When I blogged about seeing the Richmond Symphony Designer House back in August, here, I was convinced that I would hate everything the designers were going to do to tart up the magnificent 1913 Rothesay house.
I'm here to say that that's not entirely true and I'm making that acknowledgement for my friend David who was convinced that upon seeing it after all the work, I would recant. And I am, but only partially.
First of all, I couldn't have chosen a more beautiful day to visit the house on the James. Unlike recent weeks, it was mid-70s and breezy when I arrived around noon. I was sorry to see that more windows weren't open, but with no screens, perhaps it's a dust or debris issue.
So what impressed me? I loved the foyer's nod to the house's history as a place where music was often performed, with instruments scattered about.
I was charmed by the morning hall where the current owners still have breakfast in the east-facing room with a beautiful river view (and a tiny zebra finch in a cage; I had a pair in college and they're personable little birds).
In the earlier post I had expressed my concern about the books being covered in the library (actually it's the study) and I was told today that the reason for that was to lighten up the room; I still didn't approve.
But I was most impressed to learn that the little room had originally been a garage and when larger touring cars came along, it was converted to the current use. The floor tile had been almost black with dirt, but upon cleaning they discovered intermittent square tiles depicting knights fighting mythical creatures. They were the highlight of the room for me.
Throughout the house, it was little details like that which grabbed my attention more so than the overall "done" look of the rooms.
The floor in the living room had been stenciled with stain and was now a work of art and the fact that they took an existing wooden floor and made it the featured focus wowed me.
In the butler's pantry, the shallow drawers were over a yard wide and held divided sections for all the varied silverware of the household. This would have been during the days of seafood forks and pickle forks and god knows what other obscure cutlery that no longer has a place in our casual lives.
In the garden room, a living wall of plants would be a delight in the dead of winter, lush and green. On the upper foyer, which amounted to the second landing on the stairs, a collection of French oil paintings were hung salon-style, my favorite way of hanging art.
Because I had been to the bare bones party, I was particularly struck by how the small, stark spaces that were the servants' quarters on the third floor had been transformed into three beautiful rooms. The designer dubbed them "David + Kelly Forever." One visitor asked, "Oh, is this where you put your boomerang kids?"
Remembering the ceiling-less shower room, the toilet stall and the tiny bedrooms with sinks, I was amazed at the transformation. Anyone who hadn't seen the original spaces couldn't possibly appreciate the change as profoundly.
And what of the enormous screened porch with the view of the river that had so completely captured my attention on the first visit?
To my taste, it is over-furnished, but in all fairness, half of it is being used as the Rothesay Cafe for now. I had intended to spend some time out there, much as I had done on that post-storm evening I'd last visited.
I was able to do so by enjoying lunch on the porch. I chose the table nearest the screen doors and facing the bend in the river and leisurely enjoyed a roast beef, cheddar, red onion and horseradish sandwich on ciabatta, followed by red velvet cake, tuning out the chattering women and couples nearby.
I learned that the way the Designer House works is that when the owners return, they get to live with the floors and the walls (best walls: the sunroom's stunning deep blue walls with cream-colored fretwork over top) and have the option of purchasing anything else they want from the designers.
That pleases me no end because it means that most likely the screened-in porch will return to a simple but superb space in which to read a book or ponder the bend in the James River. And, most importantly, from which to enjoy the power and beauty of a thunderstorm.
But if I were them, the one thing I would be inclined to purchase would be that beautiful painted steel pendulum by local metalworker Tom Chenoweth that sits just outside the screened porch.
It's the least frou-frou part of the entire makeover and the only possible thing that could further enhance the porch's view. I'm just happy I got to spend an evening and an afternoon there.
It may be the highlight of my long-time screened-in porch devotion. If only it had stormed...
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The First Rule of Eye Contact
Who better to go to my first Festival of India with than a handsome Indian and his non-Indian girlfriend? It's funny because my friend's interest in Indian food is dwarfed by hers, but then she also thinks she was an Indian in a former life and he's about as Westernized as they come.
More than one person made the analogy that walking the aisles of the festival was like walking the streets of Bombay: slow, circuitous and frustrating.
On the plus side, the people watching was excellent and the parade of Indian dress a real treat (and sometimes hilarious, like the guy in traditional Indian garb but with spiked hair and pink Crocs).
So what did my native host choose for us to eat? Chicken curry with rice and naan, pav bhaji (smooshed mixed veggies with chopped onion), vada pav (potato patty on a roll), chaat papdi (chickpeas, potatoes, tamarind sauce, cilantro chutney, onions and small pieces of something pita-like), samosa chaat, medhu vada (rice dough donut with coconut chutney and a veggie soup which they were out of) and to drink, mango lassi. Of them all, the chaat papdi was probably my favorite.
Desserts (he and I love our sweets) included coconut burfi, rasgolla, ras malai, kheer and ladoo, all of which seemed to have sweetened condensed milk as an ingredient (or rosewater). The coconut burfi was my favorite, but if you knew me, that wouldn't surprise you.
I noticed as we sat there that every time I made eye contact with a male Indian, old or young, he gave me a big smile, so I asked my friend what was up. "It's because you're white," he explained, "and you're making eye contact." I blame my extroversion, but I was unprepared for so many grinning men.
I left the convention center stuffed and headed to Westover Hills for All the Saints Theater Company's Benefit Spaghetti Dinner and show. Obviously I'd already eaten (or, more accurately, overeaten), so I arrived just in time for the entertainment, always eclectic at these events.
The extravaganzas used to be held at Gallery 5, but now the group has constructed a backyard theater in the combined space behind two houses and it's charming.
The colorful curtains are strung between two trees and the front piece for the stage is brightly painted images and patterns. The keyboard is surrounded by a fake cardboard shell mimicking a grand piano. It's all over the top and wonderful.
The show began with musicians playing and a trio of dancers who pulled people from the audience to dance with them onstage as the singer sung. Next, the Amazing Shelly Skye contorted her body into unimaginable positions and a young boy shouted, "She does too much yoga!" There was a comedic sketch about a torch singer desperately trying to sing despite multiple mishaps.
Punk Sinatra did a paper mache storytelling and All the Saints told the haunting tale of "The Judge" accompanied by their own trio. Bread and Puppet Theater out of Vermont did a cabaret, there was flag dancing and accordion playing and the audience enjoyed all kinds of puppets under the night sky.
Joke of the night: Why did the hippie drown? He was too far out. Har-har.
Capping off the night was the final installment of Ipanmea's 12th anniversary celebration and upon arriving, one of the servers welcomed me back and warned that, "Last night was classy, but tonight will be trashy."
What that meant was that tonight DJ Dodie would attract a much larger and younger audience and it would end up being a serious dance party.
Which worked out just fine, because the farmer, his date and two friends came in and suggested we all move to the patio while we still could. It was the right decision for many reasons, not the least of which was a divine breeze that kicked up and blew skirts and hair.
A friend was there on an online date and when he went to get drinks, she asked me what I thought of him. "You ought to try the online dating thing, " she enthused. "It really is a great way to meet guys you'd never meet otherwise."
Easy for her to say; she was enjoying a first date with a nerdy-looking reader with whom she acknowledged chemistry. But I knew her point was that it's been 19 months and I'm overdue.
One of the farmer's friends turned out to be just the sort of person who holds my interest in conversation; born in RVA, lived in Ireland from college on and recently moved to Providence to teach at Brown. Now let's see, what can we talk about?
Over the course of a couple hours, we covered the changes in the Richmond scene since he was here last, the difficulty in dating a non-reader and, naturally, all things musical.
It turned out that we were both fans of Swedish pop and Lykke Li makes us both giddy. Even better, he didn't know of the Shout Out Louds, so I got to recommend a band, always a source of satisfaction from one music fan to another.
He was also as big a post-rock fan as I am and that yielded some great Explosions in the Sky and Sigur Ros show comparisons. Now that's the kind of random conversational partner I'm talking about.
Meanwhile, the dance party inside was reaching fever pitch and trying to make it through to go to the bathrooms was at best challenging and at worst touchy-feely.
I did enjoy hearing remixes of classic 70s dance music, but the patio was reaching critical mass, so I decided to say my good nights and left, heading up bustling Grace Street, my mind going in multiple directions.
(Online dating? Really? Is that where this is going?)
La, la, la. Indian food and cabarets. That's what I'm thinking about.
More than one person made the analogy that walking the aisles of the festival was like walking the streets of Bombay: slow, circuitous and frustrating.
On the plus side, the people watching was excellent and the parade of Indian dress a real treat (and sometimes hilarious, like the guy in traditional Indian garb but with spiked hair and pink Crocs).
So what did my native host choose for us to eat? Chicken curry with rice and naan, pav bhaji (smooshed mixed veggies with chopped onion), vada pav (potato patty on a roll), chaat papdi (chickpeas, potatoes, tamarind sauce, cilantro chutney, onions and small pieces of something pita-like), samosa chaat, medhu vada (rice dough donut with coconut chutney and a veggie soup which they were out of) and to drink, mango lassi. Of them all, the chaat papdi was probably my favorite.
Desserts (he and I love our sweets) included coconut burfi, rasgolla, ras malai, kheer and ladoo, all of which seemed to have sweetened condensed milk as an ingredient (or rosewater). The coconut burfi was my favorite, but if you knew me, that wouldn't surprise you.
I noticed as we sat there that every time I made eye contact with a male Indian, old or young, he gave me a big smile, so I asked my friend what was up. "It's because you're white," he explained, "and you're making eye contact." I blame my extroversion, but I was unprepared for so many grinning men.
I left the convention center stuffed and headed to Westover Hills for All the Saints Theater Company's Benefit Spaghetti Dinner and show. Obviously I'd already eaten (or, more accurately, overeaten), so I arrived just in time for the entertainment, always eclectic at these events.
