I was barely two blocks from home when I passed one of my neighborhood regulars walking toward me. "You're late," he accused. "I had a late night," I explained. "Tsk, tsk," he chided, brushing one index finger against the other. "Bad girl." Who needs a mother when I've got strangers for my moral compass?
Standing at a bus stop was an old man and by old, I mean nearly bald with a couple of white wisps of hair, coke-bottle glasses, obvious dentures and leaning on a walker.
"Good MORNING," he shouted at me and I answered in kind. "You LOOK nice IN shorts!" he yelled in that overly loud way that hard-of-hearing people have of putting the em-PHAS-is on the wrong syl-LAB-le. But it's good to know that age doesn't prevent a man from ogling.
And maybe it's new and maybe it's not, but today was the first time I noticed the red "EAT HERE" sign with a white arrow pointing down, high atop the front of BoDillaz Quesadillas, a popular student eatery on Broad. It's so far up the building that I'm not sure who's going to actually see it, but I got a kick out of a sign that looked straight out of a low budget '40s movie.
I'd like it even better if it flashed on and off at night. You know, "EAT" followed by a moment of awkward darkness, and then "HERE." Sort of like the way the old guy yelled.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Cinnamon Worship
The monthly Live at Ipanema show is a regular event on my calendar and, whenever possible, it's preceded by dinner with a fellow Gemini music-lover. Because it had been a while since we'd gotten together, we added in an extra stop just to have more time to talk before the show.
When I'd suggested Bistro 27 to her for dinner, she wrote back, "Can we have a cocktail at Tarrant's too?" Had she forgotten who she was dealing with? I replied, "We can do it all, honey!"
And it wasn't cocktails we had, either. The bartender, a good friend and one who knows both our habits, had suggested Vino Verde upon our arrival and we allowed him to twist our arms into drinking our favorite summer grape. We took our time sipping and sharing what had been going on since we last met. Let's just say men occupied the bulk of the conversation.
When we asked for our bill, my bartending friend mentioned that a nearby bar sitter, new to the area, had asked him for suggestions on what to do in RVA and he'd recommended my blog (turns out he does this frequently).
It was at that point that the woman introduced herself to me, saying, "You write really well," as she continued to scroll through some recent posts. Glad to be of service and welcome to Richmond, stranger.
Dinner was just down the block at Bistro 27 because my friend is a huge fan of their Ceasar salad and thinks they have the best Italian-style polenta in town (it comes under sauteed calamari). In addition to those two prerequisites, we also shared the Rappahannock oysters gratine and I got the rabbit and veal sausage with Manchego over potato cakes.
My friend declined to share that dish with me because she doesn't eat rabbit. "I'm not as adventurous as you are," she claimed, missing out. Too bad for her because as our server had warned me, "You're going to love that" and I absolutely did. It's new to the menu so it was the first time I'd had it, but it won't be the last.
By the time we'd finished those four taste delights, it was time to make our way to Ipanema for coconut cake and the Cinnamon Band from Staunton. From the second they opened their mouths, the crowd closed theirs. A foursome walked in and one looked at the other and loudly asked, "Why is it so quiet in here?" Well, my friend, perhaps it's because the band is knocking the socks off of every person in the overcrowded room.
Guitarist John led with, "Actually we're electric, but tonight you're privy to something extra-special." That was the colossal understatement of the evening. These guys are known for being loud, all shimmering chords and bone-shaking drums, but that aesthetic was tamed tonight and the result was magical.
My friend thought that of all the talented bands that have played Live at Ipanema, the Cinnamon Band sounded most likely to be the breakthrough act. Their voices blended beautifully and lyrically the songs were stunning, It was easy to lose sight of the fact that all that sound was coming from only two guys, a guitar and drums.
And while their usual M.O. may be loud, tonight's show was a thing of subdued melodic beauty, created by the slow build that defined their songs. I don't know that I've ever seen so many rapt fans at a Live at Ipanema show and I've been to all but one.
Favorite lyric (of many): Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone.
We had to sit outside afterwards just to talk to other people about how impressive the show had been. To a person, everyone was blown away.
That's why Live at Ipanema is a non-negotiable entry in my datebook. And yes, I still carry one of those artifacts, those relics of another era. Make fun of me all you like (everyone does when I pull it out) but I don't miss much, now do I?
When I'd suggested Bistro 27 to her for dinner, she wrote back, "Can we have a cocktail at Tarrant's too?" Had she forgotten who she was dealing with? I replied, "We can do it all, honey!"
And it wasn't cocktails we had, either. The bartender, a good friend and one who knows both our habits, had suggested Vino Verde upon our arrival and we allowed him to twist our arms into drinking our favorite summer grape. We took our time sipping and sharing what had been going on since we last met. Let's just say men occupied the bulk of the conversation.
When we asked for our bill, my bartending friend mentioned that a nearby bar sitter, new to the area, had asked him for suggestions on what to do in RVA and he'd recommended my blog (turns out he does this frequently).
It was at that point that the woman introduced herself to me, saying, "You write really well," as she continued to scroll through some recent posts. Glad to be of service and welcome to Richmond, stranger.
Dinner was just down the block at Bistro 27 because my friend is a huge fan of their Ceasar salad and thinks they have the best Italian-style polenta in town (it comes under sauteed calamari). In addition to those two prerequisites, we also shared the Rappahannock oysters gratine and I got the rabbit and veal sausage with Manchego over potato cakes.
My friend declined to share that dish with me because she doesn't eat rabbit. "I'm not as adventurous as you are," she claimed, missing out. Too bad for her because as our server had warned me, "You're going to love that" and I absolutely did. It's new to the menu so it was the first time I'd had it, but it won't be the last.
By the time we'd finished those four taste delights, it was time to make our way to Ipanema for coconut cake and the Cinnamon Band from Staunton. From the second they opened their mouths, the crowd closed theirs. A foursome walked in and one looked at the other and loudly asked, "Why is it so quiet in here?" Well, my friend, perhaps it's because the band is knocking the socks off of every person in the overcrowded room.
Guitarist John led with, "Actually we're electric, but tonight you're privy to something extra-special." That was the colossal understatement of the evening. These guys are known for being loud, all shimmering chords and bone-shaking drums, but that aesthetic was tamed tonight and the result was magical.
My friend thought that of all the talented bands that have played Live at Ipanema, the Cinnamon Band sounded most likely to be the breakthrough act. Their voices blended beautifully and lyrically the songs were stunning, It was easy to lose sight of the fact that all that sound was coming from only two guys, a guitar and drums.
And while their usual M.O. may be loud, tonight's show was a thing of subdued melodic beauty, created by the slow build that defined their songs. I don't know that I've ever seen so many rapt fans at a Live at Ipanema show and I've been to all but one.
Favorite lyric (of many): Easy does it doesn't cut it when you want someone.
We had to sit outside afterwards just to talk to other people about how impressive the show had been. To a person, everyone was blown away.
That's why Live at Ipanema is a non-negotiable entry in my datebook. And yes, I still carry one of those artifacts, those relics of another era. Make fun of me all you like (everyone does when I pull it out) but I don't miss much, now do I?
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Don't Let Me Kill Your Dreams
How do you speak honestly from experience and not shatter someone's career aspirations? That was my challenge today when a guy with whom I worked doing the Census called and asked if he could interview me about the state of newspapers.
He's a journalism major at VCU and his homework assignment was to talk to a past or present employee of the Times Dispatch about the future of print. Future of the daily paper? Grim, at best.
But I listened and tried to provide thoughtful answers to his assignment's questions. When I admitted that I expect the daily to disappear in our lifetime, his disappointment was immediate. "Aww, that's really sad," he said, surprising me because I couldn't imagine that he started his day reading the paper.
But it wasn't the ritual he feared the loss of, it was his future. "That's my major." We talked about journalism as an online-only format and I could hear his dream of life as an old-school newspaperman fading away.
One of the questions pertained to how the newsroom has changed with so many layoffs and after listening to me and taking notes, he summed it up. "So we need to be a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to reporting?" he asked. I could almost hear the implied question: even the boring stuff? Well, yes...assuming you want the job badly enough.
But because he is a student and his frame of reference is the limited world in which he's lived, it wasn't long before he tied the issue of print's demise to what he knows. "Isn't it ironic that print's dying at the same time that everybody's e-mailing and texting? We're writing more than talking but the newspaper's going away. I think that's a topic for a paper...or wait, an article!"
And it may be, albeit one that would end up online rather than in the newspaper. I just didn't want to break Scoop's heart by telling him that.
He's a journalism major at VCU and his homework assignment was to talk to a past or present employee of the Times Dispatch about the future of print. Future of the daily paper? Grim, at best.
But I listened and tried to provide thoughtful answers to his assignment's questions. When I admitted that I expect the daily to disappear in our lifetime, his disappointment was immediate. "Aww, that's really sad," he said, surprising me because I couldn't imagine that he started his day reading the paper.
But it wasn't the ritual he feared the loss of, it was his future. "That's my major." We talked about journalism as an online-only format and I could hear his dream of life as an old-school newspaperman fading away.
One of the questions pertained to how the newsroom has changed with so many layoffs and after listening to me and taking notes, he summed it up. "So we need to be a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to reporting?" he asked. I could almost hear the implied question: even the boring stuff? Well, yes...assuming you want the job badly enough.
But because he is a student and his frame of reference is the limited world in which he's lived, it wasn't long before he tied the issue of print's demise to what he knows. "Isn't it ironic that print's dying at the same time that everybody's e-mailing and texting? We're writing more than talking but the newspaper's going away. I think that's a topic for a paper...or wait, an article!"
And it may be, albeit one that would end up online rather than in the newspaper. I just didn't want to break Scoop's heart by telling him that.
Virgos Do It with Verve
When I left the house tonight, the Goodyear blimp was flying directly over J-Ward. I mean it was making a beeline between Henry and Monroe Streets headed north and not very high in the sky, either. I stood in the middle of the street to admire something so ridiculous. And so my evening began.
I was going to the Bottom for a party and even that got off to a good start with a compliment from a cutter. Walking down 18th Street, a guy in a barber shop smiled at me through the window and I smiled back as I passed.
Moments later, I heard from behind, "Miss, you look amazing tonight," and turned to see one of the barbers standing in the door of the shop in his white coat, pointing his scissors at me. Such is the power of not wearing black I'm finding.
One of my favorite Virgo men was celebrating his 40th birthday tonight with a big party at Julep. And if you know anything about Virgo men (and I know plenty) it won't be any surprise that the food and drink were impeccably planned and the mix of people exceptional. He even adjusted the light periodically to ensure the proper ambiance.
Coordinating with master mixologust Bobby, the birthday boy had designed a menu of unique mixed drinks to get the party rolling. Being a non-cocktail drinker, I started with Vouvray, and later segued to good tequila.
Meanwhile, a surprising number of people ordered Mint Juleps either because they were at Julep for the first time or because they hadn't had one in ages. I felt a little sorry for Bobby; that's a labor-intensive drink.
The food was impressive; there were fried green tomato beignets, samosas, mini-crab cakes, pork tenderloin, cornbread, a variety of cheese and fruit and every one's newest obsession, sweet potato salad (so creamy! so orange!).
The crowd was diverse (although mainly couples) and represented the various aspects of our host's life: work, grad school, tennis and random (the category I fall in to). Everyone wanted to know how the two of us had met and no one was surprised that it was over food (pork belly) at a trendy restaurant (Balliceaux) and that I'd done the initiating (he and his girlfriend are introverts and I'm, well, not).
I enjoyed mixing with so many new people because it resulted in far-ranging conversations (the unfriendliness of Hartford, Connecticut, decadent shakes and architecture). I asked a guy what his connection to our host was and he jokingly responded, "I used to be his lover." I trumped him with more humor, "Wait, me, too." We made the birthday boy's night when we shared this dishonest exchange with him.
A male guest told our host that I was a fun person, a female guest asked how I stay in shape given all my food writing and a charming and handsome baker invited me to his shop to treat me to a sweet. Now that's a party I was reluctant to leave.
But leave I had to because of the impending Broken Social Scene show at the National . The last time they played RVA at Toad's Place, they'd come on at 10:00 and played till 1:15 and I'd loved every minute of it. I was looking forward to more of the same.
Tonight's show was just as mesmerizing and only a little shorter. The collective has such energy and their songs are so well done. The subject of it being September 11th came up and lead singer Kevin Drew called for a collective hug of "Americans and Canadians" and threw himself onto the crowd; Brendan Canning followed suit and they were passed around for a bit to the delight of the adoring audience.
Stripping down to his muscle shirt, Drew explained that "This is what I wore to the rocks and the bridge when we went swimming this afternoon. I couldn't bear to take it off." An audience member handed him fluorescent sunglasses which he wore for most of the rest of the show.
Because the collective is large and has so much talent, something interesting was always happening. A guitarist would begin removing his guitar mid-song and another musician would rush over to pick up that guitar and finish his part so that the first guitarist could now play trumpet. Lisa Lobsinger provided the necessary female voice to complement so much male talent.
At one point Drew commented that it was "a Saturday night dance in Richmond" and that was absolutely true. The crowd was in motion pretty much non-stop, even during the occasional ballad. During the protracted encore, the crowd was all but bouncing off the walls.
Blimps, barbers, birthday boys and a show my favorite bartender at the National (and a musician to boot) described as "probably the best I've ever seen here." And he's seen a lot of them.
But it was Kevin Drew who nailed it with, "Saturday night's alright for fun." Isn't it, though?
I was going to the Bottom for a party and even that got off to a good start with a compliment from a cutter. Walking down 18th Street, a guy in a barber shop smiled at me through the window and I smiled back as I passed.
Moments later, I heard from behind, "Miss, you look amazing tonight," and turned to see one of the barbers standing in the door of the shop in his white coat, pointing his scissors at me. Such is the power of not wearing black I'm finding.
One of my favorite Virgo men was celebrating his 40th birthday tonight with a big party at Julep. And if you know anything about Virgo men (and I know plenty) it won't be any surprise that the food and drink were impeccably planned and the mix of people exceptional. He even adjusted the light periodically to ensure the proper ambiance.
Coordinating with master mixologust Bobby, the birthday boy had designed a menu of unique mixed drinks to get the party rolling. Being a non-cocktail drinker, I started with Vouvray, and later segued to good tequila.
Meanwhile, a surprising number of people ordered Mint Juleps either because they were at Julep for the first time or because they hadn't had one in ages. I felt a little sorry for Bobby; that's a labor-intensive drink.
The food was impressive; there were fried green tomato beignets, samosas, mini-crab cakes, pork tenderloin, cornbread, a variety of cheese and fruit and every one's newest obsession, sweet potato salad (so creamy! so orange!).
The crowd was diverse (although mainly couples) and represented the various aspects of our host's life: work, grad school, tennis and random (the category I fall in to). Everyone wanted to know how the two of us had met and no one was surprised that it was over food (pork belly) at a trendy restaurant (Balliceaux) and that I'd done the initiating (he and his girlfriend are introverts and I'm, well, not).
I enjoyed mixing with so many new people because it resulted in far-ranging conversations (the unfriendliness of Hartford, Connecticut, decadent shakes and architecture). I asked a guy what his connection to our host was and he jokingly responded, "I used to be his lover." I trumped him with more humor, "Wait, me, too." We made the birthday boy's night when we shared this dishonest exchange with him.
A male guest told our host that I was a fun person, a female guest asked how I stay in shape given all my food writing and a charming and handsome baker invited me to his shop to treat me to a sweet. Now that's a party I was reluctant to leave.
But leave I had to because of the impending Broken Social Scene show at the National . The last time they played RVA at Toad's Place, they'd come on at 10:00 and played till 1:15 and I'd loved every minute of it. I was looking forward to more of the same.
Tonight's show was just as mesmerizing and only a little shorter. The collective has such energy and their songs are so well done. The subject of it being September 11th came up and lead singer Kevin Drew called for a collective hug of "Americans and Canadians" and threw himself onto the crowd; Brendan Canning followed suit and they were passed around for a bit to the delight of the adoring audience.
Stripping down to his muscle shirt, Drew explained that "This is what I wore to the rocks and the bridge when we went swimming this afternoon. I couldn't bear to take it off." An audience member handed him fluorescent sunglasses which he wore for most of the rest of the show.
Because the collective is large and has so much talent, something interesting was always happening. A guitarist would begin removing his guitar mid-song and another musician would rush over to pick up that guitar and finish his part so that the first guitarist could now play trumpet. Lisa Lobsinger provided the necessary female voice to complement so much male talent.
