisdom of me using a porta-potty on a deserted street at 1 a.m. while she stood there appearing to talk to herself; I assure her that she didn't look any more foolish than the bluetooth set.
Or any more foolish than I'd have looked on the dance floor. It's important to know one's limitations, whether they apply to pit stops or tripping the light fantastic.
Friday, May 14, 2010
A Symphonic Lunch at Urban Farmhouse
Sunny Fridays call for lunch plans and luckily my friend Nicholas, he of the Richmond Symphony and a consummate musician, here, invited me to join him at his new favorite place, the Urban Farmhouse. He said he was cooking up a performance idea and he wanted my input since I like music and going out so much.
Like so many places of late, UF has a gluten-free bread option for people like Nicholas and the half dozen other friends I have who are gluten-intolerant. They offer a gluten-free flatbread on which Nicholas got his Q with Blue Chicken, which the server described as "like eating hot wings without the grease," although the kitchen made it clear that the combination was a first for them. Apparently they succeeded beautifully because Nicholas said it was delicious and ate every bite.
I ordered the asparagus, white bean and feta salad over mixed greens and it was by far the best thing I've had at the UF and this was my third visit. The asparagus was perfectly cooked as were the beans, both a bit toothsome, which is to say to my liking. The salad was not overdressed, a frequent pet peeve of mine, but perhaps a tad over-cheesed. Still, it was good enough for me to say something to the kitchen staff who thanked me profusely for my kind words.
Nicholas' stroke of genius is a chamber music performance to be held at UF on an upcoming Sunday afternoon, in the tradition of "house" shows of previous centuries where new music was played for the enjoyment of friends and family. Those enormous windows that front Cary Street will be thrown wide open so as to entice passers-by to come in and listen. The five musicians will be sipping wine in between movements and the vibe will be comfortably relaxed.
I told him that I absolutely love this idea. Let's see, it's free, it's creative, it's music and I can't imagine anyone who shows up won't be thrilled to experience it. Hell, if I was transported hearing him play in a wine shop under construction, this will be almost like a ribbon-wrapped gift.
After all, my birthday is coming up this month...
Like so many places of late, UF has a gluten-free bread option for people like Nicholas and the half dozen other friends I have who are gluten-intolerant. They offer a gluten-free flatbread on which Nicholas got his Q with Blue Chicken, which the server described as "like eating hot wings without the grease," although the kitchen made it clear that the combination was a first for them. Apparently they succeeded beautifully because Nicholas said it was delicious and ate every bite.
I ordered the asparagus, white bean and feta salad over mixed greens and it was by far the best thing I've had at the UF and this was my third visit. The asparagus was perfectly cooked as were the beans, both a bit toothsome, which is to say to my liking. The salad was not overdressed, a frequent pet peeve of mine, but perhaps a tad over-cheesed. Still, it was good enough for me to say something to the kitchen staff who thanked me profusely for my kind words.
Nicholas' stroke of genius is a chamber music performance to be held at UF on an upcoming Sunday afternoon, in the tradition of "house" shows of previous centuries where new music was played for the enjoyment of friends and family. Those enormous windows that front Cary Street will be thrown wide open so as to entice passers-by to come in and listen. The five musicians will be sipping wine in between movements and the vibe will be comfortably relaxed.
I told him that I absolutely love this idea. Let's see, it's free, it's creative, it's music and I can't imagine anyone who shows up won't be thrilled to experience it. Hell, if I was transported hearing him play in a wine shop under construction, this will be almost like a ribbon-wrapped gift.
After all, my birthday is coming up this month...
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Amuse: Eats and Art
Being the self-proclaimed art geek that I am, I couldn't be happier to have a new restaurant at what is destined to be one of my favorite haunts again.
Tonight I made my second trek to the VMFA and this time I brought a friend who hadn't been since the reopening.
We were going to dine and then walk a gallery (or hopefully two) before they threw us out at 9:00.
Arriving at Amuse shortly after 6, we were told there was a 20-minute wait for a table, but of course we wanted to sit at the bar anyway, so there was no wait at all.
Over the next 45 minutes though, the place filled to capacity and the bartender was a non-stop whirling dervish trying to keep up.
We started with a cheese plate (six local and not-so-local selections with crackers and honey) to buy some time to peruse the menu and take stock of the room.
The woman sitting next to us was shortly served the fried green tomato and crab cake "sandwich" with apple-wood smoked bacon and a side of pimento cheese.
She said she'd ordered it because the woman at the other end of the bar had gotten it and raved about it.
She was just as impressed, although it was clearly not edible sandwich-style.
It was quickly becoming obvious that we'd better get our order in if we hoped to have any time at all for admiring art.
I asked for the Surry sausage and Yukon Gold potato timbale with local fried oysters and chive creme fraiche while my friend got the cauliflower bisque with truffle oil and fried collard greens and the scallop seviche with blue corn tortillas.
The oysters were plump and perfectly breaded and fried, but the star was the timbale with its spicy, earthy pig and potato flavors.
The bisque, which screamed cream, whispered cauliflower.
His ceviche couldn't have tasted any fresher and as a big fan of blue corn, I found the combination perfect.
Amuse is well-staffed and our wait for food was not long, especially for how pleased we were with everything we ordered.
My only complaint was with the wine list.
There are only two wines by the glass that are less than $10 and both are Chardonnays; a glass of Sauvignon Blanc or Viognier is $13, Merlot $15 and Bordeaux $16.
One woman ordered a glass of Merlot and handed the bartender a ten dollar bill.
When he told her the price, her jaw dropped.
She turned to us and mouthed "Fifteen dollars?"
Hopefully they are still figuring out their by-the-glass pricing and some adjustments will be made.
With bottles starting at $21 and going to $68, that's probably the way to go anyway.
After a most satisfying meal and engaging conversation from three different solo bar sitters, we ambled over to the Art Nouveau and Art Deco galleries, figuring to start at the top of the museum and, over the upcoming months, work our way down through all of them eventually.
It took us most of the rest of the evening to see everything in these galleries given the breadth of the VMFA's collection of these movements.
Furniture, jewelry, lithographs, household items and books, Art Nouveau and Art Deco touched almost every area of life with its graceful curves, streamlined modernity and organic qualities.
As the non-jewelry type, I could only be so impressed with the ornate belt buckles, necklaces and bracelets, but my heart beat faster in front of some of the magnificent desks and beautiful bookshelves.
We had just enough time to check out two of the Focus galleries on our way out; these small, short-term shows are only on view until July.
One was 'The Young America' showing art from the early years of our nation and then for something completely different, 'German Expressionism,' paintings from that period of disillusionment after the First World War.
Both were worth seeing.
I was pleased to learn that the museum is planning to start staying open on Friday nights as well as Thursdays.
With the leap from 20,000 objects on display pre-renovation to 50,000 now, I've got an awful lot of gallery strolling to do.
Perched at the bar, with a view of the grounds where the sculpture garden will be laid out, my friend and I agreed that Amuse was a terrific way to kick off an evening of art.
And should I find myself amused by someone interesting, I've got a better than average shot at him being an art geek.
Interesting food and reasonable prices aside, that could be Amuse's greatest strength.
At least in the eyes of this art geek.
Tonight I made my second trek to the VMFA and this time I brought a friend who hadn't been since the reopening.
We were going to dine and then walk a gallery (or hopefully two) before they threw us out at 9:00.
Arriving at Amuse shortly after 6, we were told there was a 20-minute wait for a table, but of course we wanted to sit at the bar anyway, so there was no wait at all.
Over the next 45 minutes though, the place filled to capacity and the bartender was a non-stop whirling dervish trying to keep up.
We started with a cheese plate (six local and not-so-local selections with crackers and honey) to buy some time to peruse the menu and take stock of the room.
The woman sitting next to us was shortly served the fried green tomato and crab cake "sandwich" with apple-wood smoked bacon and a side of pimento cheese.
She said she'd ordered it because the woman at the other end of the bar had gotten it and raved about it.
She was just as impressed, although it was clearly not edible sandwich-style.
It was quickly becoming obvious that we'd better get our order in if we hoped to have any time at all for admiring art.
I asked for the Surry sausage and Yukon Gold potato timbale with local fried oysters and chive creme fraiche while my friend got the cauliflower bisque with truffle oil and fried collard greens and the scallop seviche with blue corn tortillas.
The oysters were plump and perfectly breaded and fried, but the star was the timbale with its spicy, earthy pig and potato flavors.
The bisque, which screamed cream, whispered cauliflower.
His ceviche couldn't have tasted any fresher and as a big fan of blue corn, I found the combination perfect.
Amuse is well-staffed and our wait for food was not long, especially for how pleased we were with everything we ordered.
My only complaint was with the wine list.
There are only two wines by the glass that are less than $10 and both are Chardonnays; a glass of Sauvignon Blanc or Viognier is $13, Merlot $15 and Bordeaux $16.
One woman ordered a glass of Merlot and handed the bartender a ten dollar bill.
When he told her the price, her jaw dropped.
She turned to us and mouthed "Fifteen dollars?"
Hopefully they are still figuring out their by-the-glass pricing and some adjustments will be made.
With bottles starting at $21 and going to $68, that's probably the way to go anyway.
After a most satisfying meal and engaging conversation from three different solo bar sitters, we ambled over to the Art Nouveau and Art Deco galleries, figuring to start at the top of the museum and, over the upcoming months, work our way down through all of them eventually.
It took us most of the rest of the evening to see everything in these galleries given the breadth of the VMFA's collection of these movements.
Furniture, jewelry, lithographs, household items and books, Art Nouveau and Art Deco touched almost every area of life with its graceful curves, streamlined modernity and organic qualities.
As the non-jewelry type, I could only be so impressed with the ornate belt buckles, necklaces and bracelets, but my heart beat faster in front of some of the magnificent desks and beautiful bookshelves.
We had just enough time to check out two of the Focus galleries on our way out; these small, short-term shows are only on view until July.
One was 'The Young America' showing art from the early years of our nation and then for something completely different, 'German Expressionism,' paintings from that period of disillusionment after the First World War.
Both were worth seeing.
I was pleased to learn that the museum is planning to start staying open on Friday nights as well as Thursdays.
With the leap from 20,000 objects on display pre-renovation to 50,000 now, I've got an awful lot of gallery strolling to do.
Perched at the bar, with a view of the grounds where the sculpture garden will be laid out, my friend and I agreed that Amuse was a terrific way to kick off an evening of art.
And should I find myself amused by someone interesting, I've got a better than average shot at him being an art geek.
Interesting food and reasonable prices aside, that could be Amuse's greatest strength.
At least in the eyes of this art geek.
No One Wants Their Sex Questioned
They joy of working the census these past two weeks has been spending hours walking around the Ward, which is establishing me as a daily presence to VDOT workers, mailmen and assorted business owners, many of whom greet me like an old friend now.
Since I don't have problems talking to strangers (as one of my coworkers told me he did today; yeesh, bad job choice, buddy), it's not a particularly tough job and often results in some great exchanges in the 'hood.
We're required to ask certain questions of people when we enumerate them and you can imagine how some people react when you ask the obvious.
We're supposed to say, "Are you male or female?" which I usually paraphrase so as not to appear moronic.
Today a woman responded with, "Do you see ANY part of me that doesn't look like a woman's body?"
I think she thought I was challenging her femininity (or maybe she was just proud of the work she'd had done; who knows?), when really I was just talking government-speak.
For the record, I told her no.
Walking up Second Street, a group of three young guys were lounging outside a barber shop.
One told me that I was too young to be wearing such a cute flowered skirt to work in.
"For all you know, I'm old enough to be your mother, " I teased him and we exchanged ages.
"You could be my girlfriend definitely, but not my mother!" one said.
"Don't you guys have hair to cut?" I responded and took my flowered skirt on its way.
Passing the never-ending road repair work on Brook Road, one of the guys told me it was taking me as long to count people as it was taking them to fix the road.
Of course, there's ten of them to one of me, but either way, you're talking about your tax dollars at work, if you know what I mean.
Heading home down Marshall, I got my best comment of the day in front of Gallery 5 when a guy gave me a big smile and said, "You got a jazzy walk!"
Could there be a better way to walk the "Harlem of the South" than in a jazzy manner?
Didn't think so.
Since I don't have problems talking to strangers (as one of my coworkers told me he did today; yeesh, bad job choice, buddy), it's not a particularly tough job and often results in some great exchanges in the 'hood.
We're required to ask certain questions of people when we enumerate them and you can imagine how some people react when you ask the obvious.
We're supposed to say, "Are you male or female?" which I usually paraphrase so as not to appear moronic.
Today a woman responded with, "Do you see ANY part of me that doesn't look like a woman's body?"
I think she thought I was challenging her femininity (or maybe she was just proud of the work she'd had done; who knows?), when really I was just talking government-speak.
For the record, I told her no.
Walking up Second Street, a group of three young guys were lounging outside a barber shop.
One told me that I was too young to be wearing such a cute flowered skirt to work in.
"For all you know, I'm old enough to be your mother, " I teased him and we exchanged ages.
"You could be my girlfriend definitely, but not my mother!" one said.
"Don't you guys have hair to cut?" I responded and took my flowered skirt on its way.
Passing the never-ending road repair work on Brook Road, one of the guys told me it was taking me as long to count people as it was taking them to fix the road.
Of course, there's ten of them to one of me, but either way, you're talking about your tax dollars at work, if you know what I mean.
Heading home down Marshall, I got my best comment of the day in front of Gallery 5 when a guy gave me a big smile and said, "You got a jazzy walk!"
Could there be a better way to walk the "Harlem of the South" than in a jazzy manner?
Didn't think so.
Bag Me a Lunch, Acacia
When I get an e-mail saying "too good to be true," I sign up immediately and when it turns out to be as good as it sounds, I call it a score. For an hour today, Acacia's Dale Reitzer was making soft-shelled crabs, one of his personal favorites, and creating a lunch-to-go around them. I couldn't think of a single reason not to avail myself of such an offering; I immediately thought of a friend who likes softshells as much as I do and invited him along.