The extravaganzas used to be held at Gallery 5, but now the group has constructed a backyard theater in the combined space behind two houses and it's charming.
The colorful curtains are strung between two trees and the front piece for the stage is brightly painted images and patterns. The keyboard is surrounded by a fake cardboard shell mimicking a grand piano. It's all over the top and wonderful.
The show began with musicians playing and a trio of dancers who pulled people from the audience to dance with them onstage as the singer sung. Next, the Amazing Shelly Skye contorted her body into unimaginable positions and a young boy shouted, "She does too much yoga!" There was a comedic sketch about a torch singer desperately trying to sing despite multiple mishaps.
Punk Sinatra did a paper mache storytelling and All the Saints told the haunting tale of "The Judge" accompanied by their own trio. Bread and Puppet Theater out of Vermont did a cabaret, there was flag dancing and accordion playing and the audience enjoyed all kinds of puppets under the night sky.
Joke of the night: Why did the hippie drown? He was too far out. Har-har.
Capping off the night was the final installment of Ipanmea's 12th anniversary celebration and upon arriving, one of the servers welcomed me back and warned that, "Last night was classy, but tonight will be trashy."
What that meant was that tonight DJ Dodie would attract a much larger and younger audience and it would end up being a serious dance party.
Which worked out just fine, because the farmer, his date and two friends came in and suggested we all move to the patio while we still could. It was the right decision for many reasons, not the least of which was a divine breeze that kicked up and blew skirts and hair.
A friend was there on an online date and when he went to get drinks, she asked me what I thought of him. "You ought to try the online dating thing, " she enthused. "It really is a great way to meet guys you'd never meet otherwise."
Easy for her to say; she was enjoying a first date with a nerdy-looking reader with whom she acknowledged chemistry. But I knew her point was that it's been 19 months and I'm overdue.
One of the farmer's friends turned out to be just the sort of person who holds my interest in conversation; born in RVA, lived in Ireland from college on and recently moved to Providence to teach at Brown. Now let's see, what can we talk about?
Over the course of a couple hours, we covered the changes in the Richmond scene since he was here last, the difficulty in dating a non-reader and, naturally, all things musical.
It turned out that we were both fans of Swedish pop and Lykke Li makes us both giddy. Even better, he didn't know of the Shout Out Louds, so I got to recommend a band, always a source of satisfaction from one music fan to another.
He was also as big a post-rock fan as I am and that yielded some great Explosions in the Sky and Sigur Ros show comparisons. Now that's the kind of random conversational partner I'm talking about.
Meanwhile, the dance party inside was reaching fever pitch and trying to make it through to go to the bathrooms was at best challenging and at worst touchy-feely.
I did enjoy hearing remixes of classic 70s dance music, but the patio was reaching critical mass, so I decided to say my good nights and left, heading up bustling Grace Street, my mind going in multiple directions.
(Online dating? Really? Is that where this is going?)
La, la, la. Indian food and cabarets. That's what I'm thinking about.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Afterlife and Where the Rain Slips Through
How long is a group of poetry lovers willing to wait for the poet to show up?
In the case of poet Colin Cheney, it was about three quarters of an hour, but, in fairness to him, he mistakenly thought that the reading was at 4:00 rather than 3:00.
Silly poet, Chop Suey's Saturday readings are always at 3.
Darren Morris began with a poem about an intersection, where one week a truck jack-knifed and spilled watermelons everywhere and the following week another jack-knifed and spilled pigs everywhere.
Apparently pigs eating rotten watermelons was disturbing to passersby as well as poem-worthy.
"Poets don't tend to be sports fans," he said as a way of introducing his poem about baseball in the afterlife.
The poem "Battery" contained my favorite line: "Naivete has always been my best quality."
I can't count the number of people in my life who have commented on my naivete, although I'm never told that it's a good quality.
Afterlife was the recurring theme in Morris' poetry, mainly he said, because he doesn't see it as black and white as heaven or hell, but more interactive.
As the writer who had selected Colin Cheney for the National Poetry series, VCU's David Wojahn introduced the poet he had found "eccentric, quirky and deeply weird" and likened his book Here Be Monsters to a map.
Cheney's poetry was indeed beautifully weird. Introducing "Decline of the North American Songbird," he said, "I think that's what you need to know. I'm going to butcher the German language."
Noting that he lives part-time in Bangkok, Cheney said that his wife, who was presently sleeping there, had requested that he read "Watson the Shark," based on the John Singleton Copley painting of the man about to be eaten by a shark and "the instant before whatever happens happened."
The original hangs in the National Gallery of Art and a copy in Boston, where Cheney grew up seeing it.
On rainy days, he said his Mom would take the family to stand in front of the painting, which terrified him (as did the original in the NGA whenever I saw it as a child).
The beauty is that that terror eventually became the inspiration for a poem, and not a terrifying one.
The closest we got to terrifying today was Morris' evocative reference to "an almost profane fear of being alone, loneliness."
As a friend and I were just discussing earlier today, busyness can be a mask for loneliness.
But that's a subject for another day.
In the case of poet Colin Cheney, it was about three quarters of an hour, but, in fairness to him, he mistakenly thought that the reading was at 4:00 rather than 3:00.
Silly poet, Chop Suey's Saturday readings are always at 3.
Darren Morris began with a poem about an intersection, where one week a truck jack-knifed and spilled watermelons everywhere and the following week another jack-knifed and spilled pigs everywhere.
Apparently pigs eating rotten watermelons was disturbing to passersby as well as poem-worthy.
"Poets don't tend to be sports fans," he said as a way of introducing his poem about baseball in the afterlife.
The poem "Battery" contained my favorite line: "Naivete has always been my best quality."
I can't count the number of people in my life who have commented on my naivete, although I'm never told that it's a good quality.
Afterlife was the recurring theme in Morris' poetry, mainly he said, because he doesn't see it as black and white as heaven or hell, but more interactive.
As the writer who had selected Colin Cheney for the National Poetry series, VCU's David Wojahn introduced the poet he had found "eccentric, quirky and deeply weird" and likened his book Here Be Monsters to a map.
Cheney's poetry was indeed beautifully weird. Introducing "Decline of the North American Songbird," he said, "I think that's what you need to know. I'm going to butcher the German language."
Noting that he lives part-time in Bangkok, Cheney said that his wife, who was presently sleeping there, had requested that he read "Watson the Shark," based on the John Singleton Copley painting of the man about to be eaten by a shark and "the instant before whatever happens happened."
The original hangs in the National Gallery of Art and a copy in Boston, where Cheney grew up seeing it.
On rainy days, he said his Mom would take the family to stand in front of the painting, which terrified him (as did the original in the NGA whenever I saw it as a child).
The beauty is that that terror eventually became the inspiration for a poem, and not a terrifying one.
The closest we got to terrifying today was Morris' evocative reference to "an almost profane fear of being alone, loneliness."
As a friend and I were just discussing earlier today, busyness can be a mask for loneliness.
But that's a subject for another day.
An Eight-Hour Evening
In a crowded gallery at Chop Suey, a bunch of us gathered to hear zinesters from the U.K. and Portland (as part of the Zines on Toast Tour) read and talk about their experiences at everything from breaking other's people's ankles at a GWAR shows to riding a Greyhound bus to vegan mass catering.
"First there's the benefit of being faceless. Then there's the fact that the reader only learns what the writer chooses to tell them. I am more than the sum of my writing."
It was really kind of interesting listening to 'zine writer Alex read a piece from one of her 'zines about the presumptions people make when they read her zines.
They're the same presumptions people make when they read your blog, and while I really do try to put myself out there, there's an awful lot of me that I hold back. Stuff I think would convey better in person than through the ether.
As it is, I've had commenters presume things about me that are miles from the truth, proving that I don't always clearly represent who I really am. But that's not in the blogging rules, either.
One German-Korean 'zine writer shared her love of how literal the German language was by reading definitions of words that amused her. Hiccups = swallowing up. Nipples = breast warts. Genitals = shame area. Moustache = upper lip beard. Her 'zine is called MorganMuffel, or "grumpy in the morning." She said, "English needs a word for that, too."
There were tales of trying to attack Tony Blair (epic fail), and a new cyclist's story of trying to fit in with the Lycra crowd and falling off her bike repeatedly. And there were confessions. "I changed my name to Alex Wrekk, but my real name is Sunshine. Yes, my parents were hippies."
Zeus Gallery Cafe was mobbed when the three of us got there around 8:30 and our friend was waiting for us in the little lounge-like room. Stretched out languidly on the low, leather couches, she said, "I love this room. I want to bring a guy here and make out. Can you make me a curtain?"
The doorless opening to the room was apparently the only deterrent to making the small space a den of inequity. Yes, I could make her a curtain.
It took several bottles of wine before we got around to ordering and the fact that no one could keep up with which bottle we were drinking at any given moment became a series of jokes a la "Who's on first?" After a while owner Ted just shook his head and made fun of one among us who was having the hardest time remembering (the only male).
My dinner was Hanover tomato, white bean, water cress and Mozzarella salad in roasted tomato vinaigrette, seared foie gras with toasted brioche and seasonal fruit preps, followed by chocolate lava cake with ice cream.
There was a nearby couple holding hands across the table and staring intently into each other's eyes and having low, meaningful conversation, oblivious to the increasing noise of our four-top. Very romantic and I was very envious.
Ipanema Cafe was celebrating its 12th birthday and owner Kendra had promised that any of her friends who didn't show up would be pantsed, which is a little tough to do to someone like me who only wears skirts and dresses. On the other hand, maybe she'd resort to underpantsing me and I didn't want that to happen, so I attended.