At one point Drew commented that it was "a Saturday night dance in Richmond" and that was absolutely true. The crowd was in motion pretty much non-stop, even during the occasional ballad. During the protracted encore, the crowd was all but bouncing off the walls.
Blimps, barbers, birthday boys and a show my favorite bartender at the National (and a musician to boot) described as "probably the best I've ever seen here." And he's seen a lot of them.
But it was Kevin Drew who nailed it with, "Saturday night's alright for fun." Isn't it, though?
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Both Sides Now
I went to Glen Allen to eat today. There I said it. It's not like I haven't headed to the hinterlands to eat before, though. There was beef stew in Hanover, here, breakfast in Frog Level, here, and even a fish fry in Dawn, here.
Today's occasion was twofold: barbecue and folk singer Judy Collins at a church in Glen Allen. And while I felt completely competent to navigate my way to semi-rural locations like the above-mentioned ones, Glen Allen is suburbia and I inevitably get lost in such places.
Knowing this, I enlisted a friend to go with me to ensure I came back alive ( a trail of breadcrumbs wasn't going to do me much good on 295). I even drove.
It worked out well. We found the enormous Mount Vernon Baptist Church (which looking nothing like a church, if you ask me) with its tent city spread out on the property. Hundreds of people were already milling about, making it by far my biggest community eating experience so far.
And although it had been barely two and a half hours since breakfast, the first thing we did was eat. First we perused the barbecue stands to make our choice. Oddly enough, the event was sanctioned by the Kansas City Barbecue Society, so there was an interesting mix of barbecue types to choose from.
After our research was completed, we decided to start with Wicked Grill's BBQ appetizers. The six-piece consisted of two bacon-wrapped Italian meatballs in sauce, two European-style wings well sauced ("Just put the whole thing in your mouth and all that meat will come off in one suck...and it won't even mess up your lipstick," one of the proprietors told us. Somehow I think the lipstick comment was directed at me.) and two jalapeno sliders (a large half jalapeno stuffed with spiced cream cheese and apple wood-smoked bacon).
Wicked is out of New Jersey and they spend the summer on the barbecue circuit, something I didn't even know existed. I have to assume that explained how Italian meatballs ending up being sauced and served at their booth.
For our entree, we decided on Grady's BBQ, passing over Carter's Pig Pen out of Mechanicsville (VA/NC-style). Grady's is out of the 1925 Hotel Weyanoke in Farmville and boasted that their pig was slow-cooked over hickory and white oak. We chose the BBQ sandwich with cole slaw and beans, the ideal barbecue sides.
We took our plates to a shady location to devour, happy with Grady's flavorful meat enhanced with their Memphis sauce. Bacon-wrapped anything is good, the wings were incredibly meaty and the sliders gave my friend the hiccups (his usual reaction to jalapenos apparently).
But I'd also come to hear Judy Collins, having just recently finished her autobiography ("Of course you did," my friend responded when I told him why I wanted to go) and eager to see what a 71-year old musician had to say about life. Okay, I also wanted to hear what that singing voice sounded like.
She talked for nearly an hour, interspersing songs (Send in the Clowns, Amazing Grace) with anecdotes and projecting a vitality that belied her age. Her hair is still long and thick, but pure white now. Dressed in an elegant black pantsuit, she was as slim as she was when Stephen Stills and Stacy Keach were her lovers.
And she was witty, making fun of her alcoholism ("I was trying to kill myself by drinking. That's a really slow way to do it.") repeatedly and acknowledging how transformative finding the love of her life had been. She sounded like someone who had appreciated every step along the way, even the difficult ones, for having brought her to where she is today.
And where she was today was on the grounds of a mega-church in suburbia under a wispy clouded sky, even farther away from her home than I was. And if this living legend was willing to be in Glen Allen this afternoon, why not me?
How else would I have been able to say I sang along with Judy Collins to Amazing Grace?
Today's occasion was twofold: barbecue and folk singer Judy Collins at a church in Glen Allen. And while I felt completely competent to navigate my way to semi-rural locations like the above-mentioned ones, Glen Allen is suburbia and I inevitably get lost in such places.
Knowing this, I enlisted a friend to go with me to ensure I came back alive ( a trail of breadcrumbs wasn't going to do me much good on 295). I even drove.
It worked out well. We found the enormous Mount Vernon Baptist Church (which looking nothing like a church, if you ask me) with its tent city spread out on the property. Hundreds of people were already milling about, making it by far my biggest community eating experience so far.
And although it had been barely two and a half hours since breakfast, the first thing we did was eat. First we perused the barbecue stands to make our choice. Oddly enough, the event was sanctioned by the Kansas City Barbecue Society, so there was an interesting mix of barbecue types to choose from.
After our research was completed, we decided to start with Wicked Grill's BBQ appetizers. The six-piece consisted of two bacon-wrapped Italian meatballs in sauce, two European-style wings well sauced ("Just put the whole thing in your mouth and all that meat will come off in one suck...and it won't even mess up your lipstick," one of the proprietors told us. Somehow I think the lipstick comment was directed at me.) and two jalapeno sliders (a large half jalapeno stuffed with spiced cream cheese and apple wood-smoked bacon).
Wicked is out of New Jersey and they spend the summer on the barbecue circuit, something I didn't even know existed. I have to assume that explained how Italian meatballs ending up being sauced and served at their booth.
For our entree, we decided on Grady's BBQ, passing over Carter's Pig Pen out of Mechanicsville (VA/NC-style). Grady's is out of the 1925 Hotel Weyanoke in Farmville and boasted that their pig was slow-cooked over hickory and white oak. We chose the BBQ sandwich with cole slaw and beans, the ideal barbecue sides.
We took our plates to a shady location to devour, happy with Grady's flavorful meat enhanced with their Memphis sauce. Bacon-wrapped anything is good, the wings were incredibly meaty and the sliders gave my friend the hiccups (his usual reaction to jalapenos apparently).
But I'd also come to hear Judy Collins, having just recently finished her autobiography ("Of course you did," my friend responded when I told him why I wanted to go) and eager to see what a 71-year old musician had to say about life. Okay, I also wanted to hear what that singing voice sounded like.
She talked for nearly an hour, interspersing songs (Send in the Clowns, Amazing Grace) with anecdotes and projecting a vitality that belied her age. Her hair is still long and thick, but pure white now. Dressed in an elegant black pantsuit, she was as slim as she was when Stephen Stills and Stacy Keach were her lovers.
And she was witty, making fun of her alcoholism ("I was trying to kill myself by drinking. That's a really slow way to do it.") repeatedly and acknowledging how transformative finding the love of her life had been. She sounded like someone who had appreciated every step along the way, even the difficult ones, for having brought her to where she is today.
And where she was today was on the grounds of a mega-church in suburbia under a wispy clouded sky, even farther away from her home than I was. And if this living legend was willing to be in Glen Allen this afternoon, why not me?
How else would I have been able to say I sang along with Judy Collins to Amazing Grace?
Friday, September 10, 2010
Enjoying the Subtext
After weeks of schedule incompatibility, a girlfriend and I finally made plans for tonight. Just to be sure, she sent me an e-mail yesterday, "Hey! Do we have a date for tomorrow? A patio somewhere?" I just knew it was my delightful lunch on Ettamae's balcony that had her pining for outdoor conversation.
So I suggested Amuse, knowing that she hadn't been there and that they had an outdoor space. But upon arrival, we were told it was a "serving area," which sounded vaguely unwelcoming and we compromised at the bar where I knew from past experience that bartender Tommie would welcome us with open arms.
Beginning with his enthusiastic greeting (I was flattered that he remembered me) right through his attentive service, we wound up happy to have chosen him over the outdoor seating, despite the beautiful day. Even when he was absolutely slammed with drink orders, he managed to be charming and attentive.
We drank local, she with the Barboursville Cab Franc and me with the White Hall Viognier. With almost a month's worth to catch up on, we almost had too much to talk about.
She shared near-fires, ER visits and guerrilla drawing classes. I had nothing half so exciting, but shared tales of publishers, birthdays, and some of the undeniably interesting comments the blog has gotten lately.
As always the VMFA crowd was as good as entertainment. Tonight they were hosting a lecture on Faberge, a topic of minimal interest to me, but the crowd of lecture-goers proved that I am in the minority.
Bejeweled women and bow-tied men were everywhere and many, many old fashioneds were sent out to tables. I wanted to think that they were all having a good time, but nothing about their collective demeanor indicated that.
When we got peckish, my friend couldn't resist the mussels and Surry ham in a rich garlic broth and although I'd had the dish before, I was happy to pig out (pun intended) and sop until that buttery goodness was gone.
We followed that with the chocolate hazelnut torte with fresh berries and with the copious amounts of wine we enjoyed, were satisfied on every level.
Because this is the one local girlfriend who knows where all the bodies are buried, I had as-yet unshared stories she needed to hear. Likewise, her recent "big talk" with the boyfriend yielded all kinds of conversational fodder. As much as I enjoy my guy friends, I know that they don't want to hear this kind of stuff.
Three and a half hours later, we decided to stroll the museum and get our blood moving again. Although we've both seen the Chuck Close show, we headed directly there. Coincidentally I ran into my friend Andrew (note mention by name, friend) and his main squeeze viewing the show for the first time. Richmond truly is a small town.
On our way out, we stopped by the German Expressionist exhibit, a show I'd seen but she hadn't. You have to love German art; such angst, such thickness of paint, such tortured woodcuts! It was fun interpreting the show together, especially since she's an illustrator/painter and as big an art geek as I am.
After parting on the Boulevard, I headed over to Sprout for music. I guiltily took a four top because it was all that was available but told owner Laura to feel free to seat others at my table if necessary, community-style.
I then ordered a glass of the Horton Stony Blush (why leave the state after all that earlier Virginia wine?) and the stuffed onion with pesto and bacon.
Moments later a girl I'd met at last night's Tortoise show spotted me and joined me at my lonesome table. Next thing I knew, the guys at the next table, only one of whom I knew, were asking me about the Tortoise show and I was trying to explain the very male-ness of it. They understood immediately, nodding as if the shortage of girls and abundance of testosterone were of no surprise to them.
My stuffed onion was as tasty as it was unusual, but right up the alley of an onion and bacon lover like me. My friend got the Parisienne gnocchi and raved about it.
She finished with the raisin bread pudding which she insisted I try because "it tastes like a warm donut." In fact, it did and a warm donut is a tough thing to resist. I may have taken more bites than were offered, but she was generous. Or polite.
Music followed, beginning with owner Jamie's band, Baby Help Me Forget. He was an amazing front man, singing, shimmying, and dropping to his knees; his feet never stopped sliding around the floor James Brown-style. The audience never stopped smiling throughout their entire set.
The Visitations was one guy with a guitar, a computer and pedals, playing a fun set that the crowd loved. And the talented Diamond Center are my favorite local shoegazers.
So I spent the beautiful evening indoors. What of it? There'll be plenty of other nights I can be outside when there's no wine, , food, art, conversation or music calling to me.
I'd go sit on my porch right now and finally enjoy a bit of the cool night air, but I think I'd prefer to reread some of the delightful comments that have been coming my way of late before I go to bed.
Comments as compliments, don't you know. Or at least that's how I choose to read them.
So I suggested Amuse, knowing that she hadn't been there and that they had an outdoor space. But upon arrival, we were told it was a "serving area," which sounded vaguely unwelcoming and we compromised at the bar where I knew from past experience that bartender Tommie would welcome us with open arms.
Beginning with his enthusiastic greeting (I was flattered that he remembered me) right through his attentive service, we wound up happy to have chosen him over the outdoor seating, despite the beautiful day. Even when he was absolutely slammed with drink orders, he managed to be charming and attentive.
We drank local, she with the Barboursville Cab Franc and me with the White Hall Viognier. With almost a month's worth to catch up on, we almost had too much to talk about.
She shared near-fires, ER visits and guerrilla drawing classes. I had nothing half so exciting, but shared tales of publishers, birthdays, and some of the undeniably interesting comments the blog has gotten lately.
As always the VMFA crowd was as good as entertainment. Tonight they were hosting a lecture on Faberge, a topic of minimal interest to me, but the crowd of lecture-goers proved that I am in the minority.
Bejeweled women and bow-tied men were everywhere and many, many old fashioneds were sent out to tables. I wanted to think that they were all having a good time, but nothing about their collective demeanor indicated that.
When we got peckish, my friend couldn't resist the mussels and Surry ham in a rich garlic broth and although I'd had the dish before, I was happy to pig out (pun intended) and sop until that buttery goodness was gone.
We followed that with the chocolate hazelnut torte with fresh berries and with the copious amounts of wine we enjoyed, were satisfied on every level.
Because this is the one local girlfriend who knows where all the bodies are buried, I had as-yet unshared stories she needed to hear. Likewise, her recent "big talk" with the boyfriend yielded all kinds of conversational fodder. As much as I enjoy my guy friends, I know that they don't want to hear this kind of stuff.
Three and a half hours later, we decided to stroll the museum and get our blood moving again. Although we've both seen the Chuck Close show, we headed directly there. Coincidentally I ran into my friend Andrew (note mention by name, friend) and his main squeeze viewing the show for the first time. Richmond truly is a small town.
On our way out, we stopped by the German Expressionist exhibit, a show I'd seen but she hadn't. You have to love German art; such angst, such thickness of paint, such tortured woodcuts! It was fun interpreting the show together, especially since she's an illustrator/painter and as big an art geek as I am.
After parting on the Boulevard, I headed over to Sprout for music. I guiltily took a four top because it was all that was available but told owner Laura to feel free to seat others at my table if necessary, community-style.
I then ordered a glass of the Horton Stony Blush (why leave the state after all that earlier Virginia wine?) and the stuffed onion with pesto and bacon.
Moments later a girl I'd met at last night's Tortoise show spotted me and joined me at my lonesome table. Next thing I knew, the guys at the next table, only one of whom I knew, were asking me about the Tortoise show and I was trying to explain the very male-ness of it. They understood immediately, nodding as if the shortage of girls and abundance of testosterone were of no surprise to them.
My stuffed onion was as tasty as it was unusual, but right up the alley of an onion and bacon lover like me. My friend got the Parisienne gnocchi and raved about it.
She finished with the raisin bread pudding which she insisted I try because "it tastes like a warm donut." In fact, it did and a warm donut is a tough thing to resist. I may have taken more bites than were offered, but she was generous. Or polite.
Music followed, beginning with owner Jamie's band, Baby Help Me Forget. He was an amazing front man, singing, shimmying, and dropping to his knees; his feet never stopped sliding around the floor James Brown-style. The audience never stopped smiling throughout their entire set.
The Visitations was one guy with a guitar, a computer and pedals, playing a fun set that the crowd loved. And the talented Diamond Center are my favorite local shoegazers.
So I spent the beautiful evening indoors. What of it? There'll be plenty of other nights I can be outside when there's no wine, , food, art, conversation or music calling to me.
I'd go sit on my porch right now and finally enjoy a bit of the cool night air, but I think I'd prefer to reread some of the delightful comments that have been coming my way of late before I go to bed.
Comments as compliments, don't you know. Or at least that's how I choose to read them.
Smartasses Abound
Tiny sign at face level on a shop window near Broad and Laurel:
"DON'T COME IN! Pressing your nose against the glass is the best way to see what's inside."
Sarcasm as marketing tool.
Around a scattered mess of french fries on the Grace Street sidewalk, someone has drawn a pink circle in chalk and written "Cry for the fries."
Empathy for the death of a late night snack.
Walking down Hell block, a guy shouts at me, "Girl, you walk your ass off every day!"
"Not trying to walk it off, just walk it better," I yell back.
"It's already f**king great. Maybe you better stop!" he advises.
Stop? And miss out on daily pleasure like these?
No time soon.
"DON'T COME IN! Pressing your nose against the glass is the best way to see what's inside."
Sarcasm as marketing tool.
Around a scattered mess of french fries on the Grace Street sidewalk, someone has drawn a pink circle in chalk and written "Cry for the fries."
Empathy for the death of a late night snack.
Walking down Hell block, a guy shouts at me, "Girl, you walk your ass off every day!"
"Not trying to walk it off, just walk it better," I yell back.
"It's already f**king great. Maybe you better stop!" he advises.
Stop? And miss out on daily pleasure like these?
No time soon.
Men, Men Everywhere
"Ruin your Thursday @ the VCA" the invitation read and I had every intention of doing just that. Tonight was the opening of American Ruins, a collection of almost 50 black and white images of ruins from the east coast to the west, showing at the Virginia Center for Architecture.