The menu was simple: a softshell sandwich with slaw (say that three times fast), housemade potato chips and a cookie. The e-mail said, "Take Acacia home with you, to the office, or enjoy your bagged lunch in the park." There was never any question that we'd be eating ours anywhere but in the park.
Stopping at Acacia to claim our reserved bags, we were delighted to discover that a limited array of beverages were for sale, mainly soda and water, but also chilled Miller High Life ponies. Can you imagine a more ideal brewed accompaniment for an outdoor lunch? Just a little beer to wet your whistle with your softshells; I thought it was brilliant and told our server so. She explained it by saying, "It's just what I'd want to drink with my lunch in the park."
So we were off to Scuffletown Park with our aromatic white bags to see what Dale had wrought. The sandwiches were large and on the most divine flour-dusted chewy roll you can imagine. The crab and slaw were arranged generously within that show-stopping bread. The housemade chips came in their own lined bag with just the right amount of saltiness. The cookie was molasses and rolled in sugar, providing the perfect sweet (but not too rich) ending to a lovely lunch.
I'm not so foolish as to wish that Acacia did bagged lunches all the time. But when a delicacy like softshells are in season, it's like a gift from the food gods to have someone willing to bag them up to be enjoyed in nature. And at only $10 (including tax, btw), it does border on too good to be true.
Luckily, some things (and people) are too good and true. Those are the things and the people I'm more than happy to experience.
The menu was simple: a softshell sandwich with slaw (say that three times fast), housemade potato chips and a cookie. The e-mail said, "Take Acacia home with you, to the office, or enjoy your bagged lunch in the park." There was never any question that we'd be eating ours anywhere but in the park.
Stopping at Acacia to claim our reserved bags, we were delighted to discover that a limited array of beverages were for sale, mainly soda and water, but also chilled Miller High Life ponies. Can you imagine a more ideal brewed accompaniment for an outdoor lunch? Just a little beer to wet your whistle with your softshells; I thought it was brilliant and told our server so. She explained it by saying, "It's just what I'd want to drink with my lunch in the park."
So we were off to Scuffletown Park with our aromatic white bags to see what Dale had wrought. The sandwiches were large and on the most divine flour-dusted chewy roll you can imagine. The crab and slaw were arranged generously within that show-stopping bread. The housemade chips came in their own lined bag with just the right amount of saltiness. The cookie was molasses and rolled in sugar, providing the perfect sweet (but not too rich) ending to a lovely lunch.
I'm not so foolish as to wish that Acacia did bagged lunches all the time. But when a delicacy like softshells are in season, it's like a gift from the food gods to have someone willing to bag them up to be enjoyed in nature. And at only $10 (including tax, btw), it does border on too good to be true.
Luckily, some things (and people) are too good and true. Those are the things and the people I'm more than happy to experience.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Radio Rats Reunite
I worked in radio back in the 90s, a job that taught me how to drink tequila, encouraged me to share my opinions on new music and provided opportunities to meet some interesting characters along the way. One of my favorite oddballs, the former production director, is in from Minneapolis this week so we made plans to meet for dinner tonight.
My friend is gay, a fact I mention only to explain a compliment he gave me years ago which is still one of my favorites. When he first moved to the frigid state of Minnesota, he met a girl who was unaware of his preferences and tried hitting on him. When he realized what she was doing, he stopped her cold by saying, "Honey, if I was going to cross to the dark side, I'd have married Karen years ago." Now that, my friends, is high praise.
He's a native Chicagoan who fell in love with East Coast seafood during the five years he lived in rva, so when I asked if he had any preferences for dinner, all he required was a place he could get crab cakes. I took him to Bonvenu in Carytown, knowing he'd enjoy the feel of the place as well as the food.
I know it's corny, because the place is called Bonvenu and all, but the staff always recognizes me and says things like 'welcome back' and 'nice to see you again.' It seems very gracious and I always appreciate it because I am by no means a regular (this was maybe my sixth visit). Perhaps it's because I usually sit at the bar and they have a close-up view of me and I talk a lot. Or maybe they appreciate the fact that I bring someone different every time I come.
I began with the seared ahi tuna with avocado soy ginger over greens, something my Midwestern friend wouldn't think of eating. He went southern with the wild mushrooms with smoked Gouda grits, although when the plate came, he asked me what the white stuff was (which was actually pretty cute). On a related note, he's still grateful that I introduced him to sun-dried tomatoes back in 1993.
He'd known going in that he was going to have the crab cakes and they pleased him exceedingly. I enjoyed the PEI mussels in a spicy tomato garlic broth with grilled flat bread. I don't usually order mussels in a tomato-based broth but was rewarded for doing so. The mussels came atop a giant square of flat bread bigger than the bowl, so the broth sopped through it on the bottom and stayed warm, dry and crusty on the top and sides. It was built in dipping bread and absolutely delicious.
Over dinner my friend wanted life and love details from the past six years since he'd last been to Richmond, so I delivered the highs and lows. He told me about his adventures since arriving Saturday, including an afternoon on Belle Isle admiring the human scenery today. He was especially proud of his sunburned face.
He told me of having lunch at Joe's Inn with the former music director from the station where we worked and couldn't wait to tell me what the guy had said about me. When my friend mentioned we were having dinner tonight, the guy said, "I would have had an affair with that woman." As my friend put it, "All those years we worked together, not once did he tell me he lusted after you in his heart." Nor did he tell me, but he was married, so that's actually a very good thing.
Dropping me off at a decent hour, my friend was eager to get back to his hotel to watch baseball, so I headed over to a neighborhood joint for chocolate and wine. The restaurant owner wanted to discuss his disdain for a recent online piece about his restaurant; I read it and had to agree that his points were all valid. His only consolation was how few people would even read it, but such are the headaches of living in an online world.
It was so much simpler back when we were working in radio in the 90s. If you said something that was unnecessary or bad form on the air, sure, the people listening heard it, but it didn't live on in perpetuity. I have to say, there's a lot of appeal to that.
Of course, there was a lot of appeal to having a station manager who kept a large bottle of good tequila on his desk to smooth out the rough days, but that's a story for another day.
My friend is gay, a fact I mention only to explain a compliment he gave me years ago which is still one of my favorites. When he first moved to the frigid state of Minnesota, he met a girl who was unaware of his preferences and tried hitting on him. When he realized what she was doing, he stopped her cold by saying, "Honey, if I was going to cross to the dark side, I'd have married Karen years ago." Now that, my friends, is high praise.
He's a native Chicagoan who fell in love with East Coast seafood during the five years he lived in rva, so when I asked if he had any preferences for dinner, all he required was a place he could get crab cakes. I took him to Bonvenu in Carytown, knowing he'd enjoy the feel of the place as well as the food.
I know it's corny, because the place is called Bonvenu and all, but the staff always recognizes me and says things like 'welcome back' and 'nice to see you again.' It seems very gracious and I always appreciate it because I am by no means a regular (this was maybe my sixth visit). Perhaps it's because I usually sit at the bar and they have a close-up view of me and I talk a lot. Or maybe they appreciate the fact that I bring someone different every time I come.
I began with the seared ahi tuna with avocado soy ginger over greens, something my Midwestern friend wouldn't think of eating. He went southern with the wild mushrooms with smoked Gouda grits, although when the plate came, he asked me what the white stuff was (which was actually pretty cute). On a related note, he's still grateful that I introduced him to sun-dried tomatoes back in 1993.
He'd known going in that he was going to have the crab cakes and they pleased him exceedingly. I enjoyed the PEI mussels in a spicy tomato garlic broth with grilled flat bread. I don't usually order mussels in a tomato-based broth but was rewarded for doing so. The mussels came atop a giant square of flat bread bigger than the bowl, so the broth sopped through it on the bottom and stayed warm, dry and crusty on the top and sides. It was built in dipping bread and absolutely delicious.
Over dinner my friend wanted life and love details from the past six years since he'd last been to Richmond, so I delivered the highs and lows. He told me about his adventures since arriving Saturday, including an afternoon on Belle Isle admiring the human scenery today. He was especially proud of his sunburned face.
He told me of having lunch at Joe's Inn with the former music director from the station where we worked and couldn't wait to tell me what the guy had said about me. When my friend mentioned we were having dinner tonight, the guy said, "I would have had an affair with that woman." As my friend put it, "All those years we worked together, not once did he tell me he lusted after you in his heart." Nor did he tell me, but he was married, so that's actually a very good thing.
Dropping me off at a decent hour, my friend was eager to get back to his hotel to watch baseball, so I headed over to a neighborhood joint for chocolate and wine. The restaurant owner wanted to discuss his disdain for a recent online piece about his restaurant; I read it and had to agree that his points were all valid. His only consolation was how few people would even read it, but such are the headaches of living in an online world.
It was so much simpler back when we were working in radio in the 90s. If you said something that was unnecessary or bad form on the air, sure, the people listening heard it, but it didn't live on in perpetuity. I have to say, there's a lot of appeal to that.
Of course, there was a lot of appeal to having a station manager who kept a large bottle of good tequila on his desk to smooth out the rough days, but that's a story for another day.
Old Ladies Need Tongue, Too (Apparently)
As I was doing my walk on Grace Street this morning, a guy yelled at me from behind, "Hey, do you run the 10K?"
Not even slowing down, I shook my head no and kept on.
Just my luck, he was on a bike, so he pulled up beside me.
"Why not?" he asked.
"I'm a walker, not a runner," I told him.
He went on to say that he always goes to watch the 10K and the marathon, that he's fascinated by the sheer number of people who participate.
"Last year I saw 21 people throw up during the race," he bragged. "I used to be in nursing training, so I know how hard it is on your body to do that and sometimes you just puke."
Good to know.
"Did you hear about that 88-year old that ran last year?" he inquired.
I hadn't.
"Yea, after she finished she came up to me and asked if she could hug a young man to celebrate finishing, so I told her sure."
Clearly young is in the eye of the beholder because this guy had to at least 50.
"After she hugged me, she gave me a big old kiss," he over-shared. "Would you believe she slipped me the tongue?"
Good god, I didn't want to hear this, although I gave the guy credit.
He probably made that woman's day and for all I know, he may have given her tongue back.
Still, I picked up my pace.
From behind I heard him say, "Nice talking to you. I'm turning here. Have a great day!"
I'm actually a very normal-looking person.
I will never understand what it is about me that causes people to say the things they do to me.
On the other hand, my walks are seldom dull.
Not even slowing down, I shook my head no and kept on.
Just my luck, he was on a bike, so he pulled up beside me.
"Why not?" he asked.
"I'm a walker, not a runner," I told him.
He went on to say that he always goes to watch the 10K and the marathon, that he's fascinated by the sheer number of people who participate.
"Last year I saw 21 people throw up during the race," he bragged. "I used to be in nursing training, so I know how hard it is on your body to do that and sometimes you just puke."
Good to know.
"Did you hear about that 88-year old that ran last year?" he inquired.
I hadn't.
"Yea, after she finished she came up to me and asked if she could hug a young man to celebrate finishing, so I told her sure."
Clearly young is in the eye of the beholder because this guy had to at least 50.
"After she hugged me, she gave me a big old kiss," he over-shared. "Would you believe she slipped me the tongue?"
Good god, I didn't want to hear this, although I gave the guy credit.
He probably made that woman's day and for all I know, he may have given her tongue back.
Still, I picked up my pace.
From behind I heard him say, "Nice talking to you. I'm turning here. Have a great day!"
I'm actually a very normal-looking person.
I will never understand what it is about me that causes people to say the things they do to me.
On the other hand, my walks are seldom dull.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Six Burner and Shakespeare
A simple plan: Six Burner and Shakespeare, meaning good food, and half-priced wine, followed by intense wordplay and a bittersweet ending.
What more could I want on a Tuesday evening (there's an obvious answer to that, but we'll leave it unwritten)?
Off I went.
I was greeted at Six Burner's bar by local wine god Bob Talcott, enjoying a glass of half-priced wine himself.
I'm no fool (well, not entirely anyway), so after our hellos I asked him what he was drinking, figuring I might as well take the master's lead.
I can be an apt pupil, I've been told.
It was the featured white, the Kuentz-Bas Alscace, a blend of sylvaner, muscat, auxerrois and chasselas.
He described it as a bunch of unusual grapes, dry and delicious but not particularly aromatic.
Furthering justifying his choice, he said, "I could be analytical about it, but sometimes you just have to accept it for what it is."
"You could say that about women, don't you think?" I asked.
He got all pink in the face and stopped just short of spitting out his wine, he laughed so hard; but he also admitted that there's little analysis that goes into his dealings with my fair sex.
I didn't probe further, but it was a good start to the evening.
Minutes later a friend came in with his wife and son and insisted I join them at their table.
He's the nearest thing I know to being a chef without actually being a chef; I met him through his work in a local restaurant.
Surprise, surprise, there was a lot of talk of restaurants and food as we ate.
An amuse bouche arrived, in the form of a calamari and mushroom ensalata and it was mouth-wateringly good.
I had the sunchoke soup with pig and kumquats followed by the Manakintowne greens with beets, goat cheese, blood oranges and pistachios.
I had to dash in order to make my curtain, causing our sever to ask, "Since when are you in a hurry, Karen? You don't even have time for chocolate?"
Nothing like being called out.
I arrived at Center Stage with two minutes to spare, paid my $15 (which includes a glass of wine) and grabbed a front row seat.
The cast was larger than the last few staged readings I'd been to there, with about fifteen people.
The last time I saw Love's Labours Lost performed was at Dogwood Dell at the turn of the 21st century and it wasn't by Richmond Shakespeare.
All I remembered was a short play full of repartee and men vowing to stay away from women, resulting in hilarity.
"Oh, I am stabbed by laughter," the servant Boyet says and it's a perfect description of a word nerd's reaction to the play.