Just kidding. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I knew so many people there, like the abstract noise musician ("Why weren't you at the Eels show?"), the boutique owner in the black buckled dress ("Of course you'd be here!"), WRIR DJs ("Given how oblivious they are, our future is fucked."), comic book store employee ("Aren't we supposed to be secretly dating?"), trombone players plural ("Remember when you asked how my apartment was so neat? That's all Larry."), pizza maker ("I'm still working on my technique."), actor ("You saw that performance?"), the photographer whose work I own ("I could come by and sign that for you.") and people who recognized me from I know not where.
As hot as it was on the patio where I spent my first hour meeting and greeting, it was even hotter inside the restaurant. Ice was melting in glasses within minutes and everyone had a sheen of sweat as we squeezed past each other to the dance floor and the bathroom.
I ran into a musician friend, overdressed for the temperature in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Teasing him about his clothing choice, he said he'd just come from working at his restaurant job, which led to a discussion of it. "Ohhhh, so that's what Mac meant when said he couldn't come in to the restaurant because he'd treated a friend badly. Now I get it." Now we all do.
Music was provided by stellar DJs Sara and Greg as well as DJ Troy for a mix of pop, soul, and r & b, causing sweaty dancers to finally fill the floor around 1 a.m.
Time well spent. Happy anniversary, Ipanema and here's to many more.
"First there's the benefit of being faceless. Then there's the fact that the reader only learns what the writer chooses to tell them. I am more than the sum of my writing."
It was really kind of interesting listening to 'zine writer Alex read a piece from one of her 'zines about the presumptions people make when they read her zines.
They're the same presumptions people make when they read your blog, and while I really do try to put myself out there, there's an awful lot of me that I hold back. Stuff I think would convey better in person than through the ether.
As it is, I've had commenters presume things about me that are miles from the truth, proving that I don't always clearly represent who I really am. But that's not in the blogging rules, either.
One German-Korean 'zine writer shared her love of how literal the German language was by reading definitions of words that amused her. Hiccups = swallowing up. Nipples = breast warts. Genitals = shame area. Moustache = upper lip beard. Her 'zine is called MorganMuffel, or "grumpy in the morning." She said, "English needs a word for that, too."
There were tales of trying to attack Tony Blair (epic fail), and a new cyclist's story of trying to fit in with the Lycra crowd and falling off her bike repeatedly. And there were confessions. "I changed my name to Alex Wrekk, but my real name is Sunshine. Yes, my parents were hippies."
Zeus Gallery Cafe was mobbed when the three of us got there around 8:30 and our friend was waiting for us in the little lounge-like room. Stretched out languidly on the low, leather couches, she said, "I love this room. I want to bring a guy here and make out. Can you make me a curtain?"
The doorless opening to the room was apparently the only deterrent to making the small space a den of inequity. Yes, I could make her a curtain.
It took several bottles of wine before we got around to ordering and the fact that no one could keep up with which bottle we were drinking at any given moment became a series of jokes a la "Who's on first?" After a while owner Ted just shook his head and made fun of one among us who was having the hardest time remembering (the only male).
My dinner was Hanover tomato, white bean, water cress and Mozzarella salad in roasted tomato vinaigrette, seared foie gras with toasted brioche and seasonal fruit preps, followed by chocolate lava cake with ice cream.
There was a nearby couple holding hands across the table and staring intently into each other's eyes and having low, meaningful conversation, oblivious to the increasing noise of our four-top. Very romantic and I was very envious.
Ipanema Cafe was celebrating its 12th birthday and owner Kendra had promised that any of her friends who didn't show up would be pantsed, which is a little tough to do to someone like me who only wears skirts and dresses. On the other hand, maybe she'd resort to underpantsing me and I didn't want that to happen, so I attended.
Just kidding. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I knew so many people there, like the abstract noise musician ("Why weren't you at the Eels show?"), the boutique owner in the black buckled dress ("Of course you'd be here!"), WRIR DJs ("Given how oblivious they are, our future is fucked."), comic book store employee ("Aren't we supposed to be secretly dating?"), trombone players plural ("Remember when you asked how my apartment was so neat? That's all Larry."), pizza maker ("I'm still working on my technique."), actor ("You saw that performance?"), the photographer whose work I own ("I could come by and sign that for you.") and people who recognized me from I know not where.
As hot as it was on the patio where I spent my first hour meeting and greeting, it was even hotter inside the restaurant. Ice was melting in glasses within minutes and everyone had a sheen of sweat as we squeezed past each other to the dance floor and the bathroom.
I ran into a musician friend, overdressed for the temperature in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Teasing him about his clothing choice, he said he'd just come from working at his restaurant job, which led to a discussion of it. "Ohhhh, so that's what Mac meant when said he couldn't come in to the restaurant because he'd treated a friend badly. Now I get it." Now we all do.
Music was provided by stellar DJs Sara and Greg as well as DJ Troy for a mix of pop, soul, and r & b, causing sweaty dancers to finally fill the floor around 1 a.m.
Time well spent. Happy anniversary, Ipanema and here's to many more.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Drooling the Night Away
"I will be coming from the dentist and I'm not sure how I'll be. I just hope I'm not drooling," read the e-mail from the friend I was meeting for happy hour.
But she's a really good friend, so even if she had been drooling, I think we could have worked around it.
I like her enough that I'd wipe her chin dry if it came to that.
The plan was to meet up at Pescado's China Street since she'd never been to either location, despite living on the southside.
My reluctance to go south of the river is common knowledge, but actually I had been to China Street on the night it opened, here. I had held off since then to allow for the novelty to lessen a bit.
But just in case, we'd also arrived early.
Even so, the bartender and chef both said they remembered me; maybe it's sitting in that end bar stool that makes a person memorable.
Hopefully it wasn't the sheer quantity of what I ate that time.
The owner greeted me and introduced himself and my friend arrived without drool, but there was adhesive stuck to her jaw, which I had to point out (it's like broccoli in your teeth...wouldn't you want to know?).
After three hours in the dentist's chair, I was just glad she'd shown up.
We were early enough to enjoy all the great specials, so we availed ourselves of the $3 wine (Malbec or Chardonnay) and the $4 appetizers in a nearly empty blue dining room.
It gave the owner time to chat us up about what we do, where we live and his recent reviews.
I am always curious to hear what owners and chefs offer up about their opinions of critics.
The lobster quesadilla was plump and the accompanying cheese sauce flavorful, the mussels in coconut curry broth were devoured before we began drinking the broth with a spoon and the shrimp nachos used blue corn chips (my favorite) and plenty of shrimp, cheese, green onions, red peppers and even cabbage for crunch.
Friend had to switch from wine to beer though, because the acidity of the wine was hurting her mouth, but given today's heat, she didn't seem to mind too terribly much.
Or maybe she was just trying to compensate for the numbness wearing off.
We finished with the steaming-hot conch fritters because everybody likes fried bread with sauce.
By that time, the dining room was nearing capacity and we saw plenty of impressive-looking seafood being carried past us, but we were full.
After discussing the usual (her love life, the absence of mine), she wanted to know what was next.
"I know I'm only Act One, so what's after this?" she teased.
Can you guess she works in theater?
Music at Gallery 5 was next and when I described the bands, she regretted not being able to go.
And it was a great line-up, starting with Lob Marino ("Karen, it's the same set you heard at Sprout, but we're just about done with some new stuff." Promises, promises).
Every song except one had been written while they were in South America and the one written here was about last winter, undoubtedly a shock to their system upon their return.
The witty and self-deprecating Liza Kate followed, randomly telling the audience that she loves attention and that she'd ridden a horse today.
"Ever been famous?" she asked. "It's hot up here!"
Chapel Hill's Birds and Arrows was next and I was especially eager to hear them for the first time.
Tuning up and sound-checking, lead singer Andrea asked the sound guy for less reverb.
"A little less far down the well," she clarified. "Less My Morning Jacket."
As my close musical friends know, it's not about a well, it's about a cave, for crying out loud, and I love the sound of music from a cave, but apparently it's not what B & A are going for.
They launched into their latest single and mid-way through, the place went dark.
In the highlight of the evening, the band kept right on playing.
The cello, drums and acoustic guitar all still worked and the audience cheered them for not stopping.
"We're so rock and roll, we blew the power," Andrea laughed.
The next song began while the stage was still dark but electricity was restored and they went on with their set of beautiful harmonies, well-crafted songs and obvious enthusiasm for what they do.
Introducing a song about having her 11-year old dog put down this spring, Andrea warned the audience not to cry.
And I didn't cry, but there was definite welling up since the same thing had happened to me this past spring.
Or maybe I just needed an excuse to well. In any case, the song seemed to be a crowd favorite, one of many the audience responded enthusiastically to.
Finishing up the night was the stellar Ophelia and unfortunately their set was limited by the noise ordinance curfew (don't get me started), so it was shorter than the fans would have liked.
I can only hope that the next time I see them, I get much more of them.
I seem to be hoping for a lot more of several things lately.
Just not more sad dog songs; they're just gateway music to the harder stuff and who needs that?
First I well and next thing you know I'll be drooling...and have to wipe my own chin.
Just give me some reverb to do it by.
But she's a really good friend, so even if she had been drooling, I think we could have worked around it.
I like her enough that I'd wipe her chin dry if it came to that.
The plan was to meet up at Pescado's China Street since she'd never been to either location, despite living on the southside.
My reluctance to go south of the river is common knowledge, but actually I had been to China Street on the night it opened, here. I had held off since then to allow for the novelty to lessen a bit.
But just in case, we'd also arrived early.
Even so, the bartender and chef both said they remembered me; maybe it's sitting in that end bar stool that makes a person memorable.
Hopefully it wasn't the sheer quantity of what I ate that time.
The owner greeted me and introduced himself and my friend arrived without drool, but there was adhesive stuck to her jaw, which I had to point out (it's like broccoli in your teeth...wouldn't you want to know?).
After three hours in the dentist's chair, I was just glad she'd shown up.
We were early enough to enjoy all the great specials, so we availed ourselves of the $3 wine (Malbec or Chardonnay) and the $4 appetizers in a nearly empty blue dining room.