Arthur Drooker's photographs were artistic beauties, with crumbling walls and roofless columns framed by bare branches and leafy trees. I was shocked to learn that some of the ruins had been destroyed as recently as the last forty years; for some reason, I had presumed that these were long-time ruins, but then we're barely a long-time country. In most cases, fire was the culprit.
The Virginia ruins site represented on the walls was Barboursville and their winery was pouring tonight, but the exhibit is worth checking out even without a touch of the grape. It's up through the end of November. I even took the time to stroll the back garden of the Branch House for the first time tonight. It's a lovely, tranquil place.
As always, the opening was mainly male (architecture being male-dominated, I suppose). Of note was that I only ran into one person I knew (and fortunately I wasn't wearing black), but he knows me well enough to ask what the rest of my evening held. Telling him reminded him that he had also intended to be at my next stop (I'm as good as a calendar reminder sometimes).
That stop was The Empress for the Richmond Business Alliance champagne reception to celebrate the launch of the city's online directory of LGBT-friendly businesses. The Empress was being publicly designated as such tonight and the room was full of other LGBT business people. For the most part, it was a room full of attractive well-dressed men well-versed on all kinds of interesting topics.
I talked theater with actors and directors, restaurants with a real estate agent, and local bands with a writer. I loaned a book about coffee to a fellow blogger. I ate some of Chef Carly's delicious appetizers and sipped bubbles from bottom-heavy glasses. I like to think I was an asset to the party (Kevin, correct me if I'm wrong here).
Everyone wanted to know my connection since I don't own a business, so I shared my ties to the sponsor. My only regret was that I didn't get to stay for the cake, but happily I did satisfy my sweet tooth with a taste of the frosting and it was to die for. That's all I'm saying.
I had to cut out early and leave such charming company and such a culturally significant event in RVA to catch the opening band at the Canal Club, Marionette. These locals have been on a roll this summer, opening for The National, the Whigs and now Tortoise. It's the kind of resume-building a local band dreams of.
For the first time in years, the show was held upstairs instead of on the downstairs stage and no one seemed to know why. The show had originally been scheduled for the National, but a NASCAR-related corporate event had trumped Tortoise and they'd been moved to the smaller venue. Driving down to the show, I'd seen a lit-up race car in front of the National and a line of people down the block.
And given the size of the crowd, the Canal Club was big enough. Despite Tortoise's 20-year music-making history, the crowd was surprisingly small. Two different people said to me, "I'm disappointed in Richmond," referring to the low attendance.
But the fans who came were devoted and almost all of them were male. What we can glean from this is that jazz and prog rock-influenced post-rock bands are favored by those with a Y chromosome. A musician friend (a drummer) said that they are a drummer's band as a way of explaining all the guys.
A female attendee said to me, "It's all dudes, which is cool, but they're so into the music they don't want to talk to a chick." I gathered that she was saying that it was not a good place to pick up a guy. Luckily I wasn't there for that.
The band was tight, all excellent musicians and I liked all the percussion. A musician friend was turned off by the extensive use of synthesizers, but loved the vibes. But when it came right down to it, I just didn't possess enough testosterone to fully appreciate Tortoise it seemed. They were good, but they weren't rocking my world.
Walking to my car after the second encore, two guys almost bumped into me coming out of Wonderland. One said, "Don't you love this weather?" to which I said no and placed my cold hand on his arm.
"Damn!" he said. "Where's your wristband from?" I told him the Canal Club. "Aww, man, the Tortoise show? Was it awesome?"
He was a guy. He knew Tortoise was playing even if he hadn't gone to the show. I knew what I had to say.
"Yea, it was awesome," I told him. "Why weren't you there?"
A look of pure male guilt crossed his face. It was the perfectly appropriate ending for my Tortoise experience.
Arthur Drooker's photographs were artistic beauties, with crumbling walls and roofless columns framed by bare branches and leafy trees. I was shocked to learn that some of the ruins had been destroyed as recently as the last forty years; for some reason, I had presumed that these were long-time ruins, but then we're barely a long-time country. In most cases, fire was the culprit.
The Virginia ruins site represented on the walls was Barboursville and their winery was pouring tonight, but the exhibit is worth checking out even without a touch of the grape. It's up through the end of November. I even took the time to stroll the back garden of the Branch House for the first time tonight. It's a lovely, tranquil place.
As always, the opening was mainly male (architecture being male-dominated, I suppose). Of note was that I only ran into one person I knew (and fortunately I wasn't wearing black), but he knows me well enough to ask what the rest of my evening held. Telling him reminded him that he had also intended to be at my next stop (I'm as good as a calendar reminder sometimes).
That stop was The Empress for the Richmond Business Alliance champagne reception to celebrate the launch of the city's online directory of LGBT-friendly businesses. The Empress was being publicly designated as such tonight and the room was full of other LGBT business people. For the most part, it was a room full of attractive well-dressed men well-versed on all kinds of interesting topics.
I talked theater with actors and directors, restaurants with a real estate agent, and local bands with a writer. I loaned a book about coffee to a fellow blogger. I ate some of Chef Carly's delicious appetizers and sipped bubbles from bottom-heavy glasses. I like to think I was an asset to the party (Kevin, correct me if I'm wrong here).
Everyone wanted to know my connection since I don't own a business, so I shared my ties to the sponsor. My only regret was that I didn't get to stay for the cake, but happily I did satisfy my sweet tooth with a taste of the frosting and it was to die for. That's all I'm saying.
I had to cut out early and leave such charming company and such a culturally significant event in RVA to catch the opening band at the Canal Club, Marionette. These locals have been on a roll this summer, opening for The National, the Whigs and now Tortoise. It's the kind of resume-building a local band dreams of.
For the first time in years, the show was held upstairs instead of on the downstairs stage and no one seemed to know why. The show had originally been scheduled for the National, but a NASCAR-related corporate event had trumped Tortoise and they'd been moved to the smaller venue. Driving down to the show, I'd seen a lit-up race car in front of the National and a line of people down the block.
And given the size of the crowd, the Canal Club was big enough. Despite Tortoise's 20-year music-making history, the crowd was surprisingly small. Two different people said to me, "I'm disappointed in Richmond," referring to the low attendance.
But the fans who came were devoted and almost all of them were male. What we can glean from this is that jazz and prog rock-influenced post-rock bands are favored by those with a Y chromosome. A musician friend (a drummer) said that they are a drummer's band as a way of explaining all the guys.
A female attendee said to me, "It's all dudes, which is cool, but they're so into the music they don't want to talk to a chick." I gathered that she was saying that it was not a good place to pick up a guy. Luckily I wasn't there for that.
The band was tight, all excellent musicians and I liked all the percussion. A musician friend was turned off by the extensive use of synthesizers, but loved the vibes. But when it came right down to it, I just didn't possess enough testosterone to fully appreciate Tortoise it seemed. They were good, but they weren't rocking my world.
Walking to my car after the second encore, two guys almost bumped into me coming out of Wonderland. One said, "Don't you love this weather?" to which I said no and placed my cold hand on his arm.
"Damn!" he said. "Where's your wristband from?" I told him the Canal Club. "Aww, man, the Tortoise show? Was it awesome?"
He was a guy. He knew Tortoise was playing even if he hadn't gone to the show. I knew what I had to say.
"Yea, it was awesome," I told him. "Why weren't you there?"
A look of pure male guilt crossed his face. It was the perfectly appropriate ending for my Tortoise experience.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Lunch on Ettamae's Balcony
It was too beautiful a day not to eat lunch outside. And despite all my previous meals at Ettamae's Cafe, every single one had been on a day too hot to even consider eating on the balcony. Not so today. In fact, as I walked down Second Street, I could see my friend up there framed against the very blue sky, leaning over the balcony and calling out to me.
The patio was completely in shade and with no one else up there, we felt secluded under the umbrellas even as we were surrounded by bustling construction sites on either side of us. It's exciting what's happening over there, according to our server, since the infusion of B.B. king's 11 million dollar contribution to the cause.
The building to the south will be affordably priced small apartments and the Elks' Lodge to the north will house a southern barbecue restaurant downstairs with a jazz club upstairs. And of course, the fabulous art moderne Hippodrome is revealing itself to be more beautiful with each week of work. Is it any wonder I love J-Ward?
But it was my friend's first trip to Ettamae's and he couldn't decide what to order. I was telling our server how crazy I am about their house-braised corned beef with its little fatty bits and she agreed that she'd become a convert to corned beef after years of taking or leaving it. My friend was convinced and ordered his on the house made sub roll.
My problem was ordering something I hadn't had before, not that I had to, but why not? I decided on their chicken salad mainly because they roast the chicken and make salad from that. I, too, couldn't resist the crusty sub roll and Mom's potato salad on the side.
The chicken salad was better than my Mom's because she boils the chicken for hers, so I was delighted with the roasted flavor of Ettamae's. And there is nothing like homemade bread to take a sandwich to a whole new level.
My friend was too busy in corned beef heaven to say much. At one point, owner Matt came up and taking in our shady oasis, said, "Now this is the place to be!" He was right, it was just about perfect.
I could have stopped with the Two Street (sandwich and side) but ended up making mine a Three Sweet by getting two chocolate walnut cookies, thin and buttery. My friend, a devote of homemade ice cream, could not resist the peanut butter/dark chocolate chip ice cream and with good cause. Besides the paltry $3.00 price tag, it was obscenely rich. I ate a few bites and he ate the other two scoops, smiling widely the whole time.
Since Ettamae's ice cream flavors change often, he already told me that he wants to come back soon for another flavor. I'm just sorry we missed the homemade peach ice cream, a personal favorite. The coffee ice cream, we heard, is like a shot of espresso but sweet. I know several caffeine junkies who'd love that.
Afterwards, we strolled 2 Street, the better to admire the renovations and even some of the spaces just ripe for the right person to come in and make them viable again. We both gave our vote to Miss Polly's Beauty Shop, a classic Jackson Ward retail space, attractive as it was functional and sitting right on the sidewalk to attract foot traffic.
Walking my friend to his car, he teased me, "Why didn't you tell me about this place sooner?" I could have asked him, "Why don't you come to J-Ward more often?" But I didn't.
I don't think he'll wait for me to invite him back to Ettamae's. The siren song of a place that makes not only their corned beef but also their ice cream is irresistible to a Northside guy like him.
As well it should be.
The patio was completely in shade and with no one else up there, we felt secluded under the umbrellas even as we were surrounded by bustling construction sites on either side of us. It's exciting what's happening over there, according to our server, since the infusion of B.B. king's 11 million dollar contribution to the cause.
The building to the south will be affordably priced small apartments and the Elks' Lodge to the north will house a southern barbecue restaurant downstairs with a jazz club upstairs. And of course, the fabulous art moderne Hippodrome is revealing itself to be more beautiful with each week of work. Is it any wonder I love J-Ward?
But it was my friend's first trip to Ettamae's and he couldn't decide what to order. I was telling our server how crazy I am about their house-braised corned beef with its little fatty bits and she agreed that she'd become a convert to corned beef after years of taking or leaving it. My friend was convinced and ordered his on the house made sub roll.
My problem was ordering something I hadn't had before, not that I had to, but why not? I decided on their chicken salad mainly because they roast the chicken and make salad from that. I, too, couldn't resist the crusty sub roll and Mom's potato salad on the side.
The chicken salad was better than my Mom's because she boils the chicken for hers, so I was delighted with the roasted flavor of Ettamae's. And there is nothing like homemade bread to take a sandwich to a whole new level.
My friend was too busy in corned beef heaven to say much. At one point, owner Matt came up and taking in our shady oasis, said, "Now this is the place to be!" He was right, it was just about perfect.
I could have stopped with the Two Street (sandwich and side) but ended up making mine a Three Sweet by getting two chocolate walnut cookies, thin and buttery. My friend, a devote of homemade ice cream, could not resist the peanut butter/dark chocolate chip ice cream and with good cause. Besides the paltry $3.00 price tag, it was obscenely rich. I ate a few bites and he ate the other two scoops, smiling widely the whole time.
Since Ettamae's ice cream flavors change often, he already told me that he wants to come back soon for another flavor. I'm just sorry we missed the homemade peach ice cream, a personal favorite. The coffee ice cream, we heard, is like a shot of espresso but sweet. I know several caffeine junkies who'd love that.
Afterwards, we strolled 2 Street, the better to admire the renovations and even some of the spaces just ripe for the right person to come in and make them viable again. We both gave our vote to Miss Polly's Beauty Shop, a classic Jackson Ward retail space, attractive as it was functional and sitting right on the sidewalk to attract foot traffic.
Walking my friend to his car, he teased me, "Why didn't you tell me about this place sooner?" I could have asked him, "Why don't you come to J-Ward more often?" But I didn't.
I don't think he'll wait for me to invite him back to Ettamae's. The siren song of a place that makes not only their corned beef but also their ice cream is irresistible to a Northside guy like him.
As well it should be.
Read Me Do
As I was walking down Broad Street this morning, a girl was coming towards me engrossed in reading Belle magazine. I couldn't help myself; when she came abreast of me I turned to sneak a peek at what she was reading so intently. Instant gratification; it was my column.
I'd have smiled at her, but she never looked up and that's an even bigger compliment. Who knows, she may even decide to do one of the things I suggested in the column.
Just last week a friend had called me the day the new Belle had come out because he'd already picked up a copy (I couldn't find a copy until the next day). He was all excited because in addition to my monthly column, I'd also done a profile piece this month. "Now people will know you can write about more than just going out!" he'd enthused.
Silly me, I'd thought that all those writing awards I'd won back during my decade in publishing had proven that I could write about a variety of things. But then it occurred to me that most, but not all, of the people I hang out with now didn't know me pre-2004, so how would they know?
And certainly most of the blogosphere wouldn't have any idea that I had any writing experience, especially given the proliferation of blogs by people who've never written more than a to-do list. I'd hate to be lumped into that group. So maybe my friend had a good point.
My best friend who lives in god-forsaken North Dakota and reads me online (www.readbelle.com) even dropped me a line. "I liked your two articles. It must give you such a sense of pride to see your name in print!"
Not nearly as much satisfaction as it does when I see someone walking down the street reading me. Or even when someone tells me they read me. Therein lies the satisfaction of getting comments on my blog posts; it's proof positive that I've been read.
What could be better motivation to keep up my prolific blogging?
I'd have smiled at her, but she never looked up and that's an even bigger compliment. Who knows, she may even decide to do one of the things I suggested in the column.
Just last week a friend had called me the day the new Belle had come out because he'd already picked up a copy (I couldn't find a copy until the next day). He was all excited because in addition to my monthly column, I'd also done a profile piece this month. "Now people will know you can write about more than just going out!" he'd enthused.
Silly me, I'd thought that all those writing awards I'd won back during my decade in publishing had proven that I could write about a variety of things. But then it occurred to me that most, but not all, of the people I hang out with now didn't know me pre-2004, so how would they know?
And certainly most of the blogosphere wouldn't have any idea that I had any writing experience, especially given the proliferation of blogs by people who've never written more than a to-do list. I'd hate to be lumped into that group. So maybe my friend had a good point.
My best friend who lives in god-forsaken North Dakota and reads me online (www.readbelle.com) even dropped me a line. "I liked your two articles. It must give you such a sense of pride to see your name in print!"
Not nearly as much satisfaction as it does when I see someone walking down the street reading me. Or even when someone tells me they read me. Therein lies the satisfaction of getting comments on my blog posts; it's proof positive that I've been read.
What could be better motivation to keep up my prolific blogging?
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Lectures, Lyrics and Duck Pate
Prabir, one of the patron saints of Richmond's music scene and a self-proclaimed nerd, created the quintessential music event tonight as part of the new Gallery 5 After 5 series. It wasn't just music and it wasn't just a lecture. It was music, followed by a lecture about music, followed by more music. Be still my heart.
Leading the musical procession were Climbers with Adah and I was sorry I missed even part of their set. This electro-indie group had a beat-driven chill-out vibe that I loved. I thought it was the ideal sound to kick off the evening as people arrived and started mingling.
DJ Sara and her main squeeze Greg greeted me ("You're always making the scene," they complimented me and then my dress. "Like I've got something better to do? No TV, no boyfriend, why not be out and about?").
Band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes told me about the Hopscotch Fest he's shooting this weekend and Marionette vocalist Kerri and I talked about the Tortoise show at the Canal Club.
Violinist Treesa Gold of Prabir & the Goldrush (and the Symphony) and I discussed the proper ratio of couple time versus alone time in a relationship (her bass-playing husband was absent tonight). It's a delicate balance, we agreed, although inapplicable to me now.