It's considered one of Shakespeare's most intellectual, full of wordplay, alliteration, metaphors, puns and other literary devices we language geeks love.
Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart
And quite divorce his memory from his part.
Ahem.
It's not a play that's often performed for that very reason, as well as its bittersweet ending.
The guys don't get the girls; they're told they have to wait a year and a day to claim their loves and prove it's not just infatuation.
This is not the typical Shakespearean comedy happy ending, you know, love, chase, marriage.
Or maybe it's just a delayed happy ending, as in true love must be tested over time. I hear such things are possible.
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come, challenge, challenge me by these deserts,
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,
I will be thine.
Perhaps it's the challenge that leads to happily ever after...not that I would know.
What more could I want on a Tuesday evening (there's an obvious answer to that, but we'll leave it unwritten)?
Off I went.
I was greeted at Six Burner's bar by local wine god Bob Talcott, enjoying a glass of half-priced wine himself.
I'm no fool (well, not entirely anyway), so after our hellos I asked him what he was drinking, figuring I might as well take the master's lead.
I can be an apt pupil, I've been told.
It was the featured white, the Kuentz-Bas Alscace, a blend of sylvaner, muscat, auxerrois and chasselas.
He described it as a bunch of unusual grapes, dry and delicious but not particularly aromatic.
Furthering justifying his choice, he said, "I could be analytical about it, but sometimes you just have to accept it for what it is."
"You could say that about women, don't you think?" I asked.
He got all pink in the face and stopped just short of spitting out his wine, he laughed so hard; but he also admitted that there's little analysis that goes into his dealings with my fair sex.
I didn't probe further, but it was a good start to the evening.
Minutes later a friend came in with his wife and son and insisted I join them at their table.
He's the nearest thing I know to being a chef without actually being a chef; I met him through his work in a local restaurant.
Surprise, surprise, there was a lot of talk of restaurants and food as we ate.
An amuse bouche arrived, in the form of a calamari and mushroom ensalata and it was mouth-wateringly good.
I had the sunchoke soup with pig and kumquats followed by the Manakintowne greens with beets, goat cheese, blood oranges and pistachios.
I had to dash in order to make my curtain, causing our sever to ask, "Since when are you in a hurry, Karen? You don't even have time for chocolate?"
Nothing like being called out.
I arrived at Center Stage with two minutes to spare, paid my $15 (which includes a glass of wine) and grabbed a front row seat.
The cast was larger than the last few staged readings I'd been to there, with about fifteen people.
The last time I saw Love's Labours Lost performed was at Dogwood Dell at the turn of the 21st century and it wasn't by Richmond Shakespeare.
All I remembered was a short play full of repartee and men vowing to stay away from women, resulting in hilarity.
"Oh, I am stabbed by laughter," the servant Boyet says and it's a perfect description of a word nerd's reaction to the play.
It's considered one of Shakespeare's most intellectual, full of wordplay, alliteration, metaphors, puns and other literary devices we language geeks love.
Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart
And quite divorce his memory from his part.
Ahem.
It's not a play that's often performed for that very reason, as well as its bittersweet ending.
The guys don't get the girls; they're told they have to wait a year and a day to claim their loves and prove it's not just infatuation.
This is not the typical Shakespearean comedy happy ending, you know, love, chase, marriage.
Or maybe it's just a delayed happy ending, as in true love must be tested over time. I hear such things are possible.
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come, challenge, challenge me by these deserts,
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,
I will be thine.
Perhaps it's the challenge that leads to happily ever after...not that I would know.
Monday, May 10, 2010
And Who Doesn't Like Cake?
I didn't go to Avalon for romance; I went to meet a good friend for a glass of wine and some nerdy conversation (I got both).
The romance part came when a casual friend, one whom I've known for ten years but haven't seen in the past turbulent year showed up.
It was great to see her and while my wine friend stepped outside for a smoke break, she and I played catch-up.
As it turns out, she was meeting friends to celebrate; her divorce was final today.
The fact that she was celebrating represented progress because she wasn't the catalyst for the divorce.
It was one of those unfortunate instances when a wife arrives home unexpectedly only to discover her husband in flagrante delicto; the kicker was that he was with merely one of a string of chippies.
So snap!
Just like that, more than a decade of marriage out the window.
And just to be clear here, my friend is a very talented artist and photographer, not to mention smart, funny and gorgeous.
I say this as a friend, but I only wish I had a fraction of the allure she does.
Here's where the romantic part comes in.
After months of fearing dating and disrobing, reality and relationships, she heard from an old friend via, what else, Facebook.
We're talking about someone she knew twenty years ago who still lives in Great Britain, just as he did when she first met him.
They started communicating and found enough of interest to schedule a first date, despite the pond that separates their continents.
They met in Paris two decades after they last saw each other.
Things went so well that they've now planned a second date.
He'll be arriving in Virginia in a few weeks and they're taking a two-week road trip.
It will begin with a drive down Skyline Drive to Ashville, meander through Nashville and Memphis and makes stops in Savannah and Charleston.
You read right, date #2 will last a fortnight.
Granted, the mere idea of a Parisian first date and a two-week second date are enough to satisfy the romantic in anyone, but for me, that's not even the most romantic part.
I'm blown away by the optimism of them both, their open willingness to just throw themselves into this possibility and see what develops.
In an attempt to make me understand why she's following her passion, she pointed out that, "If you're attracted to someone at one point in your life, chances are you'll be attracted to them at a later date, too. People don't change that much."
That story made my night, possibly my month.
Imagine having your life totally torn apart only to have something wonderful rise out of the debris.
And as has been said by many a wise man, being able to travel well together is not only the ultimate test of a relationship, but absolutely necessary for its success.
This second date of theirs already sounds like the most romantic date ever, if only because they're both willing to do it.
The romance that happens along the way will just be icing on the cake.
Could someone cut me a really big slice, please?
The romance part came when a casual friend, one whom I've known for ten years but haven't seen in the past turbulent year showed up.
It was great to see her and while my wine friend stepped outside for a smoke break, she and I played catch-up.
As it turns out, she was meeting friends to celebrate; her divorce was final today.
The fact that she was celebrating represented progress because she wasn't the catalyst for the divorce.
It was one of those unfortunate instances when a wife arrives home unexpectedly only to discover her husband in flagrante delicto; the kicker was that he was with merely one of a string of chippies.
So snap!
Just like that, more than a decade of marriage out the window.
And just to be clear here, my friend is a very talented artist and photographer, not to mention smart, funny and gorgeous.
I say this as a friend, but I only wish I had a fraction of the allure she does.
Here's where the romantic part comes in.
After months of fearing dating and disrobing, reality and relationships, she heard from an old friend via, what else, Facebook.
We're talking about someone she knew twenty years ago who still lives in Great Britain, just as he did when she first met him.
They started communicating and found enough of interest to schedule a first date, despite the pond that separates their continents.
They met in Paris two decades after they last saw each other.
Things went so well that they've now planned a second date.
He'll be arriving in Virginia in a few weeks and they're taking a two-week road trip.
It will begin with a drive down Skyline Drive to Ashville, meander through Nashville and Memphis and makes stops in Savannah and Charleston.
You read right, date #2 will last a fortnight.
Granted, the mere idea of a Parisian first date and a two-week second date are enough to satisfy the romantic in anyone, but for me, that's not even the most romantic part.
I'm blown away by the optimism of them both, their open willingness to just throw themselves into this possibility and see what develops.
In an attempt to make me understand why she's following her passion, she pointed out that, "If you're attracted to someone at one point in your life, chances are you'll be attracted to them at a later date, too. People don't change that much."
That story made my night, possibly my month.
Imagine having your life totally torn apart only to have something wonderful rise out of the debris.
And as has been said by many a wise man, being able to travel well together is not only the ultimate test of a relationship, but absolutely necessary for its success.
This second date of theirs already sounds like the most romantic date ever, if only because they're both willing to do it.
The romance that happens along the way will just be icing on the cake.
Could someone cut me a really big slice, please?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mom Says, So You Have To
I have one of those mothers who thinks it's more meaningful to be visited by her children on Mother's Day than on Christmas or her birthday (she actually told us that).
Of course, when you produce six children, and six daughters at that, I suppose there isn't a more important day to celebrate yourself.
So I always spend Mother's Day on the Northern Neck being the respectful oldest daughter.
This year's trip to the river had a twofold purpose though, because with the recent demise of the beagle, here, it was time to bury his effects and say one last goodbye.
He loved visiting out there; my parents have several acres on the Rappahannock and there was plenty of room for him to run and large shade trees to nap under.
He and I had visited just ten days before his last day and even in his dotage, he'd seemed absolutely content napping in the sun on the porch all afternoon.
The only time he was ever unpopular on a visit was once in his youth when he bounded out of the car and took off like a shot, only to return less than a minute later proudly carrying a dead baby rabbit in his mouth.
My mother, who had been sending me updates on the mother rabbit and her new brood, was understandably upset.
The beagle was mystified at our reaction; his instinct had betrayed him and it was clear he didn't know what he'd down wrong.
But it was the last time he did any hunting at the river.
Two of my five sisters also made the trek down from Maryland, so there was a fair amount of reminiscing ("Remember when she hitchhiked to the beach in her bare feet?" about one of the absent sisters) and sarcasm ("It's a chopped salad but we don't usually use a bread knife to cut tomatoes," to yours truly about her knife skills).
You know, that sort of sisterly affection where the aim is to insult with humor, but always to get your dig in.
Meanwhile, my mom sits there smiling, but reminding us to stop talking about sisters who aren't present and to please be nice, just like she's been doing since we were old enough to talk.
In fact, I believe that's why she wants us to come down for Mother's Day.
I think her idea of celebrating herself is just having us around so she can do what she does best, which is mother us.
Good daughter that I attempt to be, I'm more than happy to oblige.
Of course, when you produce six children, and six daughters at that, I suppose there isn't a more important day to celebrate yourself.
So I always spend Mother's Day on the Northern Neck being the respectful oldest daughter.
This year's trip to the river had a twofold purpose though, because with the recent demise of the beagle, here, it was time to bury his effects and say one last goodbye.
He loved visiting out there; my parents have several acres on the Rappahannock and there was plenty of room for him to run and large shade trees to nap under.
He and I had visited just ten days before his last day and even in his dotage, he'd seemed absolutely content napping in the sun on the porch all afternoon.
The only time he was ever unpopular on a visit was once in his youth when he bounded out of the car and took off like a shot, only to return less than a minute later proudly carrying a dead baby rabbit in his mouth.
My mother, who had been sending me updates on the mother rabbit and her new brood, was understandably upset.
The beagle was mystified at our reaction; his instinct had betrayed him and it was clear he didn't know what he'd down wrong.
But it was the last time he did any hunting at the river.
Two of my five sisters also made the trek down from Maryland, so there was a fair amount of reminiscing ("Remember when she hitchhiked to the beach in her bare feet?" about one of the absent sisters) and sarcasm ("It's a chopped salad but we don't usually use a bread knife to cut tomatoes," to yours truly about her knife skills).
You know, that sort of sisterly affection where the aim is to insult with humor, but always to get your dig in.
Meanwhile, my mom sits there smiling, but reminding us to stop talking about sisters who aren't present and to please be nice, just like she's been doing since we were old enough to talk.
In fact, I believe that's why she wants us to come down for Mother's Day.
I think her idea of celebrating herself is just having us around so she can do what she does best, which is mother us.
Good daughter that I attempt to be, I'm more than happy to oblige.
Minus and Moody Math (Rock)
A musician friend who bartends at The National started my night with a compliment.
"It's awesome how you come out so often to hear all kinds of music."
I think he was surprised to see me there for a band that has former members of hardcore bands Kill Sadie and Botch, but actually, I find the band's sound all the more interesting for where they came from.
Minus the Bear has a lot for me to like: the interplay of two excellent guitarists, thick keyboards, the total wash of sound that all of their songs evolve into (it sounds very post-rock to me, sort of like Explosions in the Sky or Yndi Halda) before settling back into that trancey state that they do so well.
Let's just say that it's a very dense sound and I am quite fond of that and the offbeat time signatures doesn't hurt, either.
You can hear their musical geekiness in every note.
While the testosterone-fueled members of the audience may regret the band's evolution, roaring loudly when older material was played, I like Minus the Bear's development with calmer lyrics and more electronica; it just sounds good to my ear.
Unfortunately, many in the testosterone set were also ugly drunk and doing a lot of whoo-ing.
I had my feet stepped on twice by a jumping fool who made more noise than the band.
Young the Giant opened the show and although I missed the start of their set, I liked what I heard of their hook-laden sound.
Everest was next and they were less to my taste but much appreciated by those in attendance.
Math rock melodies behind driving guitars and enough keyboards to keep it interesting; that's an outstanding Saturday night's worth of live music.
It's not me who's awesome for coming out to hear Minus the Bear; what's awesome is that former hardcore band members continue to develop quirky enough sounds to draw people like me out.
Or maybe it's just that I'm easily drawn. Your call.
"It's awesome how you come out so often to hear all kinds of music."
I think he was surprised to see me there for a band that has former members of hardcore bands Kill Sadie and Botch, but actually, I find the band's sound all the more interesting for where they came from.
Minus the Bear has a lot for me to like: the interplay of two excellent guitarists, thick keyboards, the total wash of sound that all of their songs evolve into (it sounds very post-rock to me, sort of like Explosions in the Sky or Yndi Halda) before settling back into that trancey state that they do so well.
Let's just say that it's a very dense sound and I am quite fond of that and the offbeat time signatures doesn't hurt, either.
You can hear their musical geekiness in every note.
While the testosterone-fueled members of the audience may regret the band's evolution, roaring loudly when older material was played, I like Minus the Bear's development with calmer lyrics and more electronica; it just sounds good to my ear.
Unfortunately, many in the testosterone set were also ugly drunk and doing a lot of whoo-ing.
I had my feet stepped on twice by a jumping fool who made more noise than the band.