It gave the owner time to chat us up about what we do, where we live and his recent reviews.
I am always curious to hear what owners and chefs offer up about their opinions of critics.
The lobster quesadilla was plump and the accompanying cheese sauce flavorful, the mussels in coconut curry broth were devoured before we began drinking the broth with a spoon and the shrimp nachos used blue corn chips (my favorite) and plenty of shrimp, cheese, green onions, red peppers and even cabbage for crunch.
Friend had to switch from wine to beer though, because the acidity of the wine was hurting her mouth, but given today's heat, she didn't seem to mind too terribly much.
Or maybe she was just trying to compensate for the numbness wearing off.
We finished with the steaming-hot conch fritters because everybody likes fried bread with sauce.
By that time, the dining room was nearing capacity and we saw plenty of impressive-looking seafood being carried past us, but we were full.
After discussing the usual (her love life, the absence of mine), she wanted to know what was next.
"I know I'm only Act One, so what's after this?" she teased.
Can you guess she works in theater?
Music at Gallery 5 was next and when I described the bands, she regretted not being able to go.
And it was a great line-up, starting with Lob Marino ("Karen, it's the same set you heard at Sprout, but we're just about done with some new stuff." Promises, promises).
Every song except one had been written while they were in South America and the one written here was about last winter, undoubtedly a shock to their system upon their return.
The witty and self-deprecating Liza Kate followed, randomly telling the audience that she loves attention and that she'd ridden a horse today.
"Ever been famous?" she asked. "It's hot up here!"
Chapel Hill's Birds and Arrows was next and I was especially eager to hear them for the first time.
Tuning up and sound-checking, lead singer Andrea asked the sound guy for less reverb.
"A little less far down the well," she clarified. "Less My Morning Jacket."
As my close musical friends know, it's not about a well, it's about a cave, for crying out loud, and I love the sound of music from a cave, but apparently it's not what B & A are going for.
They launched into their latest single and mid-way through, the place went dark.
In the highlight of the evening, the band kept right on playing.
The cello, drums and acoustic guitar all still worked and the audience cheered them for not stopping.
"We're so rock and roll, we blew the power," Andrea laughed.
The next song began while the stage was still dark but electricity was restored and they went on with their set of beautiful harmonies, well-crafted songs and obvious enthusiasm for what they do.
Introducing a song about having her 11-year old dog put down this spring, Andrea warned the audience not to cry.
And I didn't cry, but there was definite welling up since the same thing had happened to me this past spring.
Or maybe I just needed an excuse to well. In any case, the song seemed to be a crowd favorite, one of many the audience responded enthusiastically to.
Finishing up the night was the stellar Ophelia and unfortunately their set was limited by the noise ordinance curfew (don't get me started), so it was shorter than the fans would have liked.
I can only hope that the next time I see them, I get much more of them.
I seem to be hoping for a lot more of several things lately.
Just not more sad dog songs; they're just gateway music to the harder stuff and who needs that?
First I well and next thing you know I'll be drooling...and have to wipe my own chin.
Just give me some reverb to do it by.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Native is Relative
How funny is it that I had to go to a lecture about my hometown, Washington, D.C., to be told for the first time, "Well, you're practically a native Richmonder!"
The event was another in the Virginia Historical Society's Banner Lecture series, Grand Avenues: The Story of Pierre Charles L'Enfant, the French Visionary who Designed Washington, D.C. and the author speaking was Scott Berg.
I was curious about the man who who been so instrumental in designing the city I knew so well (and which seems to intimidate driving visitors to this day) and even more so when I learned that the Frenchman was a relatively young 37 when Washington commissioned him to design the new capital city.
L'Enfant had been classically trained at the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture and his father had been a siege painter (talk about specializing) to the King of France. Berg argued that L'Enfant's original drawing for the layout of the city was the first great artistic achievement of the young country.
His vision for D.C. was the antithesis of Philly, the quintessential grid city, something L'Enfant detested. He envisioned topographical drama, with the Capital perched high on a hill for effect and with a view of the Potomac westward (the direction the country was headed). This was to be its public axis.
The President's house (the eventual White House), on the other hand, was oriented for Washington himself with a view across the Potomac toward Alexandria (a city he helped survey) and Mount Vernon, his home. Here was the private axis.
Unfortunately, both the Capital and White House eventually had their orientations altered away from the Potomac. L'Enfant felt that the mall should be a democratic gathering place, wide and grassy, and at least that didn't change. And I hadn't known that L'Enfant was dismissed/fired after a mere eleven months.
But most interesting to me was the story behind Pennsylvania Avenue, one I'd surprisingly never heard before. The ferry road that originally connected the Georgetown/Alexandria ferry to the Anacostia/Maryland ferry was the road eventually named Pennsylvania Avenue. It was the central road in the new city, grand and wide.
Pennsylvania was given this honor because they had come in second in the contest to be the country's new capital city. We'll call it a consolation prize to keep the Pennsylvanians from whining too much.
As for being called "practically a native Richmonder," the woman in the seat next to me got me talking (oh, it happens) and when she learned I'd been in Richmond twenty years, made that pronouncement. In the past, when people learn that about me, they'd inevitably say, "So you're not a native." but maybe the rules have changed.
Or maybe I've just learned to fit in. L'Enfant preferred to be called Peter rather than Pierre; I wouldn't be surprised if he was just doing that in hopes of being called a native.
Now that I'm "practically" one myself, feel free to call me Karen Kay. It has such a southern ring to it, don't you think?
The event was another in the Virginia Historical Society's Banner Lecture series, Grand Avenues: The Story of Pierre Charles L'Enfant, the French Visionary who Designed Washington, D.C. and the author speaking was Scott Berg.
I was curious about the man who who been so instrumental in designing the city I knew so well (and which seems to intimidate driving visitors to this day) and even more so when I learned that the Frenchman was a relatively young 37 when Washington commissioned him to design the new capital city.
L'Enfant had been classically trained at the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture and his father had been a siege painter (talk about specializing) to the King of France. Berg argued that L'Enfant's original drawing for the layout of the city was the first great artistic achievement of the young country.
His vision for D.C. was the antithesis of Philly, the quintessential grid city, something L'Enfant detested. He envisioned topographical drama, with the Capital perched high on a hill for effect and with a view of the Potomac westward (the direction the country was headed). This was to be its public axis.
The President's house (the eventual White House), on the other hand, was oriented for Washington himself with a view across the Potomac toward Alexandria (a city he helped survey) and Mount Vernon, his home. Here was the private axis.
Unfortunately, both the Capital and White House eventually had their orientations altered away from the Potomac. L'Enfant felt that the mall should be a democratic gathering place, wide and grassy, and at least that didn't change. And I hadn't known that L'Enfant was dismissed/fired after a mere eleven months.
But most interesting to me was the story behind Pennsylvania Avenue, one I'd surprisingly never heard before. The ferry road that originally connected the Georgetown/Alexandria ferry to the Anacostia/Maryland ferry was the road eventually named Pennsylvania Avenue. It was the central road in the new city, grand and wide.
Pennsylvania was given this honor because they had come in second in the contest to be the country's new capital city. We'll call it a consolation prize to keep the Pennsylvanians from whining too much.
As for being called "practically a native Richmonder," the woman in the seat next to me got me talking (oh, it happens) and when she learned I'd been in Richmond twenty years, made that pronouncement. In the past, when people learn that about me, they'd inevitably say, "So you're not a native." but maybe the rules have changed.
Or maybe I've just learned to fit in. L'Enfant preferred to be called Peter rather than Pierre; I wouldn't be surprised if he was just doing that in hopes of being called a native.
Now that I'm "practically" one myself, feel free to call me Karen Kay. It has such a southern ring to it, don't you think?
Masks & Miramar Under the Harvest Moon
"Do you need a mask in your life?" my server asked me at Aziza's tonight. It wasn't a metaphorical question; she was handing me a mask drawn on the back of a round take-out container lid. It even came with strings attached for fitting around my head.
Maybe it was that incredibly bright moon with Jupiter shining like a beacon right beside it, because the evening was full of all kinds of little unexpected pleasures.
Like walking into Aziza's, the first person who spoke to me was Chef Philip Denny of Six Burner. I'm naturally curious about where the chefs I like to cook for me choose to spend their off time. I also like having my restaurant picks validated, although I already knew what a treasure Aziza's is.
As the only person eating at the bar, I had the annoyance of the TV screen (the one thing I dislike at Aziza's) inappropriately showing a History Channel program on how McDonald's french fries are grown and processed. Who watches such a thing anyway? But I also had the pleasure of an oven view and both servers' attention for all kinds of great conversation.
Dinner was the Colombo Provence Rose and an outstanding white pizza with free-form pepperoni. As I ate, my server engaged me in a chat about going out to restaurants and the demise of dressing up. I knew we were soul mates when she said, "I just like to eat...when someone else is cooking."
I'd complimented her unique skirt when I came in, which led to the discussion of dressing up to go out. I once dated a guy who would say to me, "Why can't you just wear jeans and a T-shirt when we got out?" Uh, because I like dresses and skirts? Because I get compliments dressing this way?
This girl, though, had me beat hands down. She actually owns a half dozen ball gowns and I don't own a one. And she wears hers, too.
My one full-length dress is black burnt velvet over a long black slip and very fitted, so not at all gown like (and a gift from a former squeeze, so I didn't choose it). But I could appreciate her love of glamour in an era of increasing casual wear, even if I could offer no hope of improvement.
As for the source of the mask, during our chat, she'd said under her breath, "Turn around and look at the kitchen," and there I saw a bored kitchen worker with a mask on his face.
Apparently my reaction was so positive that he'd created one for me, too. The drawing was good; he'd included a lot of facial detail. I guess he needed a mask in his life, too.