WRIR's Paul Ginder, the DJ I see absolutely everywhere, discussed with me why men's t-shirts should be offered in bright colors. "The WRIR mens' t-shirts are always brown or dark green or gray. Why not something colorful? I'd wear a t-shirt the color of your dress." My dress was a bright blue. He raised a good point, though; girls get color, guys get drab. Color sexism?
Tonight's lecture was by 23-year music industry veteran Tracy Wilson, talking about the generation who isn't willing to pay for music, the growth of vinyl sales, the importance and trials of touring and so much more. Based on some questions she asked the audience, I have no doubt that I was the sole person in the room who has never illegally downloaded a song. Seriously.
I loved that she said she was a music fan before all else. She also made the point that music is central to being human. When she asked the audience who had gone five days without music, four people raised their hands; I don't think I've even gone one day without it.
Afterwards, DJ Sara spun vintage 60s music while the crowd ate, drank and mingled some more. Chris from the Richmond Scene, another person I see everywhere, charmed me by telling me that my omnipresence at shows is what he likes about me (I consider this quite the compliment).
We discussed our mutual enthusiasm for live music and he referred to types like us as FOMOs (his friend's term, I believe): 'Fraid of Missing Out. I laughed at being reduced to an acronym, albeit a descriptive one.
The G5 After 5 series looks to be a regular entry on my calendar. Lecture topics will change (next month: Sculptor Paul diPasquale), but music and mingling will be a constant. You can bet I'll be walking over there on the second Wednesdays since there's no telling who I might hear or what I might learn.
Afterwards I went to Bouchon since they've finally reopened after their month-long holiday abroad. Bartender Olivier came from behind the bar to give me a full-body hug to greet me, saying he'd been in Bistro 27 a couple of times looking for me to no avail.
He was pleased to hear that Carlos now has my phone number so I can be summoned on any such future occasions (as long as they call before I leave to start my night, that is).
It was a most enjoyable evening. Olivier introduced me to the two regulars at the bar, one who splits his time between here and DC (Logan Circle, in fact, so he was tickled to hear about my years in Dupont Circle) and another who lives at the Crowne Plaza and travels weekly. Both were interesting and interested in me, so I'd lucked onto great company.
Looking at the menu, Olivier told me the pork rillettes were history, replaced by duck pate, which he highly recommended. That was good enough for me and I also got the portabello mushroom with spinach and Gruyere to add something plant-based to my duck feast.
And it was a feast, a huge portion of the pate with pickled onions, toasted baguettes and cornichons on the side. I composed each bite to include the decadent pate and tangy onions on the bread, always followed by a cornichon.
When I couldn't finish it all, Olivier insisted on boxing it up. "It'll make a great snack some night soon when you get home late and need a bite to tide you over 'til morning," he assured me.
In the middle of a discussion of DC restaurants with one of my new acquaintances, in walked a couple of the Tarrant's staff ("Karen, what are you doing all the way down here?" Was I given geographical limitations I didn't know about? Besides, it's not even a mile from home.) and they enthusiastically sat down beside me.
I recommended the duck pate to them and they were as wowed as I'd been and since one of the two was a guy, they manged to finish all of theirs. Later when two guys came in and sat down next to them, they recommended it to them. It was like a daisy chain of duck pate lovers at the bar.
The music was Pandora, set to the band Nouvelle Vogue, a fact I know because the National's "About Today" came on and I had to know if that obscure song was on someone's iPod (I would have had to have known whose) or computer-generated. Sadly, it was the latter.
Had it been the former, I'd have started a conversation that could have lasted for hours. Having just discovered the new "You Were a Kindness" today, I could have found much to share with a fellow lover of The National tonight.
I'll do what I can to be a confident wreck
Can't feel this way forever I mean
It doesn't work that way.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't The National I wanted to talk about.
Leading the musical procession were Climbers with Adah and I was sorry I missed even part of their set. This electro-indie group had a beat-driven chill-out vibe that I loved. I thought it was the ideal sound to kick off the evening as people arrived and started mingling.
DJ Sara and her main squeeze Greg greeted me ("You're always making the scene," they complimented me and then my dress. "Like I've got something better to do? No TV, no boyfriend, why not be out and about?").
Band photographer extraordinaire PJ Sykes told me about the Hopscotch Fest he's shooting this weekend and Marionette vocalist Kerri and I talked about the Tortoise show at the Canal Club.
Violinist Treesa Gold of Prabir & the Goldrush (and the Symphony) and I discussed the proper ratio of couple time versus alone time in a relationship (her bass-playing husband was absent tonight). It's a delicate balance, we agreed, although inapplicable to me now.
WRIR's Paul Ginder, the DJ I see absolutely everywhere, discussed with me why men's t-shirts should be offered in bright colors. "The WRIR mens' t-shirts are always brown or dark green or gray. Why not something colorful? I'd wear a t-shirt the color of your dress." My dress was a bright blue. He raised a good point, though; girls get color, guys get drab. Color sexism?
Tonight's lecture was by 23-year music industry veteran Tracy Wilson, talking about the generation who isn't willing to pay for music, the growth of vinyl sales, the importance and trials of touring and so much more. Based on some questions she asked the audience, I have no doubt that I was the sole person in the room who has never illegally downloaded a song. Seriously.
I loved that she said she was a music fan before all else. She also made the point that music is central to being human. When she asked the audience who had gone five days without music, four people raised their hands; I don't think I've even gone one day without it.
Afterwards, DJ Sara spun vintage 60s music while the crowd ate, drank and mingled some more. Chris from the Richmond Scene, another person I see everywhere, charmed me by telling me that my omnipresence at shows is what he likes about me (I consider this quite the compliment).
We discussed our mutual enthusiasm for live music and he referred to types like us as FOMOs (his friend's term, I believe): 'Fraid of Missing Out. I laughed at being reduced to an acronym, albeit a descriptive one.
The G5 After 5 series looks to be a regular entry on my calendar. Lecture topics will change (next month: Sculptor Paul diPasquale), but music and mingling will be a constant. You can bet I'll be walking over there on the second Wednesdays since there's no telling who I might hear or what I might learn.
Afterwards I went to Bouchon since they've finally reopened after their month-long holiday abroad. Bartender Olivier came from behind the bar to give me a full-body hug to greet me, saying he'd been in Bistro 27 a couple of times looking for me to no avail.
He was pleased to hear that Carlos now has my phone number so I can be summoned on any such future occasions (as long as they call before I leave to start my night, that is).
It was a most enjoyable evening. Olivier introduced me to the two regulars at the bar, one who splits his time between here and DC (Logan Circle, in fact, so he was tickled to hear about my years in Dupont Circle) and another who lives at the Crowne Plaza and travels weekly. Both were interesting and interested in me, so I'd lucked onto great company.
Looking at the menu, Olivier told me the pork rillettes were history, replaced by duck pate, which he highly recommended. That was good enough for me and I also got the portabello mushroom with spinach and Gruyere to add something plant-based to my duck feast.
And it was a feast, a huge portion of the pate with pickled onions, toasted baguettes and cornichons on the side. I composed each bite to include the decadent pate and tangy onions on the bread, always followed by a cornichon.
When I couldn't finish it all, Olivier insisted on boxing it up. "It'll make a great snack some night soon when you get home late and need a bite to tide you over 'til morning," he assured me.
In the middle of a discussion of DC restaurants with one of my new acquaintances, in walked a couple of the Tarrant's staff ("Karen, what are you doing all the way down here?" Was I given geographical limitations I didn't know about? Besides, it's not even a mile from home.) and they enthusiastically sat down beside me.
I recommended the duck pate to them and they were as wowed as I'd been and since one of the two was a guy, they manged to finish all of theirs. Later when two guys came in and sat down next to them, they recommended it to them. It was like a daisy chain of duck pate lovers at the bar.
The music was Pandora, set to the band Nouvelle Vogue, a fact I know because the National's "About Today" came on and I had to know if that obscure song was on someone's iPod (I would have had to have known whose) or computer-generated. Sadly, it was the latter.
Had it been the former, I'd have started a conversation that could have lasted for hours. Having just discovered the new "You Were a Kindness" today, I could have found much to share with a fellow lover of The National tonight.
I'll do what I can to be a confident wreck
Can't feel this way forever I mean
It doesn't work that way.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't The National I wanted to talk about.
Lunch Period at The Cellar Door
Back-to-school week. Labor Day. Signing a petition for the Richmond Transit Riders Union. Who knows what inspired me to check out the gallery walk at the Virginia Historical Society today for the new exhibit Organized Labor in Virginia?
And considering my knowledge base on the subject of labor and unions, I was bound to learn something, always a good thing. As is typical of me (or perhaps anyone), I was most engrossed in the things I could relate to.
A 1948 strike by the Virginia Dairy milk delivery men was caused by the dairy raising product prices but not milkmen's wages. The picture of a milkman in his uniform, sleeves rolled up and holding a rack containing eight glass bottles of milk next to a horse-drawn dairy wagon reminded me of my milkman grandfather.
Another enormous image of menhaden fishermen on the Northern Neck, part of the Reedville menhaden fleet, was captivating. The old boat, with laundry strung up to dry and surrounded by fishermen working for a pittance under deplorable conditions was a reminder of the fishing culture that, for many years, sustained the area where my parents now live.
Despite the disruption of many people's daily routines, there was apparently overwhelming support for the streetcar strike against Virginia Passenger and Power Company. The headline showed the strikers with a headline proclaiming "Yesterday's Scene of Excitement at 7th and Main." They don't write headlines like they used to, that's for sure.
The whole exhibit was enlightening and fascinating in that way that history tends to be when well-presented. And now I know what a whitesmith does, something I didn't know when the gallery walk began. Nerds love that kind of satisfaction.
After history class, it was lunch period and I was eager to check out Monument Avenue's only restaurant. That would be the Cellar Door in the basement of the big white apartment building at Stuart Circle, home to countless previous incarnations.
The last time I'd been in there was when it was still Artists' Underground Cafe and it had been for a show on a hot, sweaty summer night. The first band thrashed hard and loud two feet from me, they only served beer and the place was sticky with sweat and beer. The band I'd come to hear, though, delivered a great set in a room almost too crowded to move. Ah, memories.
The Cellar Door is nothing like that. The place has undergone a renovation that leaves it looking sleek and somehow warm at the same time (a nearby bar sitter told me "You should see it at night. The walls just glow."). It even seems bigger without the tables in the center.
The star of the menu is Pollo a la Brasa, Peruvian style chicken served with two sauces. A variation of that chicken also came in soup, salad and sandwich options, but I figured it best to try it in its basic form first.
That meant I ordered the quarter chicken, a thigh/drumstick combination (it also comes as a half chicken) and for my side, went with the roasted white corn salad (other sides: steak fries, potato salad, jicama "fries" or rose kettle chips).
The crispy-skinned chicken "packed some heat" as the bartender told me, and both sauces had something to recommend them. The red was a Peruvian Ranch with the same spices as the chicken's rub. The green was a jalapeno, cilantro, olive oil and garlic sauce. I couldn't decide which I liked better, so I alternated dipping bites in both, all the while wishing I'd ordered the half chicken so I could keep eating longer, not that I didn't have more than enough to eat.
Worth mentioning is how fresh and well-seasoned that roasted white corn salad was and while corn is still so good, it's an atypical side worth checking out. It was a perfect accompaniment to the chicken, flavor-wise.
I had the pleasure of sitting next to the electrician who'd done the work there and at Sprout (although I would have guessed he was a student because he looked so young), so he'd already eaten there repeatedly and made several recommendations for my future visits, including how terrific the desserts were.
The four sweet options included two chocolate choices: Godiva Chocolate Bombe and Mexican Chocolate Torte and he personally loves the Espresso Cheesecake; they also had a Southern Pecan Tart. Not to be overlooked is a wine list that runs $6-$8 a glass and $18 - $30 a bottle.
Clearly I need to go back for dessert, wine and the glowing walls. And in all likelihood, that chicken again.
And considering my knowledge base on the subject of labor and unions, I was bound to learn something, always a good thing. As is typical of me (or perhaps anyone), I was most engrossed in the things I could relate to.
A 1948 strike by the Virginia Dairy milk delivery men was caused by the dairy raising product prices but not milkmen's wages. The picture of a milkman in his uniform, sleeves rolled up and holding a rack containing eight glass bottles of milk next to a horse-drawn dairy wagon reminded me of my milkman grandfather.
Another enormous image of menhaden fishermen on the Northern Neck, part of the Reedville menhaden fleet, was captivating. The old boat, with laundry strung up to dry and surrounded by fishermen working for a pittance under deplorable conditions was a reminder of the fishing culture that, for many years, sustained the area where my parents now live.
Despite the disruption of many people's daily routines, there was apparently overwhelming support for the streetcar strike against Virginia Passenger and Power Company. The headline showed the strikers with a headline proclaiming "Yesterday's Scene of Excitement at 7th and Main." They don't write headlines like they used to, that's for sure.
The whole exhibit was enlightening and fascinating in that way that history tends to be when well-presented. And now I know what a whitesmith does, something I didn't know when the gallery walk began. Nerds love that kind of satisfaction.
After history class, it was lunch period and I was eager to check out Monument Avenue's only restaurant. That would be the Cellar Door in the basement of the big white apartment building at Stuart Circle, home to countless previous incarnations.
The last time I'd been in there was when it was still Artists' Underground Cafe and it had been for a show on a hot, sweaty summer night. The first band thrashed hard and loud two feet from me, they only served beer and the place was sticky with sweat and beer. The band I'd come to hear, though, delivered a great set in a room almost too crowded to move. Ah, memories.
The Cellar Door is nothing like that. The place has undergone a renovation that leaves it looking sleek and somehow warm at the same time (a nearby bar sitter told me "You should see it at night. The walls just glow."). It even seems bigger without the tables in the center.
The star of the menu is Pollo a la Brasa, Peruvian style chicken served with two sauces. A variation of that chicken also came in soup, salad and sandwich options, but I figured it best to try it in its basic form first.
That meant I ordered the quarter chicken, a thigh/drumstick combination (it also comes as a half chicken) and for my side, went with the roasted white corn salad (other sides: steak fries, potato salad, jicama "fries" or rose kettle chips).
The crispy-skinned chicken "packed some heat" as the bartender told me, and both sauces had something to recommend them. The red was a Peruvian Ranch with the same spices as the chicken's rub. The green was a jalapeno, cilantro, olive oil and garlic sauce. I couldn't decide which I liked better, so I alternated dipping bites in both, all the while wishing I'd ordered the half chicken so I could keep eating longer, not that I didn't have more than enough to eat.
Worth mentioning is how fresh and well-seasoned that roasted white corn salad was and while corn is still so good, it's an atypical side worth checking out. It was a perfect accompaniment to the chicken, flavor-wise.
I had the pleasure of sitting next to the electrician who'd done the work there and at Sprout (although I would have guessed he was a student because he looked so young), so he'd already eaten there repeatedly and made several recommendations for my future visits, including how terrific the desserts were.
The four sweet options included two chocolate choices: Godiva Chocolate Bombe and Mexican Chocolate Torte and he personally loves the Espresso Cheesecake; they also had a Southern Pecan Tart. Not to be overlooked is a wine list that runs $6-$8 a glass and $18 - $30 a bottle.
Clearly I need to go back for dessert, wine and the glowing walls. And in all likelihood, that chicken again.
Why I Love Grace Street, Chapter 73
After having to walk Broad Street the past few months for the shade, today's overcast skies afforded me the opportunity to return to my beloved Grace Street and its very vocal populace.
I'd barely crossed Broad onto Pine when a silver Lexus slowed and the driver called out, "Whatever it is you're doing, it's definitely working, young lady. Keep doing it!" I felt like I was being welcomed back.
Further up Grace, two guys approached me smiling and one said he sees me everywhere and asked how far I walk. "Four miles," I said. "It sure does make you look good," he offered. His friend just nodded.
Heading back, a student pointed at my Yo la Tengo t-shirt and said, "They're my favorite band. You like them?" and I responded enthusiastically, telling him about seeing them live. He said I was the first person he'd met since coming to VCU who even knew who they were. Undoubtedly that's because YLT got together in 1984 and this guy was maybe 18. Tops.
Piles of discarded furniture? Yep. Empty 40-ounce malt liquor bottles? Always. Talkative and complimentary humankind?
Guaranteed on Grace Street.
I'd barely crossed Broad onto Pine when a silver Lexus slowed and the driver called out, "Whatever it is you're doing, it's definitely working, young lady. Keep doing it!" I felt like I was being welcomed back.