Young the Giant opened the show and although I missed the start of their set, I liked what I heard of their hook-laden sound.
Everest was next and they were less to my taste but much appreciated by those in attendance.
Math rock melodies behind driving guitars and enough keyboards to keep it interesting; that's an outstanding Saturday night's worth of live music.
It's not me who's awesome for coming out to hear Minus the Bear; what's awesome is that former hardcore band members continue to develop quirky enough sounds to draw people like me out.
Or maybe it's just that I'm easily drawn. Your call.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Summing Up Secco
You see, if I'd gone to Secco before the poetry reading, I might not have made it there at all. Who am I kidding? There's no way I would have made it to that reading. So I wisely deferred my sipping satisfaction until after my poetry pleasure and was none the worse for it.
"When a good poem is written, a crappy Attorney General breaks a pinky toe." Or so said poet and contest judge Josh Poteat as a way of introducing another poet at today's reading at Chop Suey Books; the event celebrated the Best Poetry contest sponsored by James River Writers and Richmond magazine and attracted a full room.
First up was Heidi Poon with her tight and tense poetry; by the time they'd notified her that she was a winner, she' rewritten the winning poem. She was followed by Henry Hart whose poetry could not have been more different. I loved the line "I too will indenture myself to lightening," from his poem "Communion" about the ghost of Walt Whitman. Another he described as a crazy, political poem called "Field Trip to the Museum from the Bush Years" and contained the opening line, "George liked the bus but ignored the exhibits."
Laura Davenport, when informed that her poem had won the contest, asked, "Which one?" and was told, "The really long one." It was a reference to her poem "Sermon New Orleans," an absolutely beautiful piece of work.
Afterwards I strolled down the block to spend some time at the newly opened Secco wine bar. As it turned out, so did another attendee from the reading, so I had good company with which to share a glass of wine (me the Guindon Gamay Rose and he the Soif du Jour) and conversation.
As a bonus, I couldn't have been more complimented to see my name on the bar's chalkboard wall along with other names under "Thank you." You can be sure I pointed it out to everyone I saw, whether I knew them or not.
But I wasn't there to have my ego stroked; I wanted to eat. I'd met the kitchen staff a couple of weeks ago and I wanted to taste the fruits of their labor, so I ordered the passatelli in brodo with Chorizo and mustard greens (for us uninformed types, the menu explained that passatelli is a pasta from Emilia-Romgna similar to spatzle). Oh, this was a good combination and I'm in love with passatelli now.
Next up, I got fresh goat and cow milk ricotta with fava beans, roasted pecans, sea salt and evoo; if it sounds incredibly simple , it is....and isn't. The blending of these tastes and textures was sublime, something you wish you could have thought of on your own but know instinctively that you never would have.
By now I'd switched to the Barboursville Reserve Viognier after a discussion with a nearby bar sitter about the honeysuckle being in bloom in alleys all over the city right now. I couldn't resist ordering some cheese too and let Sara choose because, after all, she's the cheese whiz. Let's face it, nobody else could say. "Howdy Cheese People" and get away with it.
She knows I love my stinky cheese so she chose the Montenebro, a goat cheese from Spain with an ash rind and chutney on the side. Rich, semi-firm and stinky, I savored it as I went about choosing some of the music that will create the ambiance at Secco.
When I'd first arrived, I'd noticed the absence of music because, well, I love music. Julia had explained that they'd tried listening to NPR until a discordant opera came on and harshed every one's mellow. Her intention was to start using an iPod instead but she had to create some mixes first. I was thrilled and flattered when she suggested I use my bar time to create Karen's Secco mix from the music she had on her computer. You want me to choose what your customers will listen to on occasion? Done.
And that's how I came to hang out at Secco's bar for a good three hours, eating, sipping and scrolling through music to find the stuff I'd want to hear the next time I'm at Secco eating and sipping. I was choosing from Julia's music, so attribution should probably go to both of us.
I'll warn you now, though, it may be one of the few mixes ever made that includes both Interpol and Robert Goulet. Perhaps that will give you some idea of what an interesting place Secco is going to be.
"When a good poem is written, a crappy Attorney General breaks a pinky toe." Or so said poet and contest judge Josh Poteat as a way of introducing another poet at today's reading at Chop Suey Books; the event celebrated the Best Poetry contest sponsored by James River Writers and Richmond magazine and attracted a full room.
First up was Heidi Poon with her tight and tense poetry; by the time they'd notified her that she was a winner, she' rewritten the winning poem. She was followed by Henry Hart whose poetry could not have been more different. I loved the line "I too will indenture myself to lightening," from his poem "Communion" about the ghost of Walt Whitman. Another he described as a crazy, political poem called "Field Trip to the Museum from the Bush Years" and contained the opening line, "George liked the bus but ignored the exhibits."
Laura Davenport, when informed that her poem had won the contest, asked, "Which one?" and was told, "The really long one." It was a reference to her poem "Sermon New Orleans," an absolutely beautiful piece of work.
Afterwards I strolled down the block to spend some time at the newly opened Secco wine bar. As it turned out, so did another attendee from the reading, so I had good company with which to share a glass of wine (me the Guindon Gamay Rose and he the Soif du Jour) and conversation.
As a bonus, I couldn't have been more complimented to see my name on the bar's chalkboard wall along with other names under "Thank you." You can be sure I pointed it out to everyone I saw, whether I knew them or not.
But I wasn't there to have my ego stroked; I wanted to eat. I'd met the kitchen staff a couple of weeks ago and I wanted to taste the fruits of their labor, so I ordered the passatelli in brodo with Chorizo and mustard greens (for us uninformed types, the menu explained that passatelli is a pasta from Emilia-Romgna similar to spatzle). Oh, this was a good combination and I'm in love with passatelli now.
Next up, I got fresh goat and cow milk ricotta with fava beans, roasted pecans, sea salt and evoo; if it sounds incredibly simple , it is....and isn't. The blending of these tastes and textures was sublime, something you wish you could have thought of on your own but know instinctively that you never would have.
By now I'd switched to the Barboursville Reserve Viognier after a discussion with a nearby bar sitter about the honeysuckle being in bloom in alleys all over the city right now. I couldn't resist ordering some cheese too and let Sara choose because, after all, she's the cheese whiz. Let's face it, nobody else could say. "Howdy Cheese People" and get away with it.
She knows I love my stinky cheese so she chose the Montenebro, a goat cheese from Spain with an ash rind and chutney on the side. Rich, semi-firm and stinky, I savored it as I went about choosing some of the music that will create the ambiance at Secco.
When I'd first arrived, I'd noticed the absence of music because, well, I love music. Julia had explained that they'd tried listening to NPR until a discordant opera came on and harshed every one's mellow. Her intention was to start using an iPod instead but she had to create some mixes first. I was thrilled and flattered when she suggested I use my bar time to create Karen's Secco mix from the music she had on her computer. You want me to choose what your customers will listen to on occasion? Done.
And that's how I came to hang out at Secco's bar for a good three hours, eating, sipping and scrolling through music to find the stuff I'd want to hear the next time I'm at Secco eating and sipping. I was choosing from Julia's music, so attribution should probably go to both of us.
I'll warn you now, though, it may be one of the few mixes ever made that includes both Interpol and Robert Goulet. Perhaps that will give you some idea of what an interesting place Secco is going to be.
Being Afternoon- Wined in the Bottom
When I got the invitation to attend the opening of the new wine shop/art gallery C'est Le Vin in the Bottom, I had every reason to RSVP yes.
After all, my first foray into the place, here, had been magical.
Why would I not want to go back once they were serving wine and food and had art on the walls?
With no clear expectations, I headed down there this afternoon.
The place was fuller than I expected with wine tastings, tons of food and art hanging everywhere.
The wine shelves were not completely stocked, but they at least had a South African section, so I felt that there was some promise there.
The first wine rep that grabbed me was Dave Camden of Quattro Goomba's Winery in Aldie, south of Leesburg.
They were especially high on their Frascati, sourced from Italian grapes because their vineyard plantings are only a couple of years old.
Probably the most popular among my fellow wine tasters was the Chilean-sourced Vino di Nonni, an easy-drinking red best chilled and served outside.
They even had a packet of secret ingredients with which you could blend a bottle of the wine, a bottle of water and the result would be a wine slushy that was dangerously drinkable, according to the couple tasting alongside me.
It wasn't my style, but I could see it appealing to a lot of people.
I preferred the Jefferson Winery tasting mainly because when I'd worked the Wine Expo back in February, a friend has insisted it was the one winery I needed to make time for.
After a full day of wine snobs and wine idiots, though, I'd gone straight home.
Now was my chance to see what he was talking about.
The Meritage, a blend of Cab Franc, Merlot, Cab Sauvignon and Petit Verdot was everything I'd heard it would be.
Even more siren-like was the Petit Verdot, full of flavor but with a bone-dry finish.
As the wine rep and I discussed, this is a bottle I could take home every day of my life and enjoy.
And with a lamb dish, well, my, my.
It was great fun to have someone with whom I could discuss the adventure that working the Wine Expo is.
We talked about the crowd that attends, the sweet wine fanatics and the drunken masses; it was satisfying to hear that it wasn't just me judging the crowd or eager to be done with it all.
The art was interesting; often African-influenced (as was the food available today) and a DJ provided the music.
The store is officially open for business and they're hoping to satisfy a niche in that neighborhood, which I can see easily happening. Given the reasonable prices, they'll no doubt succeed.
As for me, I have some new wine and had a great time talking to strangers.
And it's only 3:30. As the Jefferson wine rep, said when I begged off more tasting because I had so much more planned for today, "It's Saturday, after all."
True that. Mom will never notice if I'm a bit worse for the wear tomorrow.
After all, my first foray into the place, here, had been magical.
Why would I not want to go back once they were serving wine and food and had art on the walls?
With no clear expectations, I headed down there this afternoon.
The place was fuller than I expected with wine tastings, tons of food and art hanging everywhere.
The wine shelves were not completely stocked, but they at least had a South African section, so I felt that there was some promise there.
The first wine rep that grabbed me was Dave Camden of Quattro Goomba's Winery in Aldie, south of Leesburg.
They were especially high on their Frascati, sourced from Italian grapes because their vineyard plantings are only a couple of years old.
Probably the most popular among my fellow wine tasters was the Chilean-sourced Vino di Nonni, an easy-drinking red best chilled and served outside.
They even had a packet of secret ingredients with which you could blend a bottle of the wine, a bottle of water and the result would be a wine slushy that was dangerously drinkable, according to the couple tasting alongside me.
It wasn't my style, but I could see it appealing to a lot of people.
I preferred the Jefferson Winery tasting mainly because when I'd worked the Wine Expo back in February, a friend has insisted it was the one winery I needed to make time for.
After a full day of wine snobs and wine idiots, though, I'd gone straight home.
Now was my chance to see what he was talking about.
The Meritage, a blend of Cab Franc, Merlot, Cab Sauvignon and Petit Verdot was everything I'd heard it would be.
Even more siren-like was the Petit Verdot, full of flavor but with a bone-dry finish.
As the wine rep and I discussed, this is a bottle I could take home every day of my life and enjoy.
And with a lamb dish, well, my, my.
It was great fun to have someone with whom I could discuss the adventure that working the Wine Expo is.
We talked about the crowd that attends, the sweet wine fanatics and the drunken masses; it was satisfying to hear that it wasn't just me judging the crowd or eager to be done with it all.
The art was interesting; often African-influenced (as was the food available today) and a DJ provided the music.
The store is officially open for business and they're hoping to satisfy a niche in that neighborhood, which I can see easily happening. Given the reasonable prices, they'll no doubt succeed.
As for me, I have some new wine and had a great time talking to strangers.
And it's only 3:30. As the Jefferson wine rep, said when I begged off more tasting because I had so much more planned for today, "It's Saturday, after all."
True that. Mom will never notice if I'm a bit worse for the wear tomorrow.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Breaking Drumsticks and Rules at First Fridays
I broke the first rule of First Fridays.
I ate in J-Ward tonight.
I'm smart enough to know better but the Belvidere at Broad's Facebook page had boasted that they had a special of ahi tuna tacos and I wanted ahi tuna tacos.
Tonight.
So I showed up a mere fifteen minutes after they opened their doors and got one of the few remaining bar stools (although not my usual one).
When I left two hours later to walk Broad Street, there wasn't a seat available anywhere in the place.
The tacos were worth breaking my own rule.
The tuna was medium rare, the avocado pico de gallo incredibly ripe and flavorful and the sriracha aioli bound it all together beautifully.
With their Asian cole slaw on the side, those three make-your-own tacos were a heavenly meal. I practically inhaled them and then had the nerve to lick my fingers.
Tonight was also the kick-off for the new show at the Belvidere by Redd Staples and the artist came in and took a seat at the bar shortly after I did.
He proceeded to order a beer and dinner at his end of the bar while I was eating and drinking at the other.
Artist/art lover, it seemed a shame not to talk, so I took it upon myself to move up to his end of the bar and introduce myself.
It turned into a great conversation about Richmond and art and historic preservation.
I discovered that it took him over four months of painting full time work to complete the works in the show and that he prefers oils for their luminosity.
One of the paintings is of the old Murphy Hotel, others are of old houses, farm fields and other Virginia landscapes.
He said his goal was to remind viewers of the wealth of natural and historic beauty we have in such abundance in rva.
Being the geek and booster that I am, we found plenty to talk about, from the scourge that is Short Pump to those who fear the city after dark.
"You get it!" he said. "We need more people like you around here."
I think I've heard that before but a compliment is a compliment and I take them wherever they're offered.
Eventually I realized that I needed to get out and get moving if I was going to see everything and hear what I wanted to hear.
The International Holocaust Remembrance exhibit at Art 6 was poignant and moving and a must-see. Both the art and the photographs were tragic reminders of the ultimate inhumanity.
"Repressed V: Free to Speak" at Gallery 5 was statement-based art on subjects as diverse as the economy, whaling and global warming. As a major fan of graphic design, I found myself wishing I could afford one of the pieces. But alas, I could only admire.