After dinner I went to 27 for their new music series, tonight featuring Miramar, that hybrid of Bio Ritmo and Quatro na Bossa. Word had obviously spread about the show and a steady stream of people came through the door for classic Puerto Rican 50s-style boleros.
The first to greet me there was Raul, owner of Nacho Mama's, and someone I've known since he first set up shop in Carytown in 1996. We always seem to run into each other when Latin music is involved and I could tell he was there to dance.
He asked about my relationship status and why, offering his sage advice. "The only way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Believe me, I know." There's not a lot you can say to that.
I made a couple of new friends, both dance lovers, looking for recommendations about what to do and where to go. They'd only found out about Miramar because they'd innocently come in for dinner tonight and then decided to stay. It's funny how often I get asked, "But how do you find out about these things?" Oh, you know.
The owner of La Grotta came in, too, and despite having eaten at his restaurant many times (including a memorable second date in which the guy walked me to my car and then asked if he could grab my ass and a reunion dinner with a guy I hadn't seen in seventeen years), I'd never actually met him. We took care of that tonight.
I met a Persian (he prefers it to Iranian and when he's president of that country, intends to change the name back) with thick curly hair that both men and women asked to touch throughout the evening. I wasn't planning to, but he offered, so I allowed peer pressure to make me feel up his hair. It was nice.
Miramar played two sets with their romantic-sounding music filling that big high-ceilinged space. Although it was clearly Latin, there was also a Middle Eastern element throughout and that was what finally got a few couples on the dance floor.
Raul was the star, inevitably picking up his partner at the end of each dance, which was fine as long as the partners were well-covered under their skirts.
There was one guy doing that Grateful Dead-style of dancing and it was everything a couple of band members could do not to gawk and grin. Watching them fight a smile or laughter was as much fun as watching the guy "catching butterflies" to romantic boleros.
It must have been that harvest moon with Jupiter that summoned the restaurant types, the dancers and the future presidents.
Maybe I don't need a mask in my life, just a front-row table for it all.
Maybe it was that incredibly bright moon with Jupiter shining like a beacon right beside it, because the evening was full of all kinds of little unexpected pleasures.
Like walking into Aziza's, the first person who spoke to me was Chef Philip Denny of Six Burner. I'm naturally curious about where the chefs I like to cook for me choose to spend their off time. I also like having my restaurant picks validated, although I already knew what a treasure Aziza's is.
As the only person eating at the bar, I had the annoyance of the TV screen (the one thing I dislike at Aziza's) inappropriately showing a History Channel program on how McDonald's french fries are grown and processed. Who watches such a thing anyway? But I also had the pleasure of an oven view and both servers' attention for all kinds of great conversation.
Dinner was the Colombo Provence Rose and an outstanding white pizza with free-form pepperoni. As I ate, my server engaged me in a chat about going out to restaurants and the demise of dressing up. I knew we were soul mates when she said, "I just like to eat...when someone else is cooking."
I'd complimented her unique skirt when I came in, which led to the discussion of dressing up to go out. I once dated a guy who would say to me, "Why can't you just wear jeans and a T-shirt when we got out?" Uh, because I like dresses and skirts? Because I get compliments dressing this way?
This girl, though, had me beat hands down. She actually owns a half dozen ball gowns and I don't own a one. And she wears hers, too.
My one full-length dress is black burnt velvet over a long black slip and very fitted, so not at all gown like (and a gift from a former squeeze, so I didn't choose it). But I could appreciate her love of glamour in an era of increasing casual wear, even if I could offer no hope of improvement.
As for the source of the mask, during our chat, she'd said under her breath, "Turn around and look at the kitchen," and there I saw a bored kitchen worker with a mask on his face.
Apparently my reaction was so positive that he'd created one for me, too. The drawing was good; he'd included a lot of facial detail. I guess he needed a mask in his life, too.
After dinner I went to 27 for their new music series, tonight featuring Miramar, that hybrid of Bio Ritmo and Quatro na Bossa. Word had obviously spread about the show and a steady stream of people came through the door for classic Puerto Rican 50s-style boleros.
The first to greet me there was Raul, owner of Nacho Mama's, and someone I've known since he first set up shop in Carytown in 1996. We always seem to run into each other when Latin music is involved and I could tell he was there to dance.
He asked about my relationship status and why, offering his sage advice. "The only way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Believe me, I know." There's not a lot you can say to that.
I made a couple of new friends, both dance lovers, looking for recommendations about what to do and where to go. They'd only found out about Miramar because they'd innocently come in for dinner tonight and then decided to stay. It's funny how often I get asked, "But how do you find out about these things?" Oh, you know.
The owner of La Grotta came in, too, and despite having eaten at his restaurant many times (including a memorable second date in which the guy walked me to my car and then asked if he could grab my ass and a reunion dinner with a guy I hadn't seen in seventeen years), I'd never actually met him. We took care of that tonight.
I met a Persian (he prefers it to Iranian and when he's president of that country, intends to change the name back) with thick curly hair that both men and women asked to touch throughout the evening. I wasn't planning to, but he offered, so I allowed peer pressure to make me feel up his hair. It was nice.
Miramar played two sets with their romantic-sounding music filling that big high-ceilinged space. Although it was clearly Latin, there was also a Middle Eastern element throughout and that was what finally got a few couples on the dance floor.
Raul was the star, inevitably picking up his partner at the end of each dance, which was fine as long as the partners were well-covered under their skirts.
There was one guy doing that Grateful Dead-style of dancing and it was everything a couple of band members could do not to gawk and grin. Watching them fight a smile or laughter was as much fun as watching the guy "catching butterflies" to romantic boleros.
It must have been that harvest moon with Jupiter that summoned the restaurant types, the dancers and the future presidents.
Maybe I don't need a mask in my life, just a front-row table for it all.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Beignet Breakfast to Welcome Fall
When I woke up this morning, I remembered that it was the first day of fall. But lying in bed with the windows open, the sunny warmth reminded me of the last time I was in New Orleans in late September. You can call it autumn, but as long as it's still hot, I'm happy.
And somewhere in my reverie about fall in the Big Easy, it occurred to me that it was beignet day at Louisiana Flair. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was 10:15 and I had no idea how late they served beignets, but surely not much longer. You never saw someone jump out of bed so fast, but a quick phone call confirmed that beignets were available until 10:30.
Throwing on a sundress, I was walking in the door of Louisiana Flair at 10:32. Using my very best manners, I asked if I could still get beignets. The guy behind the counter gave me a look from behind his glasses and asked, "Are you the one who called?" Found out! "Did I sound desperate?" I wondered.
"A little," he said laughing. "We still got 'em, but you're lucky today. We usually run out by 10." As far as I was concerned, that was just proof that I was meant to have my beignets. I took a seat nearby and in two minutes I had my three beignets and blueberry sauce.
The charming gentleman who had fried them up (two minutes, one on each side) sat at the table next to me so I had some breakfast company. He said they'd made up five pans of beignet dough last night and had less than half a pan left now, a miracle since they almost never have leftover dough.
I expressed my gratitude for today's slower sales as I ate the confectioner's sugar-dusted fried dough, drizzled in sticky blueberry sauce and making a mess everywhere.
"You should have been here yesterday for the alligator etouffee. Sold out by 1:00," he bragged. I said I wasn't surprised since alligator isn't regularly on the menu, but I was definitely interested in coming back the next time they have it.
"You're mighty quiet over there," the counter guy called to me from across the room. "Everything okay?" It's hard to stuff your face and convey complete satisfaction, but I did my best.
Owner Nate heard my regret at missing the alligator and assured me he'd be serving it again soon. "Like when?" I nosily asked, not wanting to miss out a second time. "Let's see, how about October fifth?" he countered.
I inquired if it would be etouffee again, but he had another idea. Next time it'll be fried alligator in a sauce picante (tomato-based brown gravy) over rice with green beans and grilled bread. 'The sauce will be cooked down until that alligator is fork-tender," Nate promised.
Telling him I'll definitely be back for that, he let out one of his belly laughs. "Guess I better write it down then so I don't forget." Good point, because I have a big mouth and obviously I'm not the only alligator fan.
When my counter bud came to clear my plate, he noted the clean table and said, "You didn't even make a mess," something he had warned me would surely happen. I pointed to the pile of crumpled napkins, saying I'd done my best to erase my mess.
"Honey, I was just trying to make you feel better!" he teased.
I don't know that I could have felt much better than sitting there licking powdered sugar off my lips on a hot fall day. Shades of New Orleans in September.
And somewhere in my reverie about fall in the Big Easy, it occurred to me that it was beignet day at Louisiana Flair. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was 10:15 and I had no idea how late they served beignets, but surely not much longer. You never saw someone jump out of bed so fast, but a quick phone call confirmed that beignets were available until 10:30.
Throwing on a sundress, I was walking in the door of Louisiana Flair at 10:32. Using my very best manners, I asked if I could still get beignets. The guy behind the counter gave me a look from behind his glasses and asked, "Are you the one who called?" Found out! "Did I sound desperate?" I wondered.
"A little," he said laughing. "We still got 'em, but you're lucky today. We usually run out by 10." As far as I was concerned, that was just proof that I was meant to have my beignets. I took a seat nearby and in two minutes I had my three beignets and blueberry sauce.
The charming gentleman who had fried them up (two minutes, one on each side) sat at the table next to me so I had some breakfast company. He said they'd made up five pans of beignet dough last night and had less than half a pan left now, a miracle since they almost never have leftover dough.
I expressed my gratitude for today's slower sales as I ate the confectioner's sugar-dusted fried dough, drizzled in sticky blueberry sauce and making a mess everywhere.
"You should have been here yesterday for the alligator etouffee. Sold out by 1:00," he bragged. I said I wasn't surprised since alligator isn't regularly on the menu, but I was definitely interested in coming back the next time they have it.