Further up Grace, two guys approached me smiling and one said he sees me everywhere and asked how far I walk. "Four miles," I said. "It sure does make you look good," he offered. His friend just nodded.
Heading back, a student pointed at my Yo la Tengo t-shirt and said, "They're my favorite band. You like them?" and I responded enthusiastically, telling him about seeing them live. He said I was the first person he'd met since coming to VCU who even knew who they were. Undoubtedly that's because YLT got together in 1984 and this guy was maybe 18. Tops.
Piles of discarded furniture? Yep. Empty 40-ounce malt liquor bottles? Always. Talkative and complimentary humankind?
Guaranteed on Grace Street.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Exploring the New at SIx Burner
I don't know how I did it, but I went out for some leisurely eating and drinking and then went to a show and I am home and it's barely past 11:00. How in the world did that happen? And why didn't I stop for a nightcap on the way home?
Because I hadn't been to Six Burner since before they closed down for a two-week vacation, I felt the need to see what was up with them. In fact, lots had changed, including the kitchen staff under Philip Denny (which I'd had a heads-up about) and the menu (which was a pleasant surprise). With a new emphasis on small plates, I was excited to find a dozen small plates ranging form $6 to $10, with only the foie gras topping out at $16.
With so many choices, I needed some time to decide. Since it was Tuesday (half off all wines by the glass) I started with the Broadbent Vino Verde while I can still get it. I know some restaurants around here have already taken Vino Verde off the wine list (you know who you are because I've already given you crap about it) but, come on, it may be September, but it was still 90 degrees today! In fact, T. came over and we bonded over the beauty of Vino Verde as the easiest of all summer sippers. Bearded men know things.
To my surprise, Six Burner had a new bartender, Mike, a charming guy who quickly introduced himself and made me feel welcome. He had been trained by my favorite 6B bartender, Josh, so his charming ways came as no surprise.
I asked for his references (Joe's Inn and Sam & Omie's, of all unlikely places and actively recruited by owner Ry) and T. was quick to explain to Mike who I was and what my role at 6B was ("When she comes in on days other than Tuesdays, it throws us all off. But she does it anyway.").
Mike has been in RVA two years longer than I have (having moved here because he fell in love and got married), so we enjoyed talking about the changes we have seen in the scene.
He told me about his years working on the Outer Banks (no matter what shift he worked, there always seemed to be time to hang out at the beach he said) and we compared our memories of the evolution of that area.
Perusing the latest Flavor magazine, I enjoyed the article on Acacia and was most surprised to see the piece on Blue Duck Tavern, a restaurant I'd visited with a big city critic friend a while back, here. It was interesting getting another viewpoint on a place I'd been.
Remembering that evening, one of my favorite touches had happened after I sat my bag on the floor; our server had scooped it up and set it on a small stool to keep it off the (presumably) less-than-pristine floor. That's a big city attention to detail that I can't imagine in Richmond Or perhaps our restaurant floors are just cleaner.
Six Burner's new menu deservedly got all my attention. From bacon-wrapped fried house made pickles to red snapper crudo, I had a tough time choosing. It was the last item that finally grabbed me and wouldn't let go: the braised rabbit, potato gnocchi, figs, roasted shallots, Parmesan and cocoa. Comfort food, a tease to fall and the figs that are so amazingly good right now all made for a dish even a rabbit-hater would love (and actually I'm quite fond of rabbit).
Next time, I'm thinking the fluke sashimi. Or perhaps the Olde Salts raw oysters. So many delectable choices!
Requesting a glass of the Brandborg Pinot Noir, Mike misheard me and brought a glass of Eola Pinot Gris by mistake. Turns out they were out of the Pinot Noir anyway, so instead I got the La Paradou Grenache/Syrah and found it a lovely accompaniment to my rabbit. When Mike brought another glass unbidden, I didn't complain in the least. What's $3.50?
After several hours and watching the restaurant fill almost to capacity and begin to clear out (except for the first date couple at the table behind me and their conversation was so endearing I couldn't help but eavesdrop), I knew it was time to hit the road if I was to hear live music tonight.
The Camel had three bands playing, but I'd unfortunately missed the first, Quiet Eyes Road, plus part of the second, Vessel, by the time I got there. Vessel could best be described as hardcore vocals with softcore/emo instrumentation. I'm as emo as the next girl (actually probably more so), but half a set was probably plenty for me.
O'Brother, on the other had, were rock/indie/ambient, for lack of a better term (so no screaming). The volume was a bit more than my eardrums would have liked, but they ranged close enough to post-rock's swelling and diminishing volumes to keep me happy. The crowd was clearly devoted to either the band or the sound; I'm not sure that it mattered which on a Tuesday night.
The lead singer explained that he was having vocal issues, so the set would be short. Clearly apologetic, he promised that the band would make it up to the audience the next time they played here. The set was probably a half a dozen songs or so and then they were through; thus my unexpectedly early night.
Which is probably just as well considering how early my bed began vibrating this morning due to the gas line repairs. The workmen are always so sweetly apologetic when they see me (must be that heart-to-heart we had a while back about their noisy wake-up calls), but it doesn't change the fact that they're out there way before I'm ready to get up.
Maybe O'Brother did me a favor after all. Thanks, guys.
Because I hadn't been to Six Burner since before they closed down for a two-week vacation, I felt the need to see what was up with them. In fact, lots had changed, including the kitchen staff under Philip Denny (which I'd had a heads-up about) and the menu (which was a pleasant surprise). With a new emphasis on small plates, I was excited to find a dozen small plates ranging form $6 to $10, with only the foie gras topping out at $16.
With so many choices, I needed some time to decide. Since it was Tuesday (half off all wines by the glass) I started with the Broadbent Vino Verde while I can still get it. I know some restaurants around here have already taken Vino Verde off the wine list (you know who you are because I've already given you crap about it) but, come on, it may be September, but it was still 90 degrees today! In fact, T. came over and we bonded over the beauty of Vino Verde as the easiest of all summer sippers. Bearded men know things.
To my surprise, Six Burner had a new bartender, Mike, a charming guy who quickly introduced himself and made me feel welcome. He had been trained by my favorite 6B bartender, Josh, so his charming ways came as no surprise.
I asked for his references (Joe's Inn and Sam & Omie's, of all unlikely places and actively recruited by owner Ry) and T. was quick to explain to Mike who I was and what my role at 6B was ("When she comes in on days other than Tuesdays, it throws us all off. But she does it anyway.").
Mike has been in RVA two years longer than I have (having moved here because he fell in love and got married), so we enjoyed talking about the changes we have seen in the scene.
He told me about his years working on the Outer Banks (no matter what shift he worked, there always seemed to be time to hang out at the beach he said) and we compared our memories of the evolution of that area.
Perusing the latest Flavor magazine, I enjoyed the article on Acacia and was most surprised to see the piece on Blue Duck Tavern, a restaurant I'd visited with a big city critic friend a while back, here. It was interesting getting another viewpoint on a place I'd been.
Remembering that evening, one of my favorite touches had happened after I sat my bag on the floor; our server had scooped it up and set it on a small stool to keep it off the (presumably) less-than-pristine floor. That's a big city attention to detail that I can't imagine in Richmond Or perhaps our restaurant floors are just cleaner.
Six Burner's new menu deservedly got all my attention. From bacon-wrapped fried house made pickles to red snapper crudo, I had a tough time choosing. It was the last item that finally grabbed me and wouldn't let go: the braised rabbit, potato gnocchi, figs, roasted shallots, Parmesan and cocoa. Comfort food, a tease to fall and the figs that are so amazingly good right now all made for a dish even a rabbit-hater would love (and actually I'm quite fond of rabbit).
Next time, I'm thinking the fluke sashimi. Or perhaps the Olde Salts raw oysters. So many delectable choices!
Requesting a glass of the Brandborg Pinot Noir, Mike misheard me and brought a glass of Eola Pinot Gris by mistake. Turns out they were out of the Pinot Noir anyway, so instead I got the La Paradou Grenache/Syrah and found it a lovely accompaniment to my rabbit. When Mike brought another glass unbidden, I didn't complain in the least. What's $3.50?
After several hours and watching the restaurant fill almost to capacity and begin to clear out (except for the first date couple at the table behind me and their conversation was so endearing I couldn't help but eavesdrop), I knew it was time to hit the road if I was to hear live music tonight.
The Camel had three bands playing, but I'd unfortunately missed the first, Quiet Eyes Road, plus part of the second, Vessel, by the time I got there. Vessel could best be described as hardcore vocals with softcore/emo instrumentation. I'm as emo as the next girl (actually probably more so), but half a set was probably plenty for me.
O'Brother, on the other had, were rock/indie/ambient, for lack of a better term (so no screaming). The volume was a bit more than my eardrums would have liked, but they ranged close enough to post-rock's swelling and diminishing volumes to keep me happy. The crowd was clearly devoted to either the band or the sound; I'm not sure that it mattered which on a Tuesday night.
The lead singer explained that he was having vocal issues, so the set would be short. Clearly apologetic, he promised that the band would make it up to the audience the next time they played here. The set was probably a half a dozen songs or so and then they were through; thus my unexpectedly early night.
Which is probably just as well considering how early my bed began vibrating this morning due to the gas line repairs. The workmen are always so sweetly apologetic when they see me (must be that heart-to-heart we had a while back about their noisy wake-up calls), but it doesn't change the fact that they're out there way before I'm ready to get up.
Maybe O'Brother did me a favor after all. Thanks, guys.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Southern Exposure
I lucked out because a friend had invited me to dinner last night and when I said I couldn't make it because of the Al Green show, he invited me for tonight instead. My host-to-be was the bialy-pushing Gregg, one of the husbands I've been known to appropriate for an evening out, here.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
Gregg likes to give me a hard time about just about everything; my refusal to have a cell phone and my lack of a TV are two of his favorites. But his invitation for Labor Day was based on my refusal to cross the river to meet him for dinner. If I wouldn't come for a restaurant, would I at least come south if he cooked? Well that was a no-brainer. Of course I would.
I didn't even hyperventilate crossing the river (he had told me the air was different south of the James), instead admiring the calm beauty of it on this Labor Day. I found his house easily enough and he and his wife welcomed me in. Gregg even complimented me on my colorful surf shop dress (I'll beat black yet).
We settled in on their spacious deck and I was poured good tequila. My host told me that he'd tested the tequila previously and admired its smoothness, actually acknowledging to me that he could now understand my affection for it.
The first course was a trio of cheeses along with his homemade fig jam (to die for), Asian pears (my first and I loved the texture) and an almond/honey paste. I could have made a meal off of just this as we sat chatting about winery touring here and abroad, the Williamsburg restaurant scene and how a blowtorch was used to prepare a country ham by his colorful father.
One of the reasons Gregg and I bonded when we first met was that his palate is far more adventurous than his wife's. So on a night when she has plans, we will go out and eat something together that she wouldn't touch. Our next course demonstrated this: tuna carpaccio with Hawaiian black salt, olive oil and slivers of cheese for the two of us and shrimp for her. The carpaccio was divinely thin and flavorful, melting in my mouth.
There was a wonderful quinoa salad with currants, spiced nuts, edamame and balsamic over butter lettuce and the only reason I didn't finish every bite was because I knew there was more food coming. It was the kind of dish a vegetarian would salivate over and this omnivore did the same.
Lightly sauteed crab meat with blue cheese and breadcrumb-topped tomatoes came next and what kind of Maryland-raised girl would I be if I didn't enjoy every bite of my favorite crustacean? But I'll admit I was getting mighty full.
In a nod to the changing weather and my host's favorite season, next up was butternut squash soup with a maple syrup swirl and seared scallops. The rich and creamy soup did taste like fall and the scallops we cut with a spoon they were so tender. It was a decadent course and then I was really done. We all were. Forks could have been stuck in us.
But of course the talented Gregg had to prove that we had room for just one thing more and that was a champagne and lime granita with two cookies, one each of ginger and vanilla. He was right, much as I hate to admit it. We did have room for the weightless and crystalline granita and it was the absolutely perfect final course.
It was a good thing we still had plenty of conversation left in us because after that it was about all we were capable of. But it was a beautiful night south of the river, and with the earlier darkness, light breeze and absence of mosquitoes, we sat sipping and sharing stories past and present while digesting our Labor Day repast.
I didn't change my mind about crossing the river for a restaurant, but anytime this man wants to cook for me, I'm heading south post haste. As I've demonstrated, I can do a couple date just as easily as I can borrow a husband.
Either way, I get to utilize my strong suits, conversation and eating. Lucky me.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Let's Stay Together
From river to mountain today, it has been a Sunday of road trips. As far as musical entertainment for the evening went, I had a choice of 70s (Reverend Al Green at Charlottesville Pavilion) or 80s (Tears for Fears at the National) and the road trip took it.
Since I'd seen TfF in 1994 at Chrysler Hall in Norfolk (backstage pass even so, yes, I have a picture of Roland and me), the Reverend Al Green won out. Besides, at 64, I don't know how much longer Al intends to tour and I did want to hear that voice live. As the man himself asked rhetorically at the show, "Does he still have it?"
Arriving on the mall in Charlottesville, it was mobbed. Part beautiful non-humid weather, part eager concert going fans, both the places I'd been recommended for a quick bite were closed, as were many others. And every open restaurant was mobbed.
With a will call ticket still to be picked up and doors opening at 6 for general admission seats, I went the old-school route out of necessity.
The Nook has been in C-ville since 1951; that's five years fewer than the Reverend has been on the planet. The outside seating was completely taken, so I went in and shared the mostly empty bar with one couple drinking Coronas and waiting for the doors to open, too.
They were amazed at how busy the mall was; despite both working at nearby UVA, neither had ever been to the mall. They live in Buckingham County and apparently that's where they hang.
I ordered the lemon and dill chicken salad, figuring it was already made, so how long could it take? Given the stressed out bartender who soon disappeared into the basement, the perpetually in-the-way assistant manager who was clearly no help to anyone and the crazed looks on the staff's faces (one warned another that the cook "had his hat on backwards which always means he's in a bad mood"), it took quite awhile.
When it finally did come, I paid, gulped it down (it did have a nice non-traditional flavor I will say) and high-tailed it out of there. The general admission (read: cheap) seats entitled the buyer to a seat in the upper orchestra (behind the $90 box seats) or lawn seats.
I was not about to sit on the lawn. Nor did I have to, scoring a front row seat - front row in the cheap seats, but still a terrific view and dead center so Al was in my direct line of sight. He started with shoutouts to Richmond (twice), Hampton, Roanoke and Virginia Beach and said it was his first time coming here. "Thank you for inviting us," he said to great applause.
Besides the usual, he had a horn section, two male dancers, two drummers and his three daughters provided back-up vocals. He dove right in, quickly getting to "Let's Stay Together," causing a dance party in the aisles. A few songs in he said, "This boy's singing his pants off," pulling up his trousers as he said it.
He did quite few covers, some in full like Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman" and the BeeGees' "How do you mend a broken heart," a song in which he left out a section, saying, "I forgot that part, so I have to go back and get it" and indeed picked up from the la-las with the crowd right behind him.
He talked about the music "we" were raised on being different than today's and launched into short versions of 3 or 4 Motown hits, causing a massive singalong. The Stylistics' "You are Everything (and everything is you)" seemed to get the biggest reaction, probably because it isn't covered nearly as much as "My Girl."
After multiple fans called out for it, there was a long buildup/tease to "Tired of Being Alone" and when he finally sang it, he didn't miss a note. In fact, his voice was in perfect form the entire performance. When he said, "Let's go back to 1976," it was as if his voice had not changed since then.
"I'm Still in Love with You" got a lot of the couples in the audience dancing and singing to each other and there were a lot of couples in the audience. This was clearly date night for a lot of people, but even the very single among us could appreciate the lyrics to classics like those.
My only regret was that he did nothing off his 2003 album "I Can't Stop," a personal favorite that found him reunited with his former producer Willie Mitchell and proving that Al still had it thirty years later. It was also his first completely secular album since the 70s (Essential tracks: I Can't Stop, You, Not Tonight, Million to One). That's a CD I was given back in 2003 and still listen to with great pleasure.
But that's not a complaint, just an observation. Anyone who's been making music since 1967 is going to have to omit somebody's favorite songs. It was good enough to hear the man sing, watch his still-smooth dance moves and take in his love for the audience.
I left with no doubt that he appreciates his fans just as much as they appreciate him. The Reverend himself said it best: "We gonna make it do what it do."
Amen.