I knew I wanted to make it to the courtyard to hear White Laces play their EP release show and apparently I wasn't the only one. I'd grabbed a buddy off the street and invited him to join me for it; it was his first time at the Courtyard and and the weather was ideal.
Any time you go, it's a very cool space with its beach house-like wooden stairs and balconies, the large tree and bush and that giant mural painted on the side of the building, but during the summer it can be a bit of a brick oven effect.
Tonight was cool and breezy in there, a real treat.
The same reasons that make the space uncomfortably hot in summer made it sonically challenging tonight.
The mix was muddy and the vocal all but lost as White Laces' decibel level rose.
It was a shame not to be able to hear the vocal or lyrics, but the overall experience was still enjoyable.
The drummer got so into it that he snapped a drumstick on the next-to-last song, causing lead singer Landis Wine to implore the audience, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?"
No one did unfortunately.
It may have been the absolutely perfect weather or the end of the semester euphoria or just good vibrations, but it seemed like an unusually pleasant crowd tonight.
People kept smiling at me and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.
For all I know, they had started their evenings by breaking some first rule of their own.
I won't lie, it worked for me.
I ate in J-Ward tonight.
I'm smart enough to know better but the Belvidere at Broad's Facebook page had boasted that they had a special of ahi tuna tacos and I wanted ahi tuna tacos.
Tonight.
So I showed up a mere fifteen minutes after they opened their doors and got one of the few remaining bar stools (although not my usual one).
When I left two hours later to walk Broad Street, there wasn't a seat available anywhere in the place.
The tacos were worth breaking my own rule.
The tuna was medium rare, the avocado pico de gallo incredibly ripe and flavorful and the sriracha aioli bound it all together beautifully.
With their Asian cole slaw on the side, those three make-your-own tacos were a heavenly meal. I practically inhaled them and then had the nerve to lick my fingers.
Tonight was also the kick-off for the new show at the Belvidere by Redd Staples and the artist came in and took a seat at the bar shortly after I did.
He proceeded to order a beer and dinner at his end of the bar while I was eating and drinking at the other.
Artist/art lover, it seemed a shame not to talk, so I took it upon myself to move up to his end of the bar and introduce myself.
It turned into a great conversation about Richmond and art and historic preservation.
I discovered that it took him over four months of painting full time work to complete the works in the show and that he prefers oils for their luminosity.
One of the paintings is of the old Murphy Hotel, others are of old houses, farm fields and other Virginia landscapes.
He said his goal was to remind viewers of the wealth of natural and historic beauty we have in such abundance in rva.
Being the geek and booster that I am, we found plenty to talk about, from the scourge that is Short Pump to those who fear the city after dark.
"You get it!" he said. "We need more people like you around here."
I think I've heard that before but a compliment is a compliment and I take them wherever they're offered.
Eventually I realized that I needed to get out and get moving if I was going to see everything and hear what I wanted to hear.
The International Holocaust Remembrance exhibit at Art 6 was poignant and moving and a must-see. Both the art and the photographs were tragic reminders of the ultimate inhumanity.
"Repressed V: Free to Speak" at Gallery 5 was statement-based art on subjects as diverse as the economy, whaling and global warming. As a major fan of graphic design, I found myself wishing I could afford one of the pieces. But alas, I could only admire.
I knew I wanted to make it to the courtyard to hear White Laces play their EP release show and apparently I wasn't the only one. I'd grabbed a buddy off the street and invited him to join me for it; it was his first time at the Courtyard and and the weather was ideal.
Any time you go, it's a very cool space with its beach house-like wooden stairs and balconies, the large tree and bush and that giant mural painted on the side of the building, but during the summer it can be a bit of a brick oven effect.
Tonight was cool and breezy in there, a real treat.
The same reasons that make the space uncomfortably hot in summer made it sonically challenging tonight.
The mix was muddy and the vocal all but lost as White Laces' decibel level rose.
It was a shame not to be able to hear the vocal or lyrics, but the overall experience was still enjoyable.
The drummer got so into it that he snapped a drumstick on the next-to-last song, causing lead singer Landis Wine to implore the audience, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?"
No one did unfortunately.
It may have been the absolutely perfect weather or the end of the semester euphoria or just good vibrations, but it seemed like an unusually pleasant crowd tonight.
People kept smiling at me and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.
For all I know, they had started their evenings by breaking some first rule of their own.
I won't lie, it worked for me.
It's Not Just About It Being Illegal
"You gotta know somebody who knows somebody," he said to her leaning in close. "It is illegal, you know."
That's the snatch of conversation I overheard on Grace Street just as I was passing the innocuous-looking couple in front of me.
I can't tell you how badly I wanted to know what they were talking about, but it was none of my business so I kept going.
It's not like me to hold back; usually when I overhear something titillating I just open my mouth and ask.
But I refrained even though I knew it would drive me crazy not to know.
Isn't it the Fruit Bats who say, "When you bite your tongue, all you get is a mouthful of blood"?
But this much I know: sometimes it does help to know somebody who knows somebody.
I was having a drink with a restaurant-owner friend the other night and apropos of nothing, he leaned in and said, "What are we gonna do about your car?"
I knew immediately what he meant because my car is so noisy that people have said they can hear it coming from two blocks away.
With the windows down, the noise competes with the stereo and I play my music, shall we say, loudly.
It's a squeaky/clunk sound that the car's had since I drove it off the lot new a decade ago this month.
Invariably when I have it in for service, the mechanic says he's going to take care of that sound and not one has ever succeeded.
I actually have friends who refer to me as Squeaky McSqueakerton because of my car.
But here was my restaurant buddy saying he had a server who is also a mechanic and does good, honest work.
Noises aside, I also knew the car needed some servicing.
The primary reason I'd bought it was because the car salesman had told me it wouldn't need a tune-up until I reached 100,000 miles and I don't like high-maintenance anything.
Naturally I'd reached that number just about the time I'd been laid off in December 2008, so it had never been addressed.
Best of all, all I had to do was bring the car by the restaurant in the morning, go about my business and pick it up there later in the day.
And while I was waiting for the server/mechanic to show up yesterday afternoon, the bartender strongly suggested a fortified mimosa.
You can't get a much better car repair experience than that.
Yet again, I was told what a great car I have. My former mechanic always told me what a well-built car the Altima was.
This guy simply referred to it as awesome and in great shape. That may have something to do with my driving style, though.
After a trip to Ashland Coffee and Tea , my friend Holmes asked incredulously, "You drive like this all the time?"
Why, yes, I do and my car is apparently all the better for it, mister.
So now I have a freshly tuned-up car that- wait for it- does not squeak. Or clunk.
Or make any sound except the ones it's supposed to.
People will no longer hear me coming. I will challenge anyone who refers to me as Squeaky again.
All because I knew somebody who knew somebody. And, you know it wasn't even illegal.
Next time maybe...
That's the snatch of conversation I overheard on Grace Street just as I was passing the innocuous-looking couple in front of me.
I can't tell you how badly I wanted to know what they were talking about, but it was none of my business so I kept going.
It's not like me to hold back; usually when I overhear something titillating I just open my mouth and ask.
But I refrained even though I knew it would drive me crazy not to know.
Isn't it the Fruit Bats who say, "When you bite your tongue, all you get is a mouthful of blood"?
But this much I know: sometimes it does help to know somebody who knows somebody.
I was having a drink with a restaurant-owner friend the other night and apropos of nothing, he leaned in and said, "What are we gonna do about your car?"
I knew immediately what he meant because my car is so noisy that people have said they can hear it coming from two blocks away.
With the windows down, the noise competes with the stereo and I play my music, shall we say, loudly.
It's a squeaky/clunk sound that the car's had since I drove it off the lot new a decade ago this month.
Invariably when I have it in for service, the mechanic says he's going to take care of that sound and not one has ever succeeded.
I actually have friends who refer to me as Squeaky McSqueakerton because of my car.
But here was my restaurant buddy saying he had a server who is also a mechanic and does good, honest work.
Noises aside, I also knew the car needed some servicing.
The primary reason I'd bought it was because the car salesman had told me it wouldn't need a tune-up until I reached 100,000 miles and I don't like high-maintenance anything.
Naturally I'd reached that number just about the time I'd been laid off in December 2008, so it had never been addressed.
Best of all, all I had to do was bring the car by the restaurant in the morning, go about my business and pick it up there later in the day.
And while I was waiting for the server/mechanic to show up yesterday afternoon, the bartender strongly suggested a fortified mimosa.
You can't get a much better car repair experience than that.
Yet again, I was told what a great car I have. My former mechanic always told me what a well-built car the Altima was.
This guy simply referred to it as awesome and in great shape. That may have something to do with my driving style, though.
After a trip to Ashland Coffee and Tea , my friend Holmes asked incredulously, "You drive like this all the time?"
Why, yes, I do and my car is apparently all the better for it, mister.
So now I have a freshly tuned-up car that- wait for it- does not squeak. Or clunk.
Or make any sound except the ones it's supposed to.
People will no longer hear me coming. I will challenge anyone who refers to me as Squeaky again.
All because I knew somebody who knew somebody. And, you know it wasn't even illegal.
Next time maybe...
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings Funk It Up
I went to the Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings show at Maymont with a couple of friends and my big pink blanket (GayRVA represents). Without a doubt, it was the most interactive show I've been to in ages, maybe ever. Beforehand the audience was told that Sharon likes a dancing crowd down in front and eager fans accommodated immediately (yes, Hunter, you dancing fool, I saw you front and center). Then the show started with Binky Griptite and the Dap Kings on stage priming the crowd for her arrival and she would have been worth waiting much, much longer for.
Early on, she pulled a guy onstage to dance while she sang and he did his best to keep up. After she found out his name was Chris, she asked if he had a girlfriend. When he said no, she responded, "Well, you will after tonight." He wasn't the last guy she invited up either.
Eventually she invited a group of women on stage to shake their groove things and they were all completely into it (not to mention better dancers than the guys). As the song wound down, she had each dance her way off stage to the applause of the crowd. Local entrepreneur Marshe Wyche was last and milked her moment for all it was worth while the crowd ate it up.
Sharon Jones is a tiny woman with a big voice who showed the audience how it's done with a song that featured her doing the swim, the jerk, the mashed potato, the pony and a few other dances I've forgotten already. The Dap Kings were perfectly right on backing her up start to finish; it's no wonder Amy Winehouse's Back to Black CD grabbed so many ears.
Most of us stood throughout the performance, partly to see and partly because it was tough to sit still with a rocking r & b band like these guys on stage. The perfect early May weather only made things better; if you did lay down, the cloudless sky allowed for the perfect stargazing vantage point while the music floated over and around you.
As expected, I saw at least a dozen people I knew in the wildly diverse audience, although my friend and I had actually expected a much larger crowd, not that it was small by any means.
I'm just saying, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings on stage in the middle of Maymont on a warm spring evening is a pretty irresistible event, in my humble opinion.
Afterwards, I stopped by my neighborhood joint because I'd been asked to by a friend who had to work but wanted to hear all about the show. Then a couple of customers at the bar started asking questions about the band and the set-up and next thing I knew, I was doing a blow-by-blow for everyone's benefit. They all, it seemed, wanted to hear about the new R & B band kicking it old school.
I did my best to convey what I'd experienced, which I'll be the first to admit in no way resembled actually being there. Uncompromising funk needs to be felt, not described.
Sorry for even wasting the blog space in my feeble attempt to do so. Just go listen to "One Hundred Days" or "I Learned the Hard Way" and get back with me.
Early on, she pulled a guy onstage to dance while she sang and he did his best to keep up. After she found out his name was Chris, she asked if he had a girlfriend. When he said no, she responded, "Well, you will after tonight." He wasn't the last guy she invited up either.
Eventually she invited a group of women on stage to shake their groove things and they were all completely into it (not to mention better dancers than the guys). As the song wound down, she had each dance her way off stage to the applause of the crowd. Local entrepreneur Marshe Wyche was last and milked her moment for all it was worth while the crowd ate it up.
Sharon Jones is a tiny woman with a big voice who showed the audience how it's done with a song that featured her doing the swim, the jerk, the mashed potato, the pony and a few other dances I've forgotten already. The Dap Kings were perfectly right on backing her up start to finish; it's no wonder Amy Winehouse's Back to Black CD grabbed so many ears.
Most of us stood throughout the performance, partly to see and partly because it was tough to sit still with a rocking r & b band like these guys on stage. The perfect early May weather only made things better; if you did lay down, the cloudless sky allowed for the perfect stargazing vantage point while the music floated over and around you.
As expected, I saw at least a dozen people I knew in the wildly diverse audience, although my friend and I had actually expected a much larger crowd, not that it was small by any means.
I'm just saying, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings on stage in the middle of Maymont on a warm spring evening is a pretty irresistible event, in my humble opinion.
Afterwards, I stopped by my neighborhood joint because I'd been asked to by a friend who had to work but wanted to hear all about the show. Then a couple of customers at the bar started asking questions about the band and the set-up and next thing I knew, I was doing a blow-by-blow for everyone's benefit. They all, it seemed, wanted to hear about the new R & B band kicking it old school.
I did my best to convey what I'd experienced, which I'll be the first to admit in no way resembled actually being there. Uncompromising funk needs to be felt, not described.
Sorry for even wasting the blog space in my feeble attempt to do so. Just go listen to "One Hundred Days" or "I Learned the Hard Way" and get back with me.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
It Only Looked Like a Date
I sold out Bicycle Dreams for Bouchon.
I was planning to see the documentary at the Byrd tonight, but when a friend left a message on my machine suggesting we eat at Bouchon instead, all thoughts of bicycling 3,000 miles in ten days were forgotten.
It's not that I'm shallow, but I do so love to eat and drink and this friend is not only a wine geek but a superior conversationalist.
Even documentary dorks can be persuaded by the right person.