"You're mighty quiet over there," the counter guy called to me from across the room. "Everything okay?" It's hard to stuff your face and convey complete satisfaction, but I did my best.
Owner Nate heard my regret at missing the alligator and assured me he'd be serving it again soon. "Like when?" I nosily asked, not wanting to miss out a second time. "Let's see, how about October fifth?" he countered.
I inquired if it would be etouffee again, but he had another idea. Next time it'll be fried alligator in a sauce picante (tomato-based brown gravy) over rice with green beans and grilled bread. 'The sauce will be cooked down until that alligator is fork-tender," Nate promised.
Telling him I'll definitely be back for that, he let out one of his belly laughs. "Guess I better write it down then so I don't forget." Good point, because I have a big mouth and obviously I'm not the only alligator fan.
When my counter bud came to clear my plate, he noted the clean table and said, "You didn't even make a mess," something he had warned me would surely happen. I pointed to the pile of crumpled napkins, saying I'd done my best to erase my mess.
"Honey, I was just trying to make you feel better!" he teased.
I don't know that I could have felt much better than sitting there licking powdered sugar off my lips on a hot fall day. Shades of New Orleans in September.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Subterranean Sophistication
"That was an auditory pleasure," said one VCU student to another as we exited the Listening Room tonight. So what else is new, boys? But maybe they were Listening Room virgins and unprepared for the wonders of this must-hear monthly event. Even my friend Andrew almost always comes out for this one.
The crowd shifts regularly, sometimes younger, sometimes more mature, but always growing and made up of dedicated music lovers. For a change, tonight's bill had only two bands instead of three, making for slightly longer sets. Put on your attention spans, kids.
Blasco led the charge, tall and slender in black, and wearing a hat and jacket he soon shed under the heat of the lights. Even better, two of the lights got turned off, making for a much more atmospheric setting.
Blasco explained that he'd be playing both old and new material and that the new stuff would be recognizable because " it will be in French, so that's how you can tell. Because I'm French." He kept lyric sheets in front of him, he said, because they were still fresh. Even when I didn't understand the words, I got the feelings he was conveying.
It was the LR's first multi-lingual performance and set an interesting tone for the evening. With a tad less lighting, we could have been in a subterranean boite rather than a church basement with an emotive singer/songwriter playing guitar and singing songs of frustrated lives and loves. It felt so...Gallic and I mean that in the best possible way.
Favorite lyric: "He makes me want to miss you."
Next up was ...and The Wiremen, a trio tonight with one New Yorker (Lynn Wright) and two Richmonders (Paul Watson and Pippin). I've seen them before in places as disparate as Poe's Pub and Ghostprint Gallery, so I knew we were in for a treat.
Their music has a dark complexity and with Wright's (Bryan Ferry-like) warble, it makes for a haunting sound. Tuning his guitar, Wright said, "I was told to talk to the audience tonight which I don't usually do. I was also told not to act like a New Yorker."
The man does have a certain blase coolness that could be construed as acting like a New Yorker, but his apparent enjoyment in the performance came across as pure Richmond.
Watson's trumpet-playing and backing vocals add so much to the band's sound, as did his occasional air-guitar strumming on his trumpet. It was only preparation apparently for when he actually picked up his guitar, often alternating playing it with the horn.
Pippin (also of the Happy Lucky Combo) provided the creative drumming and percussion that rounded out their sound. I had just seen him play last week at the Musicircus, although in a band with a very different sound.
Favorite lyric: "Hey, I could be your man and stay to face it."
It was an unusually sophisticated evening at the Listening Room tonight and since a show of hands proved that easily half the crowd were first-timers, they may be surprised on their next visit to discover a completely different kind of musical experience.
But there still won't be any talking allowed. That's just how the Listening Room rolls.
The crowd shifts regularly, sometimes younger, sometimes more mature, but always growing and made up of dedicated music lovers. For a change, tonight's bill had only two bands instead of three, making for slightly longer sets. Put on your attention spans, kids.
Blasco led the charge, tall and slender in black, and wearing a hat and jacket he soon shed under the heat of the lights. Even better, two of the lights got turned off, making for a much more atmospheric setting.
Blasco explained that he'd be playing both old and new material and that the new stuff would be recognizable because " it will be in French, so that's how you can tell. Because I'm French." He kept lyric sheets in front of him, he said, because they were still fresh. Even when I didn't understand the words, I got the feelings he was conveying.
It was the LR's first multi-lingual performance and set an interesting tone for the evening. With a tad less lighting, we could have been in a subterranean boite rather than a church basement with an emotive singer/songwriter playing guitar and singing songs of frustrated lives and loves. It felt so...Gallic and I mean that in the best possible way.
Favorite lyric: "He makes me want to miss you."
Next up was ...and The Wiremen, a trio tonight with one New Yorker (Lynn Wright) and two Richmonders (Paul Watson and Pippin). I've seen them before in places as disparate as Poe's Pub and Ghostprint Gallery, so I knew we were in for a treat.
Their music has a dark complexity and with Wright's (Bryan Ferry-like) warble, it makes for a haunting sound. Tuning his guitar, Wright said, "I was told to talk to the audience tonight which I don't usually do. I was also told not to act like a New Yorker."
The man does have a certain blase coolness that could be construed as acting like a New Yorker, but his apparent enjoyment in the performance came across as pure Richmond.
Watson's trumpet-playing and backing vocals add so much to the band's sound, as did his occasional air-guitar strumming on his trumpet. It was only preparation apparently for when he actually picked up his guitar, often alternating playing it with the horn.
Pippin (also of the Happy Lucky Combo) provided the creative drumming and percussion that rounded out their sound. I had just seen him play last week at the Musicircus, although in a band with a very different sound.
Favorite lyric: "Hey, I could be your man and stay to face it."
It was an unusually sophisticated evening at the Listening Room tonight and since a show of hands proved that easily half the crowd were first-timers, they may be surprised on their next visit to discover a completely different kind of musical experience.
But there still won't be any talking allowed. That's just how the Listening Room rolls.
Art for the Economically-Challenged
Always a sucker for local art (my walls are testament to that), since making the unexpected switch from the corporate world to self-employment a while back, I have necessarily had to curb my art purchases, although I can't seem to stop entirely.
And I don't have to when I continue to discover local artists willing to share their talent for a pittance. Such was the case when I finally saw the excellent Donald Schrader show at Chop Suey Books.
I'd met a couple at a wine tasting recently and, as friends of Schrader's, they'd turned me on to his small-scale comic-style paintings, which sounded like something I might want to live with.
People who have been around Richmond for a while seem to remember Schrader when he was doing comic strips for ThroTTle, but I didn't. That only made the pleasure greater when I walked into Chop Suey's little gallery and experienced the full effect of so many small works, all in a very retro comic book style.
The paintings use limited colors and simple geometric shapes, but despite such minimalism, they are abuzz with activity. Musicians play, people dance, artists paint and mice scurry.
With titles like "Smile Podner," "Suits No Zoots" and "Britches Too Big," you get a sense of Schrader's sense of old-fashioned humor. And if you didn't know better, you'd swear these were vintage 1920-30s comics, simple and full of movement.
Best of all, prices started at $10 and topped out at $50, with the bulk of them in the $20-$30 range. Now that's art for a recessionista's budget.
If I were to have bought something, I mean. Ahem.
And I don't have to when I continue to discover local artists willing to share their talent for a pittance. Such was the case when I finally saw the excellent Donald Schrader show at Chop Suey Books.
I'd met a couple at a wine tasting recently and, as friends of Schrader's, they'd turned me on to his small-scale comic-style paintings, which sounded like something I might want to live with.
People who have been around Richmond for a while seem to remember Schrader when he was doing comic strips for ThroTTle, but I didn't. That only made the pleasure greater when I walked into Chop Suey's little gallery and experienced the full effect of so many small works, all in a very retro comic book style.
The paintings use limited colors and simple geometric shapes, but despite such minimalism, they are abuzz with activity. Musicians play, people dance, artists paint and mice scurry.
With titles like "Smile Podner," "Suits No Zoots" and "Britches Too Big," you get a sense of Schrader's sense of old-fashioned humor. And if you didn't know better, you'd swear these were vintage 1920-30s comics, simple and full of movement.
Best of all, prices started at $10 and topped out at $50, with the bulk of them in the $20-$30 range. Now that's art for a recessionista's budget.
If I were to have bought something, I mean. Ahem.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Girls Rock in Oregon Hill
I spent the evening in my favorite working class neighborhood, nearby Oregon Hill or as the local restaurant critics are lately proclaiming it, "the upcoming restaurant row dining destination."
Whatever.
I went for cheap (but good eats) and backyard movies, the pleasures of the working class.
Luckily for me, O-Hill is within walking distance because trying to park over there on a school night is pointless.
When I rolled up to 821 cafe, it was fairly quiet and I joined the barsitters, half of whom were the day shift who'd just gotten off and were enjoying happy hour beers (rail bourbon shots $2) and trash talking a fellow employee who'd come in wasted the night before.
They know me at 821, so I don't have to place my food order, only my beverages of choice.
Tonight's music was mostly punk and thrash, not my first choice, but definitely preferable to classic rock, country or Top 40.
The server sitting next to me told me that she no longer even hears the music during her shift.
I can't imagine being that music-oblivious, even while working, but perhaps she's just tuning out someone else's musical choices.
That I could see; I would have to tune out Journey.
Afterwards I strolled over to the Flying Brick Library, a radical lending library in an old house on Pine Street.
Tonight they were having a benefit for the Richmond 'Zine Fest, showing two documentaries, Grrlyshow and Girls Rock.
It was such a beautiful night to be sitting outside under the stars watching a movie on a fabric screen strung up between the fences.
Grrlyshow had interviews with some of the seminal figures in founding girly 'zines like Bust and Bamboo Girl, created by a generation of third-wave feminists.