Since I'd seen TfF in 1994 at Chrysler Hall in Norfolk (backstage pass even so, yes, I have a picture of Roland and me), the Reverend Al Green won out. Besides, at 64, I don't know how much longer Al intends to tour and I did want to hear that voice live. As the man himself asked rhetorically at the show, "Does he still have it?"
Arriving on the mall in Charlottesville, it was mobbed. Part beautiful non-humid weather, part eager concert going fans, both the places I'd been recommended for a quick bite were closed, as were many others. And every open restaurant was mobbed.
With a will call ticket still to be picked up and doors opening at 6 for general admission seats, I went the old-school route out of necessity.
The Nook has been in C-ville since 1951; that's five years fewer than the Reverend has been on the planet. The outside seating was completely taken, so I went in and shared the mostly empty bar with one couple drinking Coronas and waiting for the doors to open, too.
They were amazed at how busy the mall was; despite both working at nearby UVA, neither had ever been to the mall. They live in Buckingham County and apparently that's where they hang.
I ordered the lemon and dill chicken salad, figuring it was already made, so how long could it take? Given the stressed out bartender who soon disappeared into the basement, the perpetually in-the-way assistant manager who was clearly no help to anyone and the crazed looks on the staff's faces (one warned another that the cook "had his hat on backwards which always means he's in a bad mood"), it took quite awhile.
When it finally did come, I paid, gulped it down (it did have a nice non-traditional flavor I will say) and high-tailed it out of there. The general admission (read: cheap) seats entitled the buyer to a seat in the upper orchestra (behind the $90 box seats) or lawn seats.
I was not about to sit on the lawn. Nor did I have to, scoring a front row seat - front row in the cheap seats, but still a terrific view and dead center so Al was in my direct line of sight. He started with shoutouts to Richmond (twice), Hampton, Roanoke and Virginia Beach and said it was his first time coming here. "Thank you for inviting us," he said to great applause.
Besides the usual, he had a horn section, two male dancers, two drummers and his three daughters provided back-up vocals. He dove right in, quickly getting to "Let's Stay Together," causing a dance party in the aisles. A few songs in he said, "This boy's singing his pants off," pulling up his trousers as he said it.
He did quite few covers, some in full like Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman" and the BeeGees' "How do you mend a broken heart," a song in which he left out a section, saying, "I forgot that part, so I have to go back and get it" and indeed picked up from the la-las with the crowd right behind him.
He talked about the music "we" were raised on being different than today's and launched into short versions of 3 or 4 Motown hits, causing a massive singalong. The Stylistics' "You are Everything (and everything is you)" seemed to get the biggest reaction, probably because it isn't covered nearly as much as "My Girl."
After multiple fans called out for it, there was a long buildup/tease to "Tired of Being Alone" and when he finally sang it, he didn't miss a note. In fact, his voice was in perfect form the entire performance. When he said, "Let's go back to 1976," it was as if his voice had not changed since then.
"I'm Still in Love with You" got a lot of the couples in the audience dancing and singing to each other and there were a lot of couples in the audience. This was clearly date night for a lot of people, but even the very single among us could appreciate the lyrics to classics like those.
My only regret was that he did nothing off his 2003 album "I Can't Stop," a personal favorite that found him reunited with his former producer Willie Mitchell and proving that Al still had it thirty years later. It was also his first completely secular album since the 70s (Essential tracks: I Can't Stop, You, Not Tonight, Million to One). That's a CD I was given back in 2003 and still listen to with great pleasure.
But that's not a complaint, just an observation. Anyone who's been making music since 1967 is going to have to omit somebody's favorite songs. It was good enough to hear the man sing, watch his still-smooth dance moves and take in his love for the audience.
I left with no doubt that he appreciates his fans just as much as they appreciate him. The Reverend himself said it best: "We gonna make it do what it do."
Amen.
Dressing Cute for Strangers
I think my parents are concerned that their oldest daughter might become an old maid. They didn't say it like that, but I knew something was up when I got the e-mail yesterday.
I already had plans to have lunch with them yesterday, so I was surprised to get a last minute e-mail instructing me to "Bring something cute to wear in case you stay for the party."
Of course I knew nothing about any party and I was planning to drive back in the late afternoon. But, like the occasionally dutiful daughter that I am, I packed a cute dress and hit the road. Driving out to the Northern Neck, I passed a good number of vehicles pulling boats and even the shortest Airstream I've ever seen, but still sleek and silver, all heading river-ward with me.
Once I got to Tappahannock and Warsaw, I started seeing evidence of the locals talking to Mother Nature. Gas stations, little stores and garages had signboards saying things like "Stay away Earl" and "Forget Earl, we're open!"
Lunch was po' boys at the local crab shack because they were celebrating the arrival of the "R" months by frying up oysters and shack-made potato chips. We took our lunches to an outside picnic table and enjoyed the "R" month-like weather as locals stopped by to do the same. My parents had a story about almost all of them; at the very least, they knew who they were related to and where they lived. I will never be the small town type.
I waited until we'd eaten to inquire about the party. It seems one of their neighbors was having a Labor Day get-together, starting with dinner at an historic local tavern and then festivities afterwards back on the river. They'd been invited and had offered me up instead, claiming I'd be more of a party asset.
The little town where my parents live has about half year round residents and the other half are second homes; a surprising number of those getaway houses belong to men who teach at various universities in central Virginia (W & M, VCU, Mary Washington).
The one who was hosting the soiree had invited out-of-town guests as well as a few choice neighbors and my parents said they'd feel old at such a party. That's where I came in apparently.
With no real plans for last night, I figured why not stay, if not for the night, at least for part of the party? Besides, my folks had raved about the restaurant at the Lancaster Tavern, so at the very least it would be a nice meal in a most historic building.
So after an afternoon chatting with the people who were hoping to offer me up to strangers, I cleaned up and we walked over so they could make the introductions ("Here's our firstborn and love child, who, unlike our other five daughters can't seem to settle down with a nice man. Can you help?").
Awkward as it sounds (and could have been) both my host and his friends provided a warm welcome and within moments I had more people to talk to than I could have hoped for. We spent a very pleasant cocktail hour mingling and getting to know each other.
But my parents were probably right: it wouldn't have been their scene. And then it was almost reservation time. so we divided up into cars and headed out to chow down.
The tavern, located across the street from the county's original jail (gaol?) and County Clerk's offices and Virginia's shortest road (curved and about the length of eight cars) was charming looking. Built in 1790 after the court deemed it a "public advantage," I could see where it still fit that description in a county with fewer than a half dozen restaurants.
Doorways and archways were barely 6' tall, window glass was wavy and the chimney enormous, servicing four fireplaces. Outside was an epic sycamore tree, magnificent for its size and width. It was fenced off, but had no identifying information and I was eager to know more about such a fine specimen.
When I inquired inside, though, I learned that the tree has some very negative connotations in the county, having been used for more than a few lynchings. The waitress actually cringed when I asked her about it, but allowed as how it was wonderful when they had outdoor events, spreading its shade far and wide.
The menu had ten entrees and, not surprisingly, five of them were seafood (six if you got your fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp). I opted for the pan seared scallops, which were so perfectly seasoned and cooked that I kept eating them long after I was full.
But if I'm honest, I'll admit I was most excited about the vegetable of the day: butter beans. I had no doubt that a place like Lancaster Tavern would do them right and did they ever. I finished my bowl o' beans and half of someone else's; they were that good.
The last line on the menu noted that, "Home-made deserts and fresh vegetable from Tavern Garden." Misspelling and lack of plural aside, I thought it was funny to include those two things in the same garden reference. As it turned out, though, one dessert did come from out back: the peach cobbler. Enormous and served on a plate bigger than our salads had come on, it was topped with cinnamon whipped cream, making for a truly lovely finish to a most enjoyable meal.
Back at the river, music was cranked, drinks were poured and we made ready to set up camp on the riverbank for the fireworks show across the Rappahannock in Matthew's County. I wouldn't have guessed that Labor Day was celebrated with pyrotechnics, but then I don't really know the ways of river life, either. With the beautiful evening weather, I decided I had made the right decision about where to spend my evening.
It was a most interesting mix of people and our host was charming and funny, frequently changing the dynamic of the party with his suggestions. If I was going to be offered up to strangers, at least they were witty and fun people. And I definitely made some new friends.
Things finally started breaking up around 1:30, although some of the come-here guests were staying in the host's house, so they didn't have far to crawl to find their beds. I only had to walk a few houses down the deserted road to reach my parents' unlocked house and dive into bed.
And this morning, I woke up to Belgian waffles, Vermont syrup and country sausage with a side of inquisitive parental units. I gave them what details I could, but I didn't want to sound too encouraging.
No telling who they'll be offering me up to next time. Besides, out of six daughters, what's one old maid? I'd say those odds are about right.
I already had plans to have lunch with them yesterday, so I was surprised to get a last minute e-mail instructing me to "Bring something cute to wear in case you stay for the party."
Of course I knew nothing about any party and I was planning to drive back in the late afternoon. But, like the occasionally dutiful daughter that I am, I packed a cute dress and hit the road. Driving out to the Northern Neck, I passed a good number of vehicles pulling boats and even the shortest Airstream I've ever seen, but still sleek and silver, all heading river-ward with me.
Once I got to Tappahannock and Warsaw, I started seeing evidence of the locals talking to Mother Nature. Gas stations, little stores and garages had signboards saying things like "Stay away Earl" and "Forget Earl, we're open!"
Lunch was po' boys at the local crab shack because they were celebrating the arrival of the "R" months by frying up oysters and shack-made potato chips. We took our lunches to an outside picnic table and enjoyed the "R" month-like weather as locals stopped by to do the same. My parents had a story about almost all of them; at the very least, they knew who they were related to and where they lived. I will never be the small town type.
I waited until we'd eaten to inquire about the party. It seems one of their neighbors was having a Labor Day get-together, starting with dinner at an historic local tavern and then festivities afterwards back on the river. They'd been invited and had offered me up instead, claiming I'd be more of a party asset.
The little town where my parents live has about half year round residents and the other half are second homes; a surprising number of those getaway houses belong to men who teach at various universities in central Virginia (W & M, VCU, Mary Washington).
The one who was hosting the soiree had invited out-of-town guests as well as a few choice neighbors and my parents said they'd feel old at such a party. That's where I came in apparently.
With no real plans for last night, I figured why not stay, if not for the night, at least for part of the party? Besides, my folks had raved about the restaurant at the Lancaster Tavern, so at the very least it would be a nice meal in a most historic building.
So after an afternoon chatting with the people who were hoping to offer me up to strangers, I cleaned up and we walked over so they could make the introductions ("Here's our firstborn and love child, who, unlike our other five daughters can't seem to settle down with a nice man. Can you help?").
Awkward as it sounds (and could have been) both my host and his friends provided a warm welcome and within moments I had more people to talk to than I could have hoped for. We spent a very pleasant cocktail hour mingling and getting to know each other.
But my parents were probably right: it wouldn't have been their scene. And then it was almost reservation time. so we divided up into cars and headed out to chow down.
The tavern, located across the street from the county's original jail (gaol?) and County Clerk's offices and Virginia's shortest road (curved and about the length of eight cars) was charming looking. Built in 1790 after the court deemed it a "public advantage," I could see where it still fit that description in a county with fewer than a half dozen restaurants.
Doorways and archways were barely 6' tall, window glass was wavy and the chimney enormous, servicing four fireplaces. Outside was an epic sycamore tree, magnificent for its size and width. It was fenced off, but had no identifying information and I was eager to know more about such a fine specimen.
When I inquired inside, though, I learned that the tree has some very negative connotations in the county, having been used for more than a few lynchings. The waitress actually cringed when I asked her about it, but allowed as how it was wonderful when they had outdoor events, spreading its shade far and wide.
The menu had ten entrees and, not surprisingly, five of them were seafood (six if you got your fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp). I opted for the pan seared scallops, which were so perfectly seasoned and cooked that I kept eating them long after I was full.
But if I'm honest, I'll admit I was most excited about the vegetable of the day: butter beans. I had no doubt that a place like Lancaster Tavern would do them right and did they ever. I finished my bowl o' beans and half of someone else's; they were that good.
The last line on the menu noted that, "Home-made deserts and fresh vegetable from Tavern Garden." Misspelling and lack of plural aside, I thought it was funny to include those two things in the same garden reference. As it turned out, though, one dessert did come from out back: the peach cobbler. Enormous and served on a plate bigger than our salads had come on, it was topped with cinnamon whipped cream, making for a truly lovely finish to a most enjoyable meal.
Back at the river, music was cranked, drinks were poured and we made ready to set up camp on the riverbank for the fireworks show across the Rappahannock in Matthew's County. I wouldn't have guessed that Labor Day was celebrated with pyrotechnics, but then I don't really know the ways of river life, either. With the beautiful evening weather, I decided I had made the right decision about where to spend my evening.
It was a most interesting mix of people and our host was charming and funny, frequently changing the dynamic of the party with his suggestions. If I was going to be offered up to strangers, at least they were witty and fun people. And I definitely made some new friends.
Things finally started breaking up around 1:30, although some of the come-here guests were staying in the host's house, so they didn't have far to crawl to find their beds. I only had to walk a few houses down the deserted road to reach my parents' unlocked house and dive into bed.
And this morning, I woke up to Belgian waffles, Vermont syrup and country sausage with a side of inquisitive parental units. I gave them what details I could, but I didn't want to sound too encouraging.
No telling who they'll be offering me up to next time. Besides, out of six daughters, what's one old maid? I'd say those odds are about right.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
First Fridays Music Walk
First Fridays have gotten to be as much about music as visual art and you can imagine how that pleases me. In between gallery hopping, there's music to be found for all kinds of tastes.
After hearing from several people that tonight was going to be a light turnout for the art walk, it was actually exceedingly busy. As the evening wore on, people seemed to keep coming and forming audiences in front of all the various musical entertainments.
Gallery 5 had always done music and tonight I heard British-born Freddie Stevenson as part of their new music series, the Accents Tour, showcases up and coming European and Australian musicians. Metro Space Gallery, too, is a reliable place for listening, although they tend to lean toward blues and rock bands. Art 6 is good about having interesting music on a regular basis; tonight it was My Son the Doctor playing Balkana nd Jewish folk music.
But there was also a cover band playing in the lot near Visual Arts and they had a Goth-clad belly dancer interpreting their covers of Bad Company and the like. A trio of earnest young horn players (they all had to be under 20) were playing near Corporate Museum and Frame.
And in the courtyard at Adams, which over the past year has become a reliably excellent place to hear music during First Fridays, both Lobo Marino and the Colloquial Orchestra were impressing the crowds.
But lest you think I just skipped over the primary purpose of the art walk, I didn't. "Self Titled" at G5 was an exhibit of original artwork used for independently-released albums. I was struck by how the actual art sometimes had a wholly different feel than the piece of it used on an album cover.
"Last Dowry" at Quirk was a collection of sumptuous pieces made of jewelry, satin ribbons and lush fabrics. Some were square, or egg-shaped, some were U-shaped and one looked like a bone. They were incredibly feminine looking and invited the viewer to touch their beautiful textures. I'd have guessed instantly that the artist was a woman; and indeed, her name was Vadis Turner.
I ran into plenty of friends tonight (and, no, I did not wear black, garnering compliments galore) since absolutely everyone seemed to be out and about. It was great to see my neighborhood full of visitors again after the relative calm of the summer months.
So after an evening of art and all kinds of music, I naturally went out for (what else?) more music. Sprout Cafe was having a show with Athens, Georgia's Madeline followed by Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird's last show until December. It all sounded good to me.
Madeline packed the room with probably forty people sitting, standing and sprawled on the floor, all eager to hear her unique voice and well-written emotive lyrics. Her voice and style owe a fair amount to Joni Mitchell and even Karen Carpenter.
At times she had an almost Irish lilt and at others her southern roots shone through (sometimes it is all about the dirty south). All in all, a stellar performance. Favorite lyric: "I want to be everything you need to prove."
JV and the Speckled Bird closed out my evening by superbly performing their last EP, The Fire Next Time. It was a fitting way to impress the room full of fans and give us something to remember until they're back playing live again.
And it won't have to be on a First Friday, but given the state of Richmond's art walk lately, it's certainly a possibility. Maybe we can get Madeline back to play her first album in its entirety, too.
It would be worth it for the title alone: Kissing and Dancing. Evocative, isn't it?
After hearing from several people that tonight was going to be a light turnout for the art walk, it was actually exceedingly busy. As the evening wore on, people seemed to keep coming and forming audiences in front of all the various musical entertainments.