Clement and I had met at an Acacia wine dinner last month, here, and based on a wine promise he'd made to me, he was ready to pay up, not that he really owed me anything.
I was going for the conversation more than anything because he is the kind of guy I can spend hours conversing with and still want more.
If he were single, he'd be a great catch.
We started with a plan to kick off the evening by drinking a bottle of Rose with gusto and that wasn't difficult given how appropriate a day it was for pink.
He had the sauteed veal sweetbreads (shallot, ginger, thyme, vejus demi) and I chose the veal and pork country pate (cornichons, pickled onion, mustard) for the perfect start to a French meal.
He complimented me on my hearty appetite (observed because I didn't eschew butter on my bread) and bemoaned women who reject fattening foods for the sake of their "diets."
Luckily, I'm not very woman-like.
The server must have come back three or four times to take our order, but we were having way too much fun chatting to decide on food.
He had great stories from his childhood in France and even more questions of me based on things he'd read in my blog.
It's flattering when someone reads my blog closely enough to wonder about things I write, but I'm still caught off guard when pressed on certain topics.
But I always answer questions when asked; I just don't presume that people want to know.
Finally we gave in to our server and he ordered a magnificent bottle of Domaine Arnelle et Bernard Rion Chambolle Musigny 1er Cru Les Gruenchers, which he described as "little baby Jesus in velvet pants" (and was that ever the perfect description), along with the veal tenderloin (mustard rosemary sauce, potato gratin) for me and the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin (duck leg confit, chickpea mousse, cassis sauce) for him.
Everything about this course was spot-on.
Being in a long-time successful relationship, I figured Clement to be the ideal person to discuss my personal life with.
He shared his thoughts on online dating, men hitting on me and the foolish mistakes men make ("We're simple creatures," he explained).
It turned out that he knew some of the people from my past which presented a whole new conversational front.
I enjoyed his romantic and optimistic viewpoints, or perhaps just appreciated hearing my own validated.
Eventually we got to the cheese course, presented beautifully and a lovely way to finish the last of the wine.
By now he was hatching plans and talking consultations and we were pretty much laughing non-stop.
In fact, we were having such a great time that, on my way to the bathroom, owner Wendy stopped me in the hall and asked if I was on a date.
"You look like you're having so much fun," she said. "I was thinking you'd finally met someone interesting."
Oh, but I have.
He knows wine, eats everything and can discuss anything. I just need to clone an unmarried version of him and I'll be set for life.
On the other hand, I'm positively thrilled to have a new friend with so much to offer me.
Fingers crossed, I have just as much to offer him.
That's the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
I was planning to see the documentary at the Byrd tonight, but when a friend left a message on my machine suggesting we eat at Bouchon instead, all thoughts of bicycling 3,000 miles in ten days were forgotten.
It's not that I'm shallow, but I do so love to eat and drink and this friend is not only a wine geek but a superior conversationalist.
Even documentary dorks can be persuaded by the right person.
Clement and I had met at an Acacia wine dinner last month, here, and based on a wine promise he'd made to me, he was ready to pay up, not that he really owed me anything.
I was going for the conversation more than anything because he is the kind of guy I can spend hours conversing with and still want more.
If he were single, he'd be a great catch.
We started with a plan to kick off the evening by drinking a bottle of Rose with gusto and that wasn't difficult given how appropriate a day it was for pink.
He had the sauteed veal sweetbreads (shallot, ginger, thyme, vejus demi) and I chose the veal and pork country pate (cornichons, pickled onion, mustard) for the perfect start to a French meal.
He complimented me on my hearty appetite (observed because I didn't eschew butter on my bread) and bemoaned women who reject fattening foods for the sake of their "diets."
Luckily, I'm not very woman-like.
The server must have come back three or four times to take our order, but we were having way too much fun chatting to decide on food.
He had great stories from his childhood in France and even more questions of me based on things he'd read in my blog.
It's flattering when someone reads my blog closely enough to wonder about things I write, but I'm still caught off guard when pressed on certain topics.
But I always answer questions when asked; I just don't presume that people want to know.
Finally we gave in to our server and he ordered a magnificent bottle of Domaine Arnelle et Bernard Rion Chambolle Musigny 1er Cru Les Gruenchers, which he described as "little baby Jesus in velvet pants" (and was that ever the perfect description), along with the veal tenderloin (mustard rosemary sauce, potato gratin) for me and the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin (duck leg confit, chickpea mousse, cassis sauce) for him.
Everything about this course was spot-on.
Being in a long-time successful relationship, I figured Clement to be the ideal person to discuss my personal life with.
He shared his thoughts on online dating, men hitting on me and the foolish mistakes men make ("We're simple creatures," he explained).
It turned out that he knew some of the people from my past which presented a whole new conversational front.
I enjoyed his romantic and optimistic viewpoints, or perhaps just appreciated hearing my own validated.
Eventually we got to the cheese course, presented beautifully and a lovely way to finish the last of the wine.
By now he was hatching plans and talking consultations and we were pretty much laughing non-stop.
In fact, we were having such a great time that, on my way to the bathroom, owner Wendy stopped me in the hall and asked if I was on a date.
"You look like you're having so much fun," she said. "I was thinking you'd finally met someone interesting."
Oh, but I have.
He knows wine, eats everything and can discuss anything. I just need to clone an unmarried version of him and I'll be set for life.
On the other hand, I'm positively thrilled to have a new friend with so much to offer me.
Fingers crossed, I have just as much to offer him.
That's the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
Eating at the Empress and Listening to Art
I'm out of practice with this early morning work business. What that means is that when I have a 9:00 meeting, I have to eat breakfast way earlier than usual; this also means I'm ravenous by late morning and even noon lunch plans can't come soon enough. As it was, when my friend came by to fetch me, I was still in my walking clothes and had to make a quick change to look presentable for the Empress.
It was friend's first visit but I knew to expect an excellent meal. I ordered a salad of arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken and chick peas in a red wine vinaigrette and he got a panini of proscuitto, pesto and roasted red peppers. He was especially appreciative of the Carytown Coffee and Teas cuppa joe they served him because he was only recently awake and moving about. Let's put it this way, he was so impressed by the taste of the coffee that he didn't put the usual packet of cancer-causing pink in it and that's saying something.
My salad was a very generous serving of peppery arugula and chicken with enough garbanzo beans to satisfy even the heartiest bean lover (read: me). The Edam had been grated in large shavings so as to fully enjoy its creamy nuttiness; it's not often that Edam shows up on a salad and I really did enjoy having something different on mine. At $8 (including tax, a practice I love on menus) it was a hearty lunch.
Friend was most happy with his salty sandwich and its extra crispy bread, but had nothing but compliments for my salad. As he sipped and munched, he became more awake and talkative, putting him about where I'd been around 9 this morning. I didn't mind waiting for him to catch up because he's always such a good listener for my stories. We also eavesdropped on a nearby table and it sounded really gory with talk of finding a body and lots of blood. Unfortunately, we didn't catch the set-up, so we don't know whether they were talking real life or not.
Driving me home, friend cut through the Ward to avoid Broad Street; he wanted to show me a little piece of art affixed to a street sign that he'd noticed. I see such pieces up and down Grace Street and I appreciate the artists sharing their work with the world this way. This piece was especially eye-catching with a colorful picture of a gramophone and the words, "Listen to the ex."
It would have been a wonderful piece no matter where it had been hung, but as it happened, it was a few yards from the house I used to share with my ex, his house.
I hope it gives him as big a smile as it did me.
It was friend's first visit but I knew to expect an excellent meal. I ordered a salad of arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken and chick peas in a red wine vinaigrette and he got a panini of proscuitto, pesto and roasted red peppers. He was especially appreciative of the Carytown Coffee and Teas cuppa joe they served him because he was only recently awake and moving about. Let's put it this way, he was so impressed by the taste of the coffee that he didn't put the usual packet of cancer-causing pink in it and that's saying something.
My salad was a very generous serving of peppery arugula and chicken with enough garbanzo beans to satisfy even the heartiest bean lover (read: me). The Edam had been grated in large shavings so as to fully enjoy its creamy nuttiness; it's not often that Edam shows up on a salad and I really did enjoy having something different on mine. At $8 (including tax, a practice I love on menus) it was a hearty lunch.
Friend was most happy with his salty sandwich and its extra crispy bread, but had nothing but compliments for my salad. As he sipped and munched, he became more awake and talkative, putting him about where I'd been around 9 this morning. I didn't mind waiting for him to catch up because he's always such a good listener for my stories. We also eavesdropped on a nearby table and it sounded really gory with talk of finding a body and lots of blood. Unfortunately, we didn't catch the set-up, so we don't know whether they were talking real life or not.
Driving me home, friend cut through the Ward to avoid Broad Street; he wanted to show me a little piece of art affixed to a street sign that he'd noticed. I see such pieces up and down Grace Street and I appreciate the artists sharing their work with the world this way. This piece was especially eye-catching with a colorful picture of a gramophone and the words, "Listen to the ex."
It would have been a wonderful piece no matter where it had been hung, but as it happened, it was a few yards from the house I used to share with my ex, his house.
I hope it gives him as big a smile as it did me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Whose Lipstick is That on Your Face?
I've been in a funk lately, thinking way too much about the past and the future, wanting to make things happen that I have absolutely no control over.
While I've been keeping busy my mind has been churning, trying to figure my life out, despite knowing how unlikely it is that I'll come up with answers or even any sort of a plan.
So much is in flux.
So rather than addressing life, I went out instead to enjoy it.
Tonight's adventure began by meeting a friend at the Grill at Patterson and Libbie for a bite to eat.
He wanted to talk about his life and his issues, which was great because it prevented me from focusing on mine.
Why is it so much easier to help a friend address his demons than it it to address your own?
He had the Philly chicken sandwich and I had the wedge salad (in an effort to eat lighter after all the extravagance of Sunday night) and he was agog at the transformation of the place from the old Freckles, a place where the two of us had lunched on numerous occasions.
We talked about how places like Freckles would soon be nothing more than a distant and quaint memory.
For a change, I did not have dessert but he tore into a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie with gusto.
Its light whipped texture kept the pie from being too rich or filling, but personally, I'm just not a fan of peanut butter messing with my chocolate.
Yet one more way I'm odd.
After my friend left for the movies (Copout, no thanks), I decided to walk over to Bistro 27 for a glass of wine and to experience whatever random people I might run into at the bar.
There was enough of a lull that Chef Carlos was free to chat and before I knew it, a plate of spicy calamari and polenta appeared in front of me.
"Something spicy for someone spicy," he told me.
So much for eating lighter, but the calamari was so good that who was I to watch my waistline when something this wonderful was sitting in front of me?
Before long a guy came in and he must have been a regular or at least a friend of the manager because we were introduced, in that way that happens when two frequent customers are the sole people at a bar.
Coincidentally, he's in video production, which was my former field back in the day when I was fully employed and not counting people by knocking on their doors.
He even mentioned an upcoming freelance job for which I sounded imminently suited and asked for my card, which I was more than happy to pass on.
I couldn't have hoped for a better outcome in meeting a random stranger...except for perhaps him turning out to be the love of my life.
Of course, as a friend recently pointed out to me, it's entirely likely that the love of my life is not a random stranger at all, but that's another story entirely.
Along with the manager, we had an enlightening three-way discussion of what makes a good boyfriend and I was told that sending flowers, giving back rubs, paying compliments and, ahem, pleasuring a girlfriend are the surefire ways to ensure your place in a girl's heart.
The discussion actually got a bit more graphic, but since you're probably not reading this blog for that kind of information, I'll let it go and you can fill in the blanks.
I was also told that sometimes a relationship needs to be revisited and that reuniting with a former love after a breakup can sometimes result in wholly different results, a consequence of the right person at the right time the second time around.
This is not something I've explored, but these two guys seemed pretty sure of themselves.
Of course, by this time they were also drinking tequila and rye (they did ask jokingly [I think] if I wanted to do body shots, but I passed), so I took their gospel with a grain of salt.
Not that I needed any salt, having already been told that I was the spicy type.
And I didn't need to be told that I wasn't going to appeal to anyone looking for safe or bland.
But for someone with an adventurous palate who knows how to be a good boyfriend (see Ron's Rules, above), the possibilities are endless.
Or as Eric, the regular, put it, "You have to want to do it."
I won't tell you what he was referring to, but it really applies to all of it, don't you think?
While I've been keeping busy my mind has been churning, trying to figure my life out, despite knowing how unlikely it is that I'll come up with answers or even any sort of a plan.
So much is in flux.
So rather than addressing life, I went out instead to enjoy it.
Tonight's adventure began by meeting a friend at the Grill at Patterson and Libbie for a bite to eat.
He wanted to talk about his life and his issues, which was great because it prevented me from focusing on mine.
Why is it so much easier to help a friend address his demons than it it to address your own?
He had the Philly chicken sandwich and I had the wedge salad (in an effort to eat lighter after all the extravagance of Sunday night) and he was agog at the transformation of the place from the old Freckles, a place where the two of us had lunched on numerous occasions.
We talked about how places like Freckles would soon be nothing more than a distant and quaint memory.
For a change, I did not have dessert but he tore into a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie with gusto.
Its light whipped texture kept the pie from being too rich or filling, but personally, I'm just not a fan of peanut butter messing with my chocolate.
Yet one more way I'm odd.
After my friend left for the movies (Copout, no thanks), I decided to walk over to Bistro 27 for a glass of wine and to experience whatever random people I might run into at the bar.
There was enough of a lull that Chef Carlos was free to chat and before I knew it, a plate of spicy calamari and polenta appeared in front of me.
"Something spicy for someone spicy," he told me.
So much for eating lighter, but the calamari was so good that who was I to watch my waistline when something this wonderful was sitting in front of me?
Before long a guy came in and he must have been a regular or at least a friend of the manager because we were introduced, in that way that happens when two frequent customers are the sole people at a bar.