Discussing that subject with a friend who's a Women's Studies professor after the film, we concluded that we're currently on the cusp of fourth-wave feminism, unbelievable as that sounds.
Girls Rock was a documentary about the annual five-day music camp in Portland, Oregon for 8-18 year old girls.
They choose a musical genre, learn to play an instrument, come up with a band name, write a song, and perform live for 700 people.
All the while, bickering and developing friendships with their band mates.
The film follows a few girls in depth and each is captivating and heartbreaking in her own way.
Given their ages, the girls are all in the throes of discovering who they are and the camp helps them appreciate themselves for the individuals they are.
Musicians like Carrie from Sleater-Kinney teach the campers girl-power lessons in between band practices and female bands perform during lunch every day.
You could actually see the girls becoming more comfortable in their own skins over the course of the week.
Many in the mostly female audience were charmed by the strength of character of a couple of the youngest girls, but they seemed like divas-in-the-making to me.
I'd be curious to see a follow-up piece about what those girls are like now.
Afterwards, a volunteer from the Portland camp shared her experiences there and spoke of her desire to start a similar rock camp for girls in Richmond.
With all the strong female musicians in this town, we'd probably be a natural for such a thing.
I'd have said we could hold it in Oregon Hill, where you can't walk down the street without hearing a band practicing, but restaurant row probably won't approve of pint-size shredding and high-pitched screaming.
More's the pity for that.
Whatever.
I went for cheap (but good eats) and backyard movies, the pleasures of the working class.
Luckily for me, O-Hill is within walking distance because trying to park over there on a school night is pointless.
When I rolled up to 821 cafe, it was fairly quiet and I joined the barsitters, half of whom were the day shift who'd just gotten off and were enjoying happy hour beers (rail bourbon shots $2) and trash talking a fellow employee who'd come in wasted the night before.
They know me at 821, so I don't have to place my food order, only my beverages of choice.
Tonight's music was mostly punk and thrash, not my first choice, but definitely preferable to classic rock, country or Top 40.
The server sitting next to me told me that she no longer even hears the music during her shift.
I can't imagine being that music-oblivious, even while working, but perhaps she's just tuning out someone else's musical choices.
That I could see; I would have to tune out Journey.
Afterwards I strolled over to the Flying Brick Library, a radical lending library in an old house on Pine Street.
Tonight they were having a benefit for the Richmond 'Zine Fest, showing two documentaries, Grrlyshow and Girls Rock.
It was such a beautiful night to be sitting outside under the stars watching a movie on a fabric screen strung up between the fences.
Grrlyshow had interviews with some of the seminal figures in founding girly 'zines like Bust and Bamboo Girl, created by a generation of third-wave feminists.
Discussing that subject with a friend who's a Women's Studies professor after the film, we concluded that we're currently on the cusp of fourth-wave feminism, unbelievable as that sounds.
Girls Rock was a documentary about the annual five-day music camp in Portland, Oregon for 8-18 year old girls.
They choose a musical genre, learn to play an instrument, come up with a band name, write a song, and perform live for 700 people.
All the while, bickering and developing friendships with their band mates.
The film follows a few girls in depth and each is captivating and heartbreaking in her own way.
Given their ages, the girls are all in the throes of discovering who they are and the camp helps them appreciate themselves for the individuals they are.
Musicians like Carrie from Sleater-Kinney teach the campers girl-power lessons in between band practices and female bands perform during lunch every day.
You could actually see the girls becoming more comfortable in their own skins over the course of the week.
Many in the mostly female audience were charmed by the strength of character of a couple of the youngest girls, but they seemed like divas-in-the-making to me.
I'd be curious to see a follow-up piece about what those girls are like now.
Afterwards, a volunteer from the Portland camp shared her experiences there and spoke of her desire to start a similar rock camp for girls in Richmond.
With all the strong female musicians in this town, we'd probably be a natural for such a thing.
I'd have said we could hold it in Oregon Hill, where you can't walk down the street without hearing a band practicing, but restaurant row probably won't approve of pint-size shredding and high-pitched screaming.
More's the pity for that.
R.I.P. English
Although I am a daily reader of the Washington Post, I've never been a huge fan of Gene Weingarten's Sunday column. Too often, his columns focus on the exaggerated differences between the sexes and, for whatever reason, they're just too over-the-top for my taste.
But this week's column was a masterpiece in my eyes because he was writing about the demise of the English language ("English. It's dead to me."), a subject near and dear to my heart.
He dubbed the official moment that English died of shame to be when the Post itself published a letter from a reader about their error in calling Sasha the President's youngest daughter, rather than the younger one. Good point, but the letter also referred to the first couple as the Obama's. Ouch.
Gene called this "an illiterate proofreading of an illiterate criticism of an illiteracy." I call it commonplace these days. Substituting a possessive for a plural is as frequently-occurring as misuse of there, they're and their (or its and it's). Or the non-existent "alot." A lot of people don't realize that alot is not a word. Never was.
His column also blasted the use of "reach out to" as a verb, citing it as the domain of 12-step programs and sensitivity training workshops. I once had an editor/writer boyfriend who had the same horror of using impact as a verb, refusing to acknowledge its right to be anything other than a noun.
But what endeared Gene to me most was the last line of his piece: "I could care less." If any misused phrase has the ability to set my teeth on edge every time I hear it, it's that one. If you could care less, you're saying something completely different than if you couldn't care less. And if you don't understand that distinction, clearly English died for you a long time ago.
And, yes, I acknowledge that language must remain malleable to thrive. I accept (and grimace) every year when buzz words like bromance and exit strategy are added to the venerable Oxford English Dictionary.
It's like my editor/writer friend once told me about a mutual friend, "I can't take her seriously. She doesn't know the difference between than and then."
To this language lover, he couldn't have explained her fatal flaw any more succinctly.
But this week's column was a masterpiece in my eyes because he was writing about the demise of the English language ("English. It's dead to me."), a subject near and dear to my heart.
He dubbed the official moment that English died of shame to be when the Post itself published a letter from a reader about their error in calling Sasha the President's youngest daughter, rather than the younger one. Good point, but the letter also referred to the first couple as the Obama's. Ouch.
Gene called this "an illiterate proofreading of an illiterate criticism of an illiteracy." I call it commonplace these days. Substituting a possessive for a plural is as frequently-occurring as misuse of there, they're and their (or its and it's). Or the non-existent "alot." A lot of people don't realize that alot is not a word. Never was.
His column also blasted the use of "reach out to" as a verb, citing it as the domain of 12-step programs and sensitivity training workshops. I once had an editor/writer boyfriend who had the same horror of using impact as a verb, refusing to acknowledge its right to be anything other than a noun.
But what endeared Gene to me most was the last line of his piece: "I could care less." If any misused phrase has the ability to set my teeth on edge every time I hear it, it's that one. If you could care less, you're saying something completely different than if you couldn't care less. And if you don't understand that distinction, clearly English died for you a long time ago.
And, yes, I acknowledge that language must remain malleable to thrive. I accept (and grimace) every year when buzz words like bromance and exit strategy are added to the venerable Oxford English Dictionary.
It's like my editor/writer friend once told me about a mutual friend, "I can't take her seriously. She doesn't know the difference between than and then."
To this language lover, he couldn't have explained her fatal flaw any more succinctly.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday Satisfaction: Subtitles and Sex
The UR campus is a long-time nemesis of mine and since it was my destination tonight, I thought it wisest to stop at Secco beforehand for a glass of wine.
It may seem counterproductive to imbibe before taking on that devil's triangle of a campus, but my thinking was that in case I wasn't able to locate the elusive building (and that's happened before), at least it wouldn't bother me as much.
So, Secco on a Sunday at 6 was completely civilized, with few tables populated and my favorite bar stool open and waiting for me. After a bit of tasting, I opted for the 2009 Chateau de Roquefort Cotes du Provence "Corail" Rose (bright fruit, clean finish), only to have cheese whiz Sara applauded me with, "Rose, drink it while you still can!" Amen to that. Sadly, I can already feel colder weather breathing dwn my neck.
After my massive brunch, all I really needed (besides true love and eternal happiness of course) was a chunk of cheese and the new Rosemary Manchego came highly recommended to complement my rose. The rosemary flavor was subtle and I also noticed they have a couple of other new cheeses, including a major stinky one I need to try.
But like Cinderella, I had a time limit, albeit a self-imposed one to allow myself enough time to make the 7:30 screening of the UR International Film Series (and wondrously, I found the building on my first try by asking a student for help).
Tonight they were showing Vincere, about the tragic life of Mussolini's first wife/lover, Ida Dalser and the son they had before he abandoned her for a publicly suitable wife. The film was only released in this country last spring and had already done well on the film festival circuit, including Cannes.
The film was operatic; there's just no other way to describe it. The sets and locations were magnificent and the evocation of the period completely convincing. Director Bellocchio brilliantly shifted to newsreels to eventually show the aging, balding and thicker man that Mussolini became rather than trying to achieve an artificial age in a marginally believable way.
Like all great foreign films, there were subtitles, plenty of nudity of both the male and female varieties and lingering sex scenes that rang true. You know, the kind you don't really need to watch when you're not dating...or when seated next to a white-haired octogenarian whose sharp intake of breath marked the start of every passion-filled scene.
And in the end, Ida died at a relatively young 57, her son at 26 and Mussolini got killed by the people he betrayed. Hollywood be damned, you have to appreciate a European unhappy ending.
But before he discarded her, their passion was intense and watching it certainly added something besides foreign film appreciation to my Sunday evening. A lot of wishful thinking perhaps, or at the very least, fodder for sweet dreams.
It may seem counterproductive to imbibe before taking on that devil's triangle of a campus, but my thinking was that in case I wasn't able to locate the elusive building (and that's happened before), at least it wouldn't bother me as much.