Gallery 5 had always done music and tonight I heard British-born Freddie Stevenson as part of their new music series, the Accents Tour, showcases up and coming European and Australian musicians. Metro Space Gallery, too, is a reliable place for listening, although they tend to lean toward blues and rock bands. Art 6 is good about having interesting music on a regular basis; tonight it was My Son the Doctor playing Balkana nd Jewish folk music.
But there was also a cover band playing in the lot near Visual Arts and they had a Goth-clad belly dancer interpreting their covers of Bad Company and the like. A trio of earnest young horn players (they all had to be under 20) were playing near Corporate Museum and Frame.
And in the courtyard at Adams, which over the past year has become a reliably excellent place to hear music during First Fridays, both Lobo Marino and the Colloquial Orchestra were impressing the crowds.
But lest you think I just skipped over the primary purpose of the art walk, I didn't. "Self Titled" at G5 was an exhibit of original artwork used for independently-released albums. I was struck by how the actual art sometimes had a wholly different feel than the piece of it used on an album cover.
"Last Dowry" at Quirk was a collection of sumptuous pieces made of jewelry, satin ribbons and lush fabrics. Some were square, or egg-shaped, some were U-shaped and one looked like a bone. They were incredibly feminine looking and invited the viewer to touch their beautiful textures. I'd have guessed instantly that the artist was a woman; and indeed, her name was Vadis Turner.
I ran into plenty of friends tonight (and, no, I did not wear black, garnering compliments galore) since absolutely everyone seemed to be out and about. It was great to see my neighborhood full of visitors again after the relative calm of the summer months.
So after an evening of art and all kinds of music, I naturally went out for (what else?) more music. Sprout Cafe was having a show with Athens, Georgia's Madeline followed by Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird's last show until December. It all sounded good to me.
Madeline packed the room with probably forty people sitting, standing and sprawled on the floor, all eager to hear her unique voice and well-written emotive lyrics. Her voice and style owe a fair amount to Joni Mitchell and even Karen Carpenter.
At times she had an almost Irish lilt and at others her southern roots shone through (sometimes it is all about the dirty south). All in all, a stellar performance. Favorite lyric: "I want to be everything you need to prove."
JV and the Speckled Bird closed out my evening by superbly performing their last EP, The Fire Next Time. It was a fitting way to impress the room full of fans and give us something to remember until they're back playing live again.
And it won't have to be on a First Friday, but given the state of Richmond's art walk lately, it's certainly a possibility. Maybe we can get Madeline back to play her first album in its entirety, too.
It would be worth it for the title alone: Kissing and Dancing. Evocative, isn't it?
Friday, September 3, 2010
Acacia Awesomeness al Fresco
It's been over three months since Acacia had done one of their "too good to be true" bagged lunches, so I didn't even have to think about it for a nanosecond before reserving two bags, one for me and one for a friend for today's offering. Scuffletown Park, here we come. The cooler day and gray sky were a bonus for our al fresco eating plans.
I still had fond memories of that last bagged lunch of soft-shelled crabs, here. back in May, anticipating, as it did, the summer ahead. Now, on an overcast day just before Labor Day weekend and with autumn (unfortunately) breathing down our necks, Dale was doing brats for lunch.
The menu included house made bratwurst with braised red cabbage, slathered with Acacia mustard, all on a house made pretzel roll. House made brats alone would have been enough, but with that wonderful sweet cabbage and shiny pretzel roll, it had every element necessary for the ultimate taste combination.
And, like last time, and probably even more important this time given the sandwich, Miller High Life pony bottles were available to complement the meal. Beer and brats, they're like yin and yang, right?
For the side dish, Dale had made the best potato salad I've had in my entire life (it wasn't just me; my friend enthusiastically agreed). The combination of skin-on new potatoes, bacon, green onion, fennel seed, grainy mustard and sherry vinaigrette made us both wish we had a quart of this stuff to take home and stash in the fridge for later. Of course, me being the non-fan of mayo that I am, a potato salad like this one was tailor-made for my taste.
Dessert was a tartlet cookie, sweet but not overly so and the loveliest way to wrap up such a savory meal. A $10 meal, by the way, and that even included tax.
My sincere hope is that I don't have to wait three plus months for another bagged lunch from Acacia. I will, make no mistake, but I wouldn't mind a monthly bag. Or would that be just too good to be true?
I still had fond memories of that last bagged lunch of soft-shelled crabs, here. back in May, anticipating, as it did, the summer ahead. Now, on an overcast day just before Labor Day weekend and with autumn (unfortunately) breathing down our necks, Dale was doing brats for lunch.
The menu included house made bratwurst with braised red cabbage, slathered with Acacia mustard, all on a house made pretzel roll. House made brats alone would have been enough, but with that wonderful sweet cabbage and shiny pretzel roll, it had every element necessary for the ultimate taste combination.
And, like last time, and probably even more important this time given the sandwich, Miller High Life pony bottles were available to complement the meal. Beer and brats, they're like yin and yang, right?
For the side dish, Dale had made the best potato salad I've had in my entire life (it wasn't just me; my friend enthusiastically agreed). The combination of skin-on new potatoes, bacon, green onion, fennel seed, grainy mustard and sherry vinaigrette made us both wish we had a quart of this stuff to take home and stash in the fridge for later. Of course, me being the non-fan of mayo that I am, a potato salad like this one was tailor-made for my taste.
Dessert was a tartlet cookie, sweet but not overly so and the loveliest way to wrap up such a savory meal. A $10 meal, by the way, and that even included tax.
My sincere hope is that I don't have to wait three plus months for another bagged lunch from Acacia. I will, make no mistake, but I wouldn't mind a monthly bag. Or would that be just too good to be true?
The Real Story, Part 2
Boy, what kind of a lame blogger purporting to "go on and on" writes such a vague and abbreviated post as I did last night? I've got no excuse other than how incredibly busy I was from the second I got up yesterday until I got home from Balliceaux at 1:30 and I was just ready to crash.
The fact is the evening had a little bit of everything I like, including great conversational partners both the expected and unexpected kinds. And then there was the poetry, the art, and the music.
Chop Suey was hosting poets Allison Titus and Julie Doxsee and it was as if the invitation to the reading only went out to a small group of poets and fiction writers...and me. It made for a very informal reading for an unusually low turnout, but I was just pleased, as always, to begin my evening with hearing poetry.
Allison began with some of her newer work, all office poems, each distinguished by their subtitle, including one about the Southside Unemployment office, a place she said she knew well. It was she who wrote the line mentioned in last night's post.
Julie said her book began as 56 letters to objects but turned into something more. She was on city four of a ten-city tour and beginning to experience mid-tour burnout. Favorite line: "Your body is a map of skin, more you than skin." By the way, I stole the title of last night's post from the title of one of her poems (it's a tribute, Julie).
Ghostprint Gallery's opening was in full swing when I arrived for Sterling Clinton Hundley's "Crew." The show is a combination of large scale paintings, in many cases paired with the much smaller black and white studies for those paintings. And while you can't compare apples and oranges, in some ways, I preferred the clean lines and monochromatic pallet of the studies, not that I wouldn't have happily taken home the painting "Winter Road" if it had been offered to me.
Several friends were already at the show, including one wearing the cutest little sweater dress she'd knitted herself. Honestly, it looked very much like something I wore in college, but inevitably in fashion what goes around comes around and she certainly didn't remember the style from last time around.
Waiting to meet my old Floyd Avenue neighbor for drinks, I overheard a couple of guys at the end of the bar discussing ordering White Russians. "You know my Kahlua is at my house," one offered. "And I even have organic milk." The other guy was having none of it and ordered his drink at the bar.
I ordered a glass of Domaine de Camplazens rose only to be told they were sold out of pink. In that case, I told the bartender, I'll have 1800. "Wow, that's quite a swing!" the bartender commented grinning hugely. It's pink or tequila lately, my friend.
The first thing my friend commented on was that I was wearing black, presumably because of my post the other night. I pointed out that I did have on a white skirt with a band of pink and red flowers, but he was right; I had reverted to black on top anyway. He said that thinking back to all those years we were neighbors all he remembered seeing me in was black...and I lived there 13 years. I really do need to work harder on this.
What we didn't realize back in those days was how similar our going-out outlooks were. Like me, he doesn't stay in when he could be out. He's working on a big new project and was soliciting my skewed viewpoint for it.
This naturally led to a dissection of the blogging community (he was a pioneer on the Richmond blogging scene) as well as the age-old issue of poorly written blogs. Our conversation was especially satisfying because, like me, he can discuss music and rave about Richmond endlessly.
At one point, a girl came over to say hello to him and he introduced us, using only my first name, which of course meant nothing to her. He then further qualified it by saying, "She's the I could go on and on blogger," and her face lit up with recognition. I continue to be amazed to discover strangers who know of me because of my blog.
He was funny, insisting on knowing what my first two stops had been and where my last stop would be. Maybe he couldn't wait for the post, probably a good thing since I was too tired to write it up last night.
And finally I ended up at Balliceaux for Fuzzy Baby, a band I had seen months ago at Live at Ipanema and really enjoyed. In fact, Guistino of FB was next to me at the bar and inquired as to why I was there. He was visibly impressed to hear that I was a return fan. It was his comment about his red polyester shirt that I quoted in the previous post. Molly, his musical partner, had on a red jumpsuit that, again, I think I may have worn in 1989.
I remember being impressed last time because they had played wine glasses. Tonight's instrumentation was limited to tuba, drum, clarinet, guitar, tambourine, bass and those beautiful voices, sometimes a Capella. Kicking off by saying, "We like to stimulate our audience," they played two excellent sets.
Once Giustino left my side to perform, he was replaced by one of my favorite local musicians, whom I am seeing everywhere lately. He'd told me his new goal was to "make the scene" more often and he must be succeeding because all of a sudden he's everywhere I am.
But he's a pleasure to talk to and I so enjoy his insightful musical perspective. I once had a boyfriend I could ask all my dumb non-musician questions of and lacking that now, it's nice to have someone who can explain musical things to me.
It's funny, though; he's the musician but he's been asking me for suggestions of can't-miss shows, so I suggested a couple to him last night. I may not always understand all the musical elements but I always know what I like and keep an ear open for what sounds interesting.
How else would I have anything worth posting about before I go to bed? When I can be bothered to go on and on, that is.
The fact is the evening had a little bit of everything I like, including great conversational partners both the expected and unexpected kinds. And then there was the poetry, the art, and the music.
Chop Suey was hosting poets Allison Titus and Julie Doxsee and it was as if the invitation to the reading only went out to a small group of poets and fiction writers...and me. It made for a very informal reading for an unusually low turnout, but I was just pleased, as always, to begin my evening with hearing poetry.
Allison began with some of her newer work, all office poems, each distinguished by their subtitle, including one about the Southside Unemployment office, a place she said she knew well. It was she who wrote the line mentioned in last night's post.
Julie said her book began as 56 letters to objects but turned into something more. She was on city four of a ten-city tour and beginning to experience mid-tour burnout. Favorite line: "Your body is a map of skin, more you than skin." By the way, I stole the title of last night's post from the title of one of her poems (it's a tribute, Julie).
Ghostprint Gallery's opening was in full swing when I arrived for Sterling Clinton Hundley's "Crew." The show is a combination of large scale paintings, in many cases paired with the much smaller black and white studies for those paintings. And while you can't compare apples and oranges, in some ways, I preferred the clean lines and monochromatic pallet of the studies, not that I wouldn't have happily taken home the painting "Winter Road" if it had been offered to me.
Several friends were already at the show, including one wearing the cutest little sweater dress she'd knitted herself. Honestly, it looked very much like something I wore in college, but inevitably in fashion what goes around comes around and she certainly didn't remember the style from last time around.
Waiting to meet my old Floyd Avenue neighbor for drinks, I overheard a couple of guys at the end of the bar discussing ordering White Russians. "You know my Kahlua is at my house," one offered. "And I even have organic milk." The other guy was having none of it and ordered his drink at the bar.
I ordered a glass of Domaine de Camplazens rose only to be told they were sold out of pink. In that case, I told the bartender, I'll have 1800. "Wow, that's quite a swing!" the bartender commented grinning hugely. It's pink or tequila lately, my friend.
The first thing my friend commented on was that I was wearing black, presumably because of my post the other night. I pointed out that I did have on a white skirt with a band of pink and red flowers, but he was right; I had reverted to black on top anyway. He said that thinking back to all those years we were neighbors all he remembered seeing me in was black...and I lived there 13 years. I really do need to work harder on this.
What we didn't realize back in those days was how similar our going-out outlooks were. Like me, he doesn't stay in when he could be out. He's working on a big new project and was soliciting my skewed viewpoint for it.
This naturally led to a dissection of the blogging community (he was a pioneer on the Richmond blogging scene) as well as the age-old issue of poorly written blogs. Our conversation was especially satisfying because, like me, he can discuss music and rave about Richmond endlessly.
At one point, a girl came over to say hello to him and he introduced us, using only my first name, which of course meant nothing to her. He then further qualified it by saying, "She's the I could go on and on blogger," and her face lit up with recognition. I continue to be amazed to discover strangers who know of me because of my blog.
He was funny, insisting on knowing what my first two stops had been and where my last stop would be. Maybe he couldn't wait for the post, probably a good thing since I was too tired to write it up last night.
And finally I ended up at Balliceaux for Fuzzy Baby, a band I had seen months ago at Live at Ipanema and really enjoyed. In fact, Guistino of FB was next to me at the bar and inquired as to why I was there. He was visibly impressed to hear that I was a return fan. It was his comment about his red polyester shirt that I quoted in the previous post. Molly, his musical partner, had on a red jumpsuit that, again, I think I may have worn in 1989.
I remember being impressed last time because they had played wine glasses. Tonight's instrumentation was limited to tuba, drum, clarinet, guitar, tambourine, bass and those beautiful voices, sometimes a Capella. Kicking off by saying, "We like to stimulate our audience," they played two excellent sets.
Once Giustino left my side to perform, he was replaced by one of my favorite local musicians, whom I am seeing everywhere lately. He'd told me his new goal was to "make the scene" more often and he must be succeeding because all of a sudden he's everywhere I am.
But he's a pleasure to talk to and I so enjoy his insightful musical perspective. I once had a boyfriend I could ask all my dumb non-musician questions of and lacking that now, it's nice to have someone who can explain musical things to me.
It's funny, though; he's the musician but he's been asking me for suggestions of can't-miss shows, so I suggested a couple to him last night. I may not always understand all the musical elements but I always know what I like and keep an ear open for what sounds interesting.
How else would I have anything worth posting about before I go to bed? When I can be bothered to go on and on, that is.
Invisible Sonnet
Among the highlights:
The reading: "This is how you might resume where you left off."
The art opening: Herd Study (cows reminiscent of an outdoor cafe) and Work Crew (oh, the scribble)
The former neighbor/blogger pioneer at Avalon: Blog talk, tequila and writing, the kind I do so well.
Music: "It's the polyester. My guitar is slipping and sliding. I practiced in cotton and it was fine."
Why bother you with the details?
The reading: "This is how you might resume where you left off."
The art opening: Herd Study (cows reminiscent of an outdoor cafe) and Work Crew (oh, the scribble)
The former neighbor/blogger pioneer at Avalon: Blog talk, tequila and writing, the kind I do so well.
Music: "It's the polyester. My guitar is slipping and sliding. I practiced in cotton and it was fine."
Why bother you with the details?
Thursday, September 2, 2010
BLTs and Fishnets
With all kinds of stuff going on this morning and afternoon, I had limited time for lunch, so I ducked into Lamplighter for a quick sandwich.
And wouldn't you just know I'd get sucked in by the art on the walls?
It took me forever to decide on a sandwich because everything on the menu looked so good to me, but when I got to that very last choice, I knew that was it.
The Quilt is a woven bacon BLT with garlic aioli and fresh greens.
I am a devoted BLT fan even though I've never been able to eat one without tearing up the inside of my mouth.
I'm not quite sure what that's about, but it always happens.
But I am not a mayo fan. It's not about health, either.
I just don't care for the taste.
I've even made mayo from scratch and that was only marginally tastier.
But garlic aioli? Oh, I can do some aioli.
And once you start weaving bacon, you've got it coming and going in both directions.
Upping the bacon quotient always sits well with me.
Likewise, there's not much I don't think is improved by the addition of red onions.
So this truly was a BLT designed for my taste.
And it was very, very good for all the above-mentioned reasons, not to mention large and satisfying.
For my side dish, I got the cucumber salad, consisting of cukes and red onions marinated and tangy.