Coincidentally, he's in video production, which was my former field back in the day when I was fully employed and not counting people by knocking on their doors.
He even mentioned an upcoming freelance job for which I sounded imminently suited and asked for my card, which I was more than happy to pass on.
I couldn't have hoped for a better outcome in meeting a random stranger...except for perhaps him turning out to be the love of my life.
Of course, as a friend recently pointed out to me, it's entirely likely that the love of my life is not a random stranger at all, but that's another story entirely.
Along with the manager, we had an enlightening three-way discussion of what makes a good boyfriend and I was told that sending flowers, giving back rubs, paying compliments and, ahem, pleasuring a girlfriend are the surefire ways to ensure your place in a girl's heart.
The discussion actually got a bit more graphic, but since you're probably not reading this blog for that kind of information, I'll let it go and you can fill in the blanks.
I was also told that sometimes a relationship needs to be revisited and that reuniting with a former love after a breakup can sometimes result in wholly different results, a consequence of the right person at the right time the second time around.
This is not something I've explored, but these two guys seemed pretty sure of themselves.
Of course, by this time they were also drinking tequila and rye (they did ask jokingly [I think] if I wanted to do body shots, but I passed), so I took their gospel with a grain of salt.
Not that I needed any salt, having already been told that I was the spicy type.
And I didn't need to be told that I wasn't going to appeal to anyone looking for safe or bland.
But for someone with an adventurous palate who knows how to be a good boyfriend (see Ron's Rules, above), the possibilities are endless.
Or as Eric, the regular, put it, "You have to want to do it."
I won't tell you what he was referring to, but it really applies to all of it, don't you think?
The Last of His Kind
I've never been the type of person with a bevy of friends and you'll almost never see me out with a group. But when I do find a person whose qualities speak to me for whatever reason, I tend to stay friends for years. More than one guy friend has told me that I clearly prefer to make the rules in the relationship, but usually that's a result of them trying to stretch the bounds of friendship at some point.
An old friend came into town to spend the evening with me tonight; we enjoyed many hours of conversation about almost everything. It's the first time he's visited me since I moved to this apartment last year and the reason for that is simple. He got a diagnosis last year that required life-changing surgery and he's still nowhere close to back to normal, although at least mobile now.
Because his future is so uncertain, his perspective on absolutely everything has changed. Like me, he's never been a man of many friends, but at this point he is deeply appreciative of those he has, especially the long-time ones, of which I am one.
So tonight he wanted to share his feelings... about what's happened to him, the prognosis and especially about his feelings for our friendship and what it has meant to him in the past and especially now. As I sat here listening to his words, I finally understood how much our friendship had meant to him but also how much he had hoped that it would become something else, which I had never allowed it to become.
After he left a little while ago, I sat on my back porch finally acknowledging the inevitable: I won't have him in my life for much longer. I can't regret not having been able to offer such a good friend all of me, but on some level, I regret that it took so long for him to speak to me about this. I wish we'd gotten all this out of the way before he was staring his own mortality in the face.
Years ago, he asked me if I knew what my best feature was and naturally I assumed it was my lags. "No, ma'am," he told me, "it's your ass." I cracked up when he said that because no one had ever suggested such a thing to me before. But then he got serious and said, "What really makes you special is how you make other people feel. I always feel like a million bucks after I spend time with you." It's still one of my all-time favorite compliments.
My friend always refered to himself as a 19th century man born in the 20th century and signed the myriad letters and e-mails he has sent me over the past two decades with, "The last of my kind," or TLOMK.
And while I wasn't meant to be his everything, I feel lucky to have been his something. For however much time our friendship lasts, I hope I can always leave him feeling better than before he saw me.
Even more that that, I hope he will remember me as the best friend he could have wanted.
An old friend came into town to spend the evening with me tonight; we enjoyed many hours of conversation about almost everything. It's the first time he's visited me since I moved to this apartment last year and the reason for that is simple. He got a diagnosis last year that required life-changing surgery and he's still nowhere close to back to normal, although at least mobile now.
Because his future is so uncertain, his perspective on absolutely everything has changed. Like me, he's never been a man of many friends, but at this point he is deeply appreciative of those he has, especially the long-time ones, of which I am one.
So tonight he wanted to share his feelings... about what's happened to him, the prognosis and especially about his feelings for our friendship and what it has meant to him in the past and especially now. As I sat here listening to his words, I finally understood how much our friendship had meant to him but also how much he had hoped that it would become something else, which I had never allowed it to become.
After he left a little while ago, I sat on my back porch finally acknowledging the inevitable: I won't have him in my life for much longer. I can't regret not having been able to offer such a good friend all of me, but on some level, I regret that it took so long for him to speak to me about this. I wish we'd gotten all this out of the way before he was staring his own mortality in the face.
Years ago, he asked me if I knew what my best feature was and naturally I assumed it was my lags. "No, ma'am," he told me, "it's your ass." I cracked up when he said that because no one had ever suggested such a thing to me before. But then he got serious and said, "What really makes you special is how you make other people feel. I always feel like a million bucks after I spend time with you." It's still one of my all-time favorite compliments.
My friend always refered to himself as a 19th century man born in the 20th century and signed the myriad letters and e-mails he has sent me over the past two decades with, "The last of my kind," or TLOMK.
And while I wasn't meant to be his everything, I feel lucky to have been his something. For however much time our friendship lasts, I hope I can always leave him feeling better than before he saw me.
Even more that that, I hope he will remember me as the best friend he could have wanted.
Monday, May 3, 2010
DC Road Trip Bliss: Shout Out Louds
Perfect road trip = art + restaurant + music. Friend and I accomplished all that and more after a slow trip up soul-sucking 95 to get to Washington today on what definitely felt like a hot August afternoon.
Stop #1: National Museum of American Art to see "Christo and Jeanne Claude: Remembering the Running Fence." This exhibition included drawings, photographs, models and videos of the 24.5 mile white fabric fence erected in 1976 through Sonoma and Marin counties, CA. It was fascinating to learn about the initial resistance of the ranchers to the art which quickly turned to support, resulting in the landowners taking a stand against the local government and ensuring that the project happened.
Views of the fence from hilltops and the air show a magnificent structure that could not have been defined as anything but art. Most impressive was the way it ascended gradually from the Pacific Ocean, as if rising from a force of nature, but almost as cool was how the ranchers utilized all the components of the art, from fabric to poles, in any way they chose after it was taken down. The audacious concept and execution were positively inspirational.
Stop #2: Marvin, in the U street corridor, a restaurant dedicated to singer Marvin Gaye and the years he was self-exiled in Belgium. The menu features both Belgian dishes and the soul food the native Washingtonian loved (can you say chicken and waffles?). To start, Brendan L'Etoile (the sous chef whom we'd met) sent us a seared fois gras with Richmond strawberries, Armagnac and a sherry vinaigrette gastrique. Words are inadequate but my friend summed it up by saying, "This tastes like a heart attack." Oh, it was that good. We sent him a little something to sip on in gratitude, but we definitely got the better part of that deal.
We followed that unexpected treat with Chorizo and fennel moules frites and agreed that they were, without a doubt, the best mussels either of us have ever had anywhere. Next up was the Nicoise salad with exquisitely rare ahi tuna and anchovies like we haven't tasted in rva. Despite being stuffed to the gills, we went on to a braised Berkshire pork shank with white bean stew. There may have also been a bottle of Vouvray in there somewhere. We could not have eaten another bite if our lives had depended on it.
Stop #3: 9:30 club for Freelance Whales and Shout Out Louds. The club was incredibly hot, almost as if the a/c was not working and the crowd obscenely young and obnoxious (I'm not saying that there's a connection). It was my second time seeing FW and they were just as impressive this time, with their earnest attitudes, unusual instruments and multiple vocalists. For fans of the Arcade Fire or Fanfarlo, they are a band worth investigating. Live, they will make you a fan; just ask my friend who gave her approval halfway into the first song.
The last time the SOL played DC was a 10:00 show on a Sunday night in Fall 2007 and I didn't go because of work the next day; needless to say, I felt like I had been owed for almost three years. Their Swedish pop (with a lead singer who sounds like Robert Smith of the Cure) is fabulously catchy with a bass line that ensures dancing about. With a female backup singer and enough cowbell to satisfy all, their sound grabbed the audience from note one and held them. We got to hear just about all of the new CD, Work, which I've been playing nonstop for over a month now, so it was especially satisfying for me.
It was an awfully hot day for our adventure, but every stop provided a pleasure of a different kind. Exiting the car at a gas station in Lorton, we were met with a delightful gust of wind on our bare legs. Setting the tone for the rest of a most enjoyable day, friend announced, "Sometimes all you need is a good breeze up your skirt."
And on some road trips, you get that and so much more.
Stop #1: National Museum of American Art to see "Christo and Jeanne Claude: Remembering the Running Fence." This exhibition included drawings, photographs, models and videos of the 24.5 mile white fabric fence erected in 1976 through Sonoma and Marin counties, CA. It was fascinating to learn about the initial resistance of the ranchers to the art which quickly turned to support, resulting in the landowners taking a stand against the local government and ensuring that the project happened.
Views of the fence from hilltops and the air show a magnificent structure that could not have been defined as anything but art. Most impressive was the way it ascended gradually from the Pacific Ocean, as if rising from a force of nature, but almost as cool was how the ranchers utilized all the components of the art, from fabric to poles, in any way they chose after it was taken down. The audacious concept and execution were positively inspirational.
Stop #2: Marvin, in the U street corridor, a restaurant dedicated to singer Marvin Gaye and the years he was self-exiled in Belgium. The menu features both Belgian dishes and the soul food the native Washingtonian loved (can you say chicken and waffles?). To start, Brendan L'Etoile (the sous chef whom we'd met) sent us a seared fois gras with Richmond strawberries, Armagnac and a sherry vinaigrette gastrique. Words are inadequate but my friend summed it up by saying, "This tastes like a heart attack." Oh, it was that good. We sent him a little something to sip on in gratitude, but we definitely got the better part of that deal.
We followed that unexpected treat with Chorizo and fennel moules frites and agreed that they were, without a doubt, the best mussels either of us have ever had anywhere. Next up was the Nicoise salad with exquisitely rare ahi tuna and anchovies like we haven't tasted in rva. Despite being stuffed to the gills, we went on to a braised Berkshire pork shank with white bean stew. There may have also been a bottle of Vouvray in there somewhere. We could not have eaten another bite if our lives had depended on it.
Stop #3: 9:30 club for Freelance Whales and Shout Out Louds. The club was incredibly hot, almost as if the a/c was not working and the crowd obscenely young and obnoxious (I'm not saying that there's a connection). It was my second time seeing FW and they were just as impressive this time, with their earnest attitudes, unusual instruments and multiple vocalists. For fans of the Arcade Fire or Fanfarlo, they are a band worth investigating. Live, they will make you a fan; just ask my friend who gave her approval halfway into the first song.
The last time the SOL played DC was a 10:00 show on a Sunday night in Fall 2007 and I didn't go because of work the next day; needless to say, I felt like I had been owed for almost three years. Their Swedish pop (with a lead singer who sounds like Robert Smith of the Cure) is fabulously catchy with a bass line that ensures dancing about. With a female backup singer and enough cowbell to satisfy all, their sound grabbed the audience from note one and held them. We got to hear just about all of the new CD, Work, which I've been playing nonstop for over a month now, so it was especially satisfying for me.
It was an awfully hot day for our adventure, but every stop provided a pleasure of a different kind. Exiting the car at a gas station in Lorton, we were met with a delightful gust of wind on our bare legs. Setting the tone for the rest of a most enjoyable day, friend announced, "Sometimes all you need is a good breeze up your skirt."
And on some road trips, you get that and so much more.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Heat Made Them Do It, Right?
When it's 80 degrees by 9 a.m. and it's only the second day of May, the heat is bound to affect people. At least that's what I'm thinking got into the guys who talked to me when I walked Grace Street this morning.
A Hispanic-looking guy who only came up to my shoulder (and I'm just 5'5") and had to be half my age was walking toward me and stopped to give me the full head to toe scan. Then with a big smile, he said, "Hola, hot stuff." I admit it, I laughed. Not at him (well, perhaps a little) but at the sheer audacity of this very young, very small guy's Spanglish.
Coming back on the other side of the street, a guy walking toward me said, "Hi Karen," and I had not a clue who he was. But then he asked, "How's Sparky?" and I knew I was sunk because clearly I had talked to him before. "You don't remember me again, do you?" We had met almost two years ago he said, and I'd run into him several times since, including at Kroger once and not recognized him any of the times. And he's an attractive guy.
When he asked if I was still living on Catherine Street, I told him no, that my boyfriend had broken up with me so I'd moved to Clay. "Well, you're looking great," he said unexpectedly and that's where he got emboldened. "So, could I get your phone number?" I explained that I don't have a cell phone and, tellingly, he asked, "Well then how can I get hold of you so we can hang out?"
He changed directions then and started walking with me. I explained that I wasn't really ready to "hang out" yet but I'd be sure to recognize him next time I saw him. Then I picked up my pace and continued on. "Keep it up," he yelled from behind. "You look amazing!"
Whether it was the heat or hormones, I realized then that there was a lot to be said for the first guy keeping it short and sweet.
Gracias.
A Hispanic-looking guy who only came up to my shoulder (and I'm just 5'5") and had to be half my age was walking toward me and stopped to give me the full head to toe scan. Then with a big smile, he said, "Hola, hot stuff." I admit it, I laughed. Not at him (well, perhaps a little) but at the sheer audacity of this very young, very small guy's Spanglish.
Coming back on the other side of the street, a guy walking toward me said, "Hi Karen," and I had not a clue who he was. But then he asked, "How's Sparky?" and I knew I was sunk because clearly I had talked to him before. "You don't remember me again, do you?" We had met almost two years ago he said, and I'd run into him several times since, including at Kroger once and not recognized him any of the times. And he's an attractive guy.