It was while I was waiting for my sandwich that I noticed the art on the walls.
They were vintage photograph copies on wood and embellished with bits of mostly black ribbon, lace and other decorative bits of fabric.
Many featured old photos of actresses like Jean Harlow, Jane Fonda, Ursula Andress, and Mae West as well as some anonymous women from images used in girly magazines.
Some photographs were credited; others weren't.
These black and white photos were given an even more retro look by the way the were glazed and framed.
Naturally I fell in love with "American Fishnet Tights," by Fernand Fossagrive from 1959.
The image of a woman's lower body in seamed fishnets, laying down and with her legs filling the foreground obliterated the rest of her body.
All you saw was legs.
I fell in love with it, I think, because I could relate to it.
Come on, they're just legs...but just you watch.
I'll end up going back to buy it.
And wouldn't you just know I'd get sucked in by the art on the walls?
It took me forever to decide on a sandwich because everything on the menu looked so good to me, but when I got to that very last choice, I knew that was it.
The Quilt is a woven bacon BLT with garlic aioli and fresh greens.
I am a devoted BLT fan even though I've never been able to eat one without tearing up the inside of my mouth.
I'm not quite sure what that's about, but it always happens.
But I am not a mayo fan. It's not about health, either.
I just don't care for the taste.
I've even made mayo from scratch and that was only marginally tastier.
But garlic aioli? Oh, I can do some aioli.
And once you start weaving bacon, you've got it coming and going in both directions.
Upping the bacon quotient always sits well with me.
Likewise, there's not much I don't think is improved by the addition of red onions.
So this truly was a BLT designed for my taste.
And it was very, very good for all the above-mentioned reasons, not to mention large and satisfying.
For my side dish, I got the cucumber salad, consisting of cukes and red onions marinated and tangy.
It was while I was waiting for my sandwich that I noticed the art on the walls.
They were vintage photograph copies on wood and embellished with bits of mostly black ribbon, lace and other decorative bits of fabric.
Many featured old photos of actresses like Jean Harlow, Jane Fonda, Ursula Andress, and Mae West as well as some anonymous women from images used in girly magazines.
Some photographs were credited; others weren't.
These black and white photos were given an even more retro look by the way the were glazed and framed.
Naturally I fell in love with "American Fishnet Tights," by Fernand Fossagrive from 1959.
The image of a woman's lower body in seamed fishnets, laying down and with her legs filling the foreground obliterated the rest of her body.
All you saw was legs.
I fell in love with it, I think, because I could relate to it.
Come on, they're just legs...but just you watch.
I'll end up going back to buy it.
What If I Stayed In?
The plan was to finally give Andrew exactly what he wanted. My friend has told me on more than one occasion that he wants to wake up one day and look at my blog only to find a post that says, "I didn't do anything."
But I have to eat, so I met a friend at Garnett's Cafe for dinner (that lovely Cobb salad) and to catch up after two plus weeks apart. I ate, we chatted, I dropped her off and I went home. It was 9:00. Andrew was *this* far from getting his wish.
But I had a message on my (gasp) land line from a friend saying, "I have a question for you. Give me a call," so I did. Turns out she was at Rowland's with two other of our friends and wanted me to join them. Sorry, Andrew, my friend, maybe another night.
I hadn't seen a couple of these friends in a month, so it was great fun to catch up while drinking half priced Wednesday wine. I took a fair amount of crap from one friend because I had on a brightly colored dress, a new habit of mine after years of wearing way too much black.
He was impressed, complimented me even, but still razzed me about finally wearing colorful plumage. "I'm impressed. And it's about time," was, I think, his idea of a compliment. A recent bright blue dress had elicited a similar reaction from another friend. Okay, so maybe I overdid the black.
They were just starting to eat dinner, but since I'd already eaten, all I had to do was sip and chat, not exactly hard work. Rowland's had just hung new artwork and the artist was sitting next to us at the bar eating, unfortunately unbeknownst to us until after he left. Had I known, I'd have found all kinds of things to discuss with him.
Instead, I listened to the latest in my one friend's saga about the guy she is just starting to date. She was looking for a negative spin on things and instead I offered her all kinds of cockeyed optimism. Perhaps it was the wine. And then she got a call from this guy and she was lost to us. It wasn't long before the remaining two in our group decided they'd be wise to take their intoxicated selves home.
Which was fine because it gave me a chance to chat up the new server, a Connecticut transplant, who was doing his first night of training. It didn't take long for him to identify himself as a foodie, although when I asked him where he'd eaten so far, the first place he mentioned was Tobacco Company. Yikes.
I wanted to write him off right then, but did the decent thing and persevered in the conversation. It wasn't long before he asked for restaurant recommendations, which I offered after qualifying my opinions by reminding him that I didn't know him well enough to presume what he liked and could only share my personal favorites. And then he too was gone, taking his tired legs home to recover from standing all night.
By the time my friend got off the phone, smiling and giddy,Rowland's Peruvian owner/chef Virginia had emerged from a stressful night training in the kitchen ("These young people don't have any motivation," she declared) and after a few moments tying up loose ends with the wait staff, announced, "Now it's time to drink!" You could tell how impressed they were with her statement.
Which left me, my date-crazy friend and Chef Virginia to discuss life and love, something we hadn't done together since June. Take one closed restaurant, unlimited wine and three women (one married 25 years, one just starting to date and one non-dater) and you've got the recipe for hours of conversation.
At one point, the last of the kitchen staff came out for a glass of wine and was soon sucked into the stories being told. My friend worried about sharing in front of a guy, but he assured us that he kept all secrets.
He's been five years in this country and away from his wife and seemed to be enjoying the love life banter he was hearing (he proudly shared with us that his godfather is 83 and having an affair with a 32-year old). Happily for him, he's also returning to his country and his wife in December.
Virginia shared the secrets of a successful long-term relationship and my friend shared her excitement about the possibilities with this new guy. I took notes from the former and played cheerleader to the latter.
But in doing so, I was also out until 1, so I can't give Andrew what he wanted, despite my good intentions. Not tonight anyway.
I'm working on it, Andrew, I really am.
But I have to eat, so I met a friend at Garnett's Cafe for dinner (that lovely Cobb salad) and to catch up after two plus weeks apart. I ate, we chatted, I dropped her off and I went home. It was 9:00. Andrew was *this* far from getting his wish.
But I had a message on my (gasp) land line from a friend saying, "I have a question for you. Give me a call," so I did. Turns out she was at Rowland's with two other of our friends and wanted me to join them. Sorry, Andrew, my friend, maybe another night.
I hadn't seen a couple of these friends in a month, so it was great fun to catch up while drinking half priced Wednesday wine. I took a fair amount of crap from one friend because I had on a brightly colored dress, a new habit of mine after years of wearing way too much black.
He was impressed, complimented me even, but still razzed me about finally wearing colorful plumage. "I'm impressed. And it's about time," was, I think, his idea of a compliment. A recent bright blue dress had elicited a similar reaction from another friend. Okay, so maybe I overdid the black.
They were just starting to eat dinner, but since I'd already eaten, all I had to do was sip and chat, not exactly hard work. Rowland's had just hung new artwork and the artist was sitting next to us at the bar eating, unfortunately unbeknownst to us until after he left. Had I known, I'd have found all kinds of things to discuss with him.
Instead, I listened to the latest in my one friend's saga about the guy she is just starting to date. She was looking for a negative spin on things and instead I offered her all kinds of cockeyed optimism. Perhaps it was the wine. And then she got a call from this guy and she was lost to us. It wasn't long before the remaining two in our group decided they'd be wise to take their intoxicated selves home.
Which was fine because it gave me a chance to chat up the new server, a Connecticut transplant, who was doing his first night of training. It didn't take long for him to identify himself as a foodie, although when I asked him where he'd eaten so far, the first place he mentioned was Tobacco Company. Yikes.
I wanted to write him off right then, but did the decent thing and persevered in the conversation. It wasn't long before he asked for restaurant recommendations, which I offered after qualifying my opinions by reminding him that I didn't know him well enough to presume what he liked and could only share my personal favorites. And then he too was gone, taking his tired legs home to recover from standing all night.
By the time my friend got off the phone, smiling and giddy,Rowland's Peruvian owner/chef Virginia had emerged from a stressful night training in the kitchen ("These young people don't have any motivation," she declared) and after a few moments tying up loose ends with the wait staff, announced, "Now it's time to drink!" You could tell how impressed they were with her statement.
Which left me, my date-crazy friend and Chef Virginia to discuss life and love, something we hadn't done together since June. Take one closed restaurant, unlimited wine and three women (one married 25 years, one just starting to date and one non-dater) and you've got the recipe for hours of conversation.
At one point, the last of the kitchen staff came out for a glass of wine and was soon sucked into the stories being told. My friend worried about sharing in front of a guy, but he assured us that he kept all secrets.
He's been five years in this country and away from his wife and seemed to be enjoying the love life banter he was hearing (he proudly shared with us that his godfather is 83 and having an affair with a 32-year old). Happily for him, he's also returning to his country and his wife in December.
Virginia shared the secrets of a successful long-term relationship and my friend shared her excitement about the possibilities with this new guy. I took notes from the former and played cheerleader to the latter.
But in doing so, I was also out until 1, so I can't give Andrew what he wanted, despite my good intentions. Not tonight anyway.
I'm working on it, Andrew, I really am.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
When Girls Triumph Over Bad Boys
Sometimes I get even more than I plan for and it makes for an unexpectedly delightful outcome. I had thought I was going to a wine tasting and pairing tonight, but it ended up being the celebration of good over evil.
I had talked a friend into attending the Tuesday tasting and pairing at The Empress this evening. Yes, the same Empress that is housed in a Justin French-owned building and seemed in imminent danger of being lost to legal red tape.
Proving that good girls can finish first, owners Melissa and Carly were able to purchase the building earlier today, resulting in both tears and champagne this afternoon. Justin French be damned, the Empress got the building.
So what could have been just a wonderful tasting and pairing became a celebration instead. It began auspiciously when Melissa placed me at a table with a couple, introducing me as "someone who likes to mingle and talk." The pressure was on not to disappoint, but luckily my friend showed up and part of the burden was on her. Whew, now I only had to be half as fascinating.
Carly had outdone herself in the kitchen with her pairings. We began with the 2009 Puerto Viejo Chardonnay (according to wine rep Morris, "a chardonnay for chardonnay haters") paired with cocoa-dusted almond and vanilla alfajores with mango icing. The hints of mango and almond on the nose of the wine were picked up in this sweet, which tasted like a combination shortbread and Mexican wedding cake.
The second pairing was 2009 Beelgara Estate Rose with a raspberry, Brie and pink peppercorn tartlet for pink with pink. That was followed by the 2009 Apaltagua Pinot Noir Reserva (this time the raspberry was on the nose) and a hearty Chorizo, pepper jack and spicy black bean chili with crispy tortilla strips. The chili was too spicy for some at our table, but I loved its layers of heat and the Pinot Noir complemented it perfectly. More, please.
We finished the tasting with Gancia Moscato d'Asti DOCG, deemed "too sweet" by my friend until it was tasted along with the honey, Gorgonzola and sage potato cake and then it was just divine. My love for sweet and salty is well documented and this course delivered me that.
For good measure, I finished by sharing sauteed calamari in garlic butter and herb sauce with toasted bread with half of our new-found couple friend. As tender as the calamari was, that broth could have contained earthworms and I'd have lapped it up. As it was, I sopped bread until I could feel my arteries hardening.
Our table mates were a long-time married couple originally from Galax, VA (home of the long-running Old Fiddler's Convention), both former teachers and as interesting dinner companions as we could have hoped for. We quickly fell into conversation like we were old friends.
They shared their "how we met" story, their love of art, theater and NYC and I shared the best gluten-free restaurants in the city (she was gluten-intolerant and was beside herself when she learned that The Empress does GF French toast) and my favorite DC museums. We made plans to meet up at an upcoming art opening at Chop Suey Books; they know the artist and I was already planning to attend anyway. As is usually the case, we were the last table lingering at the end of the evening.
My friend suggested we stop for one last glass of wine on the way home so we could share some girl talk after our impromptu couple date. We tried the always reliable Tarrant's but they were just closed. Walking back to our cars, we said hello to a policeman we passed. "What's up?" I asked. "Just walking the beat,"he smiled. How often do you hear a cop say that?
Our second street encounter was with the debonair Russell from Tarrant's who suggested Lemaire, assuring us that it was always open until midnight. We found an unexpectedly good crowd there and I settled in with a glass of Jean Luc Columbo Rose so that my friend could fill me in on the latest news in her ever-developing love life. She was describing how she's handling dating and wanted my opinion on her choices (appropriate? lascivious?), but what do I know?And since I've got nothing to share, I just listened to her adventures.
And in keeping with the theme of the evening, I had the unexpected pleasure of running into two guys as I was about to leave the ladies' room shortly before we departed the Jefferson. "What are you doing in here, trolling for girls?" I teased them.
"Looks like we found one," said the one with the glasses. It was one unexpected pleasure after another tonight. My kind of night.
I had talked a friend into attending the Tuesday tasting and pairing at The Empress this evening. Yes, the same Empress that is housed in a Justin French-owned building and seemed in imminent danger of being lost to legal red tape.
Proving that good girls can finish first, owners Melissa and Carly were able to purchase the building earlier today, resulting in both tears and champagne this afternoon. Justin French be damned, the Empress got the building.
So what could have been just a wonderful tasting and pairing became a celebration instead. It began auspiciously when Melissa placed me at a table with a couple, introducing me as "someone who likes to mingle and talk." The pressure was on not to disappoint, but luckily my friend showed up and part of the burden was on her. Whew, now I only had to be half as fascinating.
Carly had outdone herself in the kitchen with her pairings. We began with the 2009 Puerto Viejo Chardonnay (according to wine rep Morris, "a chardonnay for chardonnay haters") paired with cocoa-dusted almond and vanilla alfajores with mango icing. The hints of mango and almond on the nose of the wine were picked up in this sweet, which tasted like a combination shortbread and Mexican wedding cake.
The second pairing was 2009 Beelgara Estate Rose with a raspberry, Brie and pink peppercorn tartlet for pink with pink. That was followed by the 2009 Apaltagua Pinot Noir Reserva (this time the raspberry was on the nose) and a hearty Chorizo, pepper jack and spicy black bean chili with crispy tortilla strips. The chili was too spicy for some at our table, but I loved its layers of heat and the Pinot Noir complemented it perfectly. More, please.
We finished the tasting with Gancia Moscato d'Asti DOCG, deemed "too sweet" by my friend until it was tasted along with the honey, Gorgonzola and sage potato cake and then it was just divine. My love for sweet and salty is well documented and this course delivered me that.
For good measure, I finished by sharing sauteed calamari in garlic butter and herb sauce with toasted bread with half of our new-found couple friend. As tender as the calamari was, that broth could have contained earthworms and I'd have lapped it up. As it was, I sopped bread until I could feel my arteries hardening.
Our table mates were a long-time married couple originally from Galax, VA (home of the long-running Old Fiddler's Convention), both former teachers and as interesting dinner companions as we could have hoped for. We quickly fell into conversation like we were old friends.
They shared their "how we met" story, their love of art, theater and NYC and I shared the best gluten-free restaurants in the city (she was gluten-intolerant and was beside herself when she learned that The Empress does GF French toast) and my favorite DC museums. We made plans to meet up at an upcoming art opening at Chop Suey Books; they know the artist and I was already planning to attend anyway. As is usually the case, we were the last table lingering at the end of the evening.
My friend suggested we stop for one last glass of wine on the way home so we could share some girl talk after our impromptu couple date. We tried the always reliable Tarrant's but they were just closed. Walking back to our cars, we said hello to a policeman we passed. "What's up?" I asked. "Just walking the beat,"he smiled. How often do you hear a cop say that?
Our second street encounter was with the debonair Russell from Tarrant's who suggested Lemaire, assuring us that it was always open until midnight. We found an unexpectedly good crowd there and I settled in with a glass of Jean Luc Columbo Rose so that my friend could fill me in on the latest news in her ever-developing love life. She was describing how she's handling dating and wanted my opinion on her choices (appropriate? lascivious?), but what do I know?And since I've got nothing to share, I just listened to her adventures.
And in keeping with the theme of the evening, I had the unexpected pleasure of running into two guys as I was about to leave the ladies' room shortly before we departed the Jefferson. "What are you doing in here, trolling for girls?" I teased them.
"Looks like we found one," said the one with the glasses. It was one unexpected pleasure after another tonight. My kind of night.
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