When he asked if I was still living on Catherine Street, I told him no, that my boyfriend had broken up with me so I'd moved to Clay. "Well, you're looking great," he said unexpectedly and that's where he got emboldened. "So, could I get your phone number?" I explained that I don't have a cell phone and, tellingly, he asked, "Well then how can I get hold of you so we can hang out?"
He changed directions then and started walking with me. I explained that I wasn't really ready to "hang out" yet but I'd be sure to recognize him next time I saw him. Then I picked up my pace and continued on. "Keep it up," he yelled from behind. "You look amazing!"
Whether it was the heat or hormones, I realized then that there was a lot to be said for the first guy keeping it short and sweet.
Gracias.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I Heart Art
I honestly felt like I was in another city tonight, doing one of my favorite things when I travel: exploring a museum I've never been to. With the grand reopening of the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (after, what, five years?), there are so many new galleries and pieces of art on display that I actually had the pleasure of first-time discovery, something I haven't had there for years.
It started with entering the museum. I made damn sure I began my visit by entering through the 1936 Boulevard entrance, something I'd never been able to do in the two decades I've lived in Richmond. I wasn't surprised that that area just inside the door felt more like a museum should feel on entering and it just got better from there.
I knew I couldn't possibly take it all in, even allowing myself four hours to try, but I did want to at least walk through as much of it as possible. I began at the top to check out the new restaurant Amuse and its views. They weren't open for business, per se, but they had a Mediterranean buffet and a cash bar, so eating was possible, if limited. I chose a table with a view and look forward to a proper meal there soon.
And then I wandered among the masses, guessing that for some of these visitors, this may have been their first visit to VMFA. "Oooh, that's pretty," an older woman said about a Georgia O'Keefe. "Mommy, why did he paint dead fish?" about a William Merrit Chase still life. "Dad, look at that statue of a man," pointing directly at the nude's genitalia. A woman was taking a picture of her husband, who was standing in front of a huge painting of a horse and pretending to rest his hand on the horse's neck.
I was thrilled to see one gallery hung salon-style but I heard some complaints about it from others in the room at the time. The "Matisse, Picasso and Modern Art in Paris" exhibit had pieces from the VMFA collection as well as UVA's and it's the first time they have all been hung together. The Japanese woodcut print gallery was a must-see. I've already told a friend that we need to plan a day to really check it all out.
When I arrived, Mariachi Las Americas was playing to the delight of the crowd. At 9, my local favorites Marionette took over the stage and sounded great in the new space. Guitarist Adam looked especially dapper in a suit and bare feet. As I stood there waiting for them to begin, a guy came over, asked me what they sounded like and who they were. I shared my opinion, told him I'd seen them many times and he introduced himself.
Now understand, I was amongst fifty other people waiting for the band to start and yet I was the one being asked band specifics. How in the world did this guy know that I'd seen them before or knew anything about them? I'm happy to spread the gospel of Marionette (after all, I did it at The National show before they came on) but it's not written on my forehead or anything.
But weird stuff always happens to me, so I don't dwell on it. After hours of art admiration, I was content to to just listen to music as my evening wound down. It was a perfect vantage point to say hello to people I knew as they walked by. Amy gave me a hug, Charlie mumbled his usual low-key "How are you?" and Dan was off to see his favorite Remington and suggested meeting up for pie at Ipanema later.
And my new "friend" James made sure to let me know that I was right on and Marionette was impressing him. Apparently he was having the pleasure of first-time discovery, too.
VMFA, it's terrific to have you back. And I say that from the bottom of my medium-sized American art-geek heart.
It started with entering the museum. I made damn sure I began my visit by entering through the 1936 Boulevard entrance, something I'd never been able to do in the two decades I've lived in Richmond. I wasn't surprised that that area just inside the door felt more like a museum should feel on entering and it just got better from there.
I knew I couldn't possibly take it all in, even allowing myself four hours to try, but I did want to at least walk through as much of it as possible. I began at the top to check out the new restaurant Amuse and its views. They weren't open for business, per se, but they had a Mediterranean buffet and a cash bar, so eating was possible, if limited. I chose a table with a view and look forward to a proper meal there soon.
And then I wandered among the masses, guessing that for some of these visitors, this may have been their first visit to VMFA. "Oooh, that's pretty," an older woman said about a Georgia O'Keefe. "Mommy, why did he paint dead fish?" about a William Merrit Chase still life. "Dad, look at that statue of a man," pointing directly at the nude's genitalia. A woman was taking a picture of her husband, who was standing in front of a huge painting of a horse and pretending to rest his hand on the horse's neck.
I was thrilled to see one gallery hung salon-style but I heard some complaints about it from others in the room at the time. The "Matisse, Picasso and Modern Art in Paris" exhibit had pieces from the VMFA collection as well as UVA's and it's the first time they have all been hung together. The Japanese woodcut print gallery was a must-see. I've already told a friend that we need to plan a day to really check it all out.
When I arrived, Mariachi Las Americas was playing to the delight of the crowd. At 9, my local favorites Marionette took over the stage and sounded great in the new space. Guitarist Adam looked especially dapper in a suit and bare feet. As I stood there waiting for them to begin, a guy came over, asked me what they sounded like and who they were. I shared my opinion, told him I'd seen them many times and he introduced himself.
Now understand, I was amongst fifty other people waiting for the band to start and yet I was the one being asked band specifics. How in the world did this guy know that I'd seen them before or knew anything about them? I'm happy to spread the gospel of Marionette (after all, I did it at The National show before they came on) but it's not written on my forehead or anything.
But weird stuff always happens to me, so I don't dwell on it. After hours of art admiration, I was content to to just listen to music as my evening wound down. It was a perfect vantage point to say hello to people I knew as they walked by. Amy gave me a hug, Charlie mumbled his usual low-key "How are you?" and Dan was off to see his favorite Remington and suggested meeting up for pie at Ipanema later.
And my new "friend" James made sure to let me know that I was right on and Marionette was impressing him. Apparently he was having the pleasure of first-time discovery, too.
VMFA, it's terrific to have you back. And I say that from the bottom of my medium-sized American art-geek heart.
This Is What Democracy Looks Like
Last year I participated in the first rva May Day parade, here, feeling the need to represent and show my support for the unemployed workers of whom I'd recently become a member. Here I am a year later, still looking for work (the Census won't go on forever) and marching today in my second May Day parade.
The rally began at 4:00 at Abner Clay Park and we heard from various speakers from organizations like Food Not Bombs, the Socialist Party and the Virginia People's Assembly; some were inspirational, others informational and one guy did some excellent spoken word. The organizers had even secured a permit this year, giving us a police escort as we headed down Clay Street past my house into Carver to Harrison, where we headed up to Broad and turned onto Adams. Along Broad Street, restaurant employees stood outside watching us since the dinner rush had not yet begun.
Last year's parade was part of First Fridays and stayed in that area, so tonight's route was far longer. People were out on the streets in much large numbers this year too, watching and waving us on; it may have been the music and our chanting that brought them out of their houses. Traffic was stopped for us at key intersections and we even got some honks of approval and raised fists from supporters as we moved along. Mostly, people took pictures and waved but at least they saw our message.
The sign I was carrying high over my head said, "Solidarity. Workers Unite." Assuming my status doesn't change, next year I plan to make my own sign to acknowledge people like me. I think it'll say something like. "Jobs for ALL."
But whether I'm working or not, I know I'll be walking in the parade. After all, May Day kicks off my birthday month and there's nothing like a parade to begin the festivities.
Likewise, there's no feeling quite like being part of democracy in action.
The rally began at 4:00 at Abner Clay Park and we heard from various speakers from organizations like Food Not Bombs, the Socialist Party and the Virginia People's Assembly; some were inspirational, others informational and one guy did some excellent spoken word. The organizers had even secured a permit this year, giving us a police escort as we headed down Clay Street past my house into Carver to Harrison, where we headed up to Broad and turned onto Adams. Along Broad Street, restaurant employees stood outside watching us since the dinner rush had not yet begun.
Last year's parade was part of First Fridays and stayed in that area, so tonight's route was far longer. People were out on the streets in much large numbers this year too, watching and waving us on; it may have been the music and our chanting that brought them out of their houses. Traffic was stopped for us at key intersections and we even got some honks of approval and raised fists from supporters as we moved along. Mostly, people took pictures and waved but at least they saw our message.
The sign I was carrying high over my head said, "Solidarity. Workers Unite." Assuming my status doesn't change, next year I plan to make my own sign to acknowledge people like me. I think it'll say something like. "Jobs for ALL."
But whether I'm working or not, I know I'll be walking in the parade. After all, May Day kicks off my birthday month and there's nothing like a parade to begin the festivities.
Likewise, there's no feeling quite like being part of democracy in action.
Stayin' Alive 1977-Style
Saturday Night Fever was the first movie to say the words "blow job" and the first to use a Steadicam, both landmark achievements in film. There was no way I wasn't going to see it on the big screen although not for either of those reasons. I wanted to be taken to an era long, long ago in a borough far away and was I ever.
Sure, I was around in 1977 but I wasn't paying attention enough to remember it being quite as different a world as it clearly was. From the moment Travolta and his posse walk into the club with cigarettes dangling from their lips, I was reminded of it though. If you can smoke in an enclosed tube like the subway, you can smoke anywhere and people did.
And at diners, coffee shops and the local White Castle, waitresses wore real uniforms. And not just uniforms, but uniforms with aprons tied in big bows in the back. In one scene, Travolta's dad got upset with him when he started clearing the dishes after dinner because that was something women did. He actually said that. And mothers pushed baby carriages down the street. Not strollers, baby carriages. How many people have ever seen that today?
As for inflation, Travolta gets a $4 a week raise at the paint shop where he works and is thrilled with it. A sign in a window advertises "Six rooms, 2 flights up, Upper 70s, $250 a month." How freaking unbelievable is that?
The hair was all feathered and blown dry, the clothing 100% polyester and the accents pure Brooklyn-ese. And even though Travolta was a 23-year old playing a 19-year old, I can't believe he ever looked that young. When a friend heard I was going to see SNF, she told me that when Fred Astaire saw that first scene of Travolta strutting down the street at the start of the movie, he told Travolta that he "had" it and could look forward to a successful career. Astaire saw it in that cocky walk, which is still very much in evidence watching it today.
As I went to leave, the usher, a 20-something, asked me how I liked the film. I said I was amazed at how different a world 1977 was and he went off. "I know, right? When I saw this was playing on the big screen I just had to see it. I was dying to see what credits looked like in 1977. Did you see him smoking in the subway? Man, I can't believe that movie got a PG rating with a gang bang and that fight scene. What a different time! I'm coming back tomorrow on my morning off to see it again!"
I couldn't believe it; he was having the exact same reaction to the movie that I'd been having and it had nothing to do with disco or dancing. 1977 might as well have been 1877 for how much relevance it had to what we know now. Let's put it this way: there wasn't a single scene or reference to phone use in this movie and yet somehow people had full lives.
But at its core, SNF was a dance movie during a time when guys had needs, sex was casual, and dancing was everything. Or as Travolta put it best, "You make it with some of these chicks, they think you gotta dance with them."
That's just how it worked in 1977, kids.
Sure, I was around in 1977 but I wasn't paying attention enough to remember it being quite as different a world as it clearly was. From the moment Travolta and his posse walk into the club with cigarettes dangling from their lips, I was reminded of it though. If you can smoke in an enclosed tube like the subway, you can smoke anywhere and people did.
And at diners, coffee shops and the local White Castle, waitresses wore real uniforms. And not just uniforms, but uniforms with aprons tied in big bows in the back. In one scene, Travolta's dad got upset with him when he started clearing the dishes after dinner because that was something women did. He actually said that. And mothers pushed baby carriages down the street. Not strollers, baby carriages. How many people have ever seen that today?
As for inflation, Travolta gets a $4 a week raise at the paint shop where he works and is thrilled with it. A sign in a window advertises "Six rooms, 2 flights up, Upper 70s, $250 a month." How freaking unbelievable is that?
The hair was all feathered and blown dry, the clothing 100% polyester and the accents pure Brooklyn-ese. And even though Travolta was a 23-year old playing a 19-year old, I can't believe he ever looked that young. When a friend heard I was going to see SNF, she told me that when Fred Astaire saw that first scene of Travolta strutting down the street at the start of the movie, he told Travolta that he "had" it and could look forward to a successful career. Astaire saw it in that cocky walk, which is still very much in evidence watching it today.
As I went to leave, the usher, a 20-something, asked me how I liked the film. I said I was amazed at how different a world 1977 was and he went off. "I know, right? When I saw this was playing on the big screen I just had to see it. I was dying to see what credits looked like in 1977. Did you see him smoking in the subway? Man, I can't believe that movie got a PG rating with a gang bang and that fight scene. What a different time! I'm coming back tomorrow on my morning off to see it again!"
I couldn't believe it; he was having the exact same reaction to the movie that I'd been having and it had nothing to do with disco or dancing. 1977 might as well have been 1877 for how much relevance it had to what we know now. Let's put it this way: there wasn't a single scene or reference to phone use in this movie and yet somehow people had full lives.
But at its core, SNF was a dance movie during a time when guys had needs, sex was casual, and dancing was everything. Or as Travolta put it best, "You make it with some of these chicks, they think you gotta dance with them."
That's just how it worked in 1977, kids.
Take on Me (and the Heat)
"So glad it's summer, but damn! It's hot up here," drummer Lance Koehler told the crowd at the Camel tonight, not that it was news to anyone in the crowded, overheated room. There were so many sweaty bodies jammed in there tonight, but poor Lance was trapped on a three-sided stage behind eight other musicians, all blowing hard, so I have to assume that it was even worse for him than the rest of us. And, let me tell you, the rest of us were hot.
But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.
From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.
Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.
I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.
But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.
Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.
And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.
It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."
And by all means, take me on.
But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.
From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.
Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.
I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.
But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.
Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.
And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.
It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."
And by all means, take me on.
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