So, Secco on a Sunday at 6 was completely civilized, with few tables populated and my favorite bar stool open and waiting for me. After a bit of tasting, I opted for the 2009 Chateau de Roquefort Cotes du Provence "Corail" Rose (bright fruit, clean finish), only to have cheese whiz Sara applauded me with, "Rose, drink it while you still can!" Amen to that. Sadly, I can already feel colder weather breathing dwn my neck.
After my massive brunch, all I really needed (besides true love and eternal happiness of course) was a chunk of cheese and the new Rosemary Manchego came highly recommended to complement my rose. The rosemary flavor was subtle and I also noticed they have a couple of other new cheeses, including a major stinky one I need to try.
But like Cinderella, I had a time limit, albeit a self-imposed one to allow myself enough time to make the 7:30 screening of the UR International Film Series (and wondrously, I found the building on my first try by asking a student for help).
Tonight they were showing Vincere, about the tragic life of Mussolini's first wife/lover, Ida Dalser and the son they had before he abandoned her for a publicly suitable wife. The film was only released in this country last spring and had already done well on the film festival circuit, including Cannes.
The film was operatic; there's just no other way to describe it. The sets and locations were magnificent and the evocation of the period completely convincing. Director Bellocchio brilliantly shifted to newsreels to eventually show the aging, balding and thicker man that Mussolini became rather than trying to achieve an artificial age in a marginally believable way.
Like all great foreign films, there were subtitles, plenty of nudity of both the male and female varieties and lingering sex scenes that rang true. You know, the kind you don't really need to watch when you're not dating...or when seated next to a white-haired octogenarian whose sharp intake of breath marked the start of every passion-filled scene.
And in the end, Ida died at a relatively young 57, her son at 26 and Mussolini got killed by the people he betrayed. Hollywood be damned, you have to appreciate a European unhappy ending.
But before he discarded her, their passion was intense and watching it certainly added something besides foreign film appreciation to my Sunday evening. A lot of wishful thinking perhaps, or at the very least, fodder for sweet dreams.
British Invasion Brunch a Go Go
Maybe it's just me, but when I saw Sprout was having a 60s British music themed brunch, I immediately started looking through my closet for the most mod-looking dress I could find. The winner was a fitted bright pink sheath with white daisies and purple centers. Groovy and ready to go to the British Invasion brunch.
The DJs spinning vinyl for brunch were Sara (of Cherry Bomb) and Greg, so you know the music was spot-on. I waved hello as I took a table and Greg, very dapper in a white dickie with a yellow deep-V polyester shirt over it, blew me a kiss back. Sara was adorable in a brown mini with white lace tights.
And then there was the vinyl playing. Carrie Anne, Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter, Groovy Kind of Love; oh, yes, the music consisted of vintage hits as well as slightly more obscure British finds. All around me people were bobbing their heads and smiling each time a new three-minute gem played.
I was delighted to discover that the menu had also undergone a British invasion with all kinds of rarely-seen English standards for brunch today. Beans on toast, toads-in-a-hole, bangers over mash with onion gravy and my personal choice, chuck roast and Yorkshire pudding. They had their usual brunch choices too, but how often do I have British brunch options made with Virginia ingredients?
The table I sat next to included a girl I'd met at a Marionette show, so I had some built in conversational partners. The first thing she said was, "Nice job on the 60s look." She'd scoured her closet and come up empty, settling for a 60s-style headband and a thick line of eyeliner that curled up at the outside of her eyes.
But my dress couldn't compare to owner Laurie's mod little number because hers with paired with go-go boots. She refused to take credit for them , though, saying that she only has them because she's in a go-go dance group who perform with local bands. Of course, that just made her cooler.
When my local chuck roast and Yorkshire pudding arrived, the trio at the next table sounded like an echo chamber. "Wow," one said. "Wow," said the next. "Wow," said the last.
And it was impressive looking, with two puddings and loads of meat and gravy over it. On the side of the plate was a row of sliced local beets topped with a row of sliced local hard-cooked eggs, adding a bright 60s visual pop to the plate.
Having grown up in a large family, I know the pleasures of long-cooked (and relatively inexpensive) chuck roast and the horseradish-infused gravy did it justice. The puddings were dense, but perfect for sopping up gravy.
It was an enormous portion and I ate most of it before offering bites to my neighbors. One of the girls noted after tasting it that the gravy "tastes like Arby's horsey sauce." Um, you mean it has horseradish in it, I teased. She had no idea what Arby's secret ingredient had been. A teachable moment.
I asked Laurie how many people had gotten the same dish I had and she said very few, probably because they had no idea what it was. "That's why you have to know, to get the best thing on the menu," she admitted. But she's also working on expanding her menu-description skills, the better to help those who don't know.
Paying my bill, I noticed my name on the check and owner Jamie acknowledged that they do know me by name now. "Well, I have been to almost every show here," I had to admit, not to mention more than a few meals. "Yea, we're going to have to put you to work doing sound," Jamie laughed. He's right; I can always stand to add a new skill set.
Just don't ask me to go-go dance.
The DJs spinning vinyl for brunch were Sara (of Cherry Bomb) and Greg, so you know the music was spot-on. I waved hello as I took a table and Greg, very dapper in a white dickie with a yellow deep-V polyester shirt over it, blew me a kiss back. Sara was adorable in a brown mini with white lace tights.
And then there was the vinyl playing. Carrie Anne, Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter, Groovy Kind of Love; oh, yes, the music consisted of vintage hits as well as slightly more obscure British finds. All around me people were bobbing their heads and smiling each time a new three-minute gem played.
I was delighted to discover that the menu had also undergone a British invasion with all kinds of rarely-seen English standards for brunch today. Beans on toast, toads-in-a-hole, bangers over mash with onion gravy and my personal choice, chuck roast and Yorkshire pudding. They had their usual brunch choices too, but how often do I have British brunch options made with Virginia ingredients?
The table I sat next to included a girl I'd met at a Marionette show, so I had some built in conversational partners. The first thing she said was, "Nice job on the 60s look." She'd scoured her closet and come up empty, settling for a 60s-style headband and a thick line of eyeliner that curled up at the outside of her eyes.
But my dress couldn't compare to owner Laurie's mod little number because hers with paired with go-go boots. She refused to take credit for them , though, saying that she only has them because she's in a go-go dance group who perform with local bands. Of course, that just made her cooler.
When my local chuck roast and Yorkshire pudding arrived, the trio at the next table sounded like an echo chamber. "Wow," one said. "Wow," said the next. "Wow," said the last.
And it was impressive looking, with two puddings and loads of meat and gravy over it. On the side of the plate was a row of sliced local beets topped with a row of sliced local hard-cooked eggs, adding a bright 60s visual pop to the plate.
Having grown up in a large family, I know the pleasures of long-cooked (and relatively inexpensive) chuck roast and the horseradish-infused gravy did it justice. The puddings were dense, but perfect for sopping up gravy.
It was an enormous portion and I ate most of it before offering bites to my neighbors. One of the girls noted after tasting it that the gravy "tastes like Arby's horsey sauce." Um, you mean it has horseradish in it, I teased. She had no idea what Arby's secret ingredient had been. A teachable moment.
I asked Laurie how many people had gotten the same dish I had and she said very few, probably because they had no idea what it was. "That's why you have to know, to get the best thing on the menu," she admitted. But she's also working on expanding her menu-description skills, the better to help those who don't know.
Paying my bill, I noticed my name on the check and owner Jamie acknowledged that they do know me by name now. "Well, I have been to almost every show here," I had to admit, not to mention more than a few meals. "Yea, we're going to have to put you to work doing sound," Jamie laughed. He's right; I can always stand to add a new skill set.
Just don't ask me to go-go dance.
Ethiopian Energy Everywhere
Remember how I said that if you weren't at Balliceaux for the Kings Go Forth show, here, that it was your loss?
Okay, same deal, different band, but another limited big-city tour that just miraculously included us: Boston, Philly, NYC and DC.
Oh yes, and RVA.
The Debo Band out of Boston had everything they needed to lay down 60s and 70s-era Ethiopian grooves: congas, electric guitar, bass, accordion, sousaphone, saxophone and whatever else they decided to play.
Tonight's show featured them along with the visiting Fendika, a group of traditional Azmari artists from Ethiopia, lending their vocal and dancing talents.
This was truly a dream bill.
The place was packed. Bartender Sean told me they'd sold 100 tickets just today and the room only holds 200 people.
Add in planning types like me who'd bought their tickets before today and the brave souls who just walked up to the door and you've got a full house.
It was a tight fit to start and once the crowd started dancing, well let's just say body parts met body parts.
When I got there, I established my spot with a good view at the corner of the bar, where an Ethiopian guy immediately introduced himself to me; he'd driven from Harrisonburg for this show.
Later, I met a girl who'd come from DC.
It was a huge bonus to hear from two Ethiopians who had seen the band before and they only whetted my appetite further for the show we were all so excited about.
They tried to verse me on the dancing I was about to see so that I could join in, but you can imagine where that went.
I felt much better when the guy told me he wasn't any good at Ethiopian dancing either.
"Well, if you aren't any good with your heritage, what chance does this American have?" I asked, making him laugh and give up.
Peter Solomon from WCVE stopped by to chat with me, telling me that he sees me at every music event he attends.
He mistakenly assumed that that meant I had musical talent, so I relieved him of that misconception, clarifying that I'm just a music fan.
He was thrilled that the Debo Band had a sousaphone because it was the instrument that made him want to learn to play music.
Unfortunately, his dad found a trombone for a dollar, so he ended up learning that instead, but his love for the sousaphone lives on apparently.
But then the entire room was full of music lovers tonight.
I was one of many who loved how the Debo Band slipped into a groove and just stayed there.
With the addition of Fendika, the music became even more North African sounding and when the dancers shared the stage with them, it was like watching a complete circle of music and dance.
So we had this 14-piece jazz collective who already focus on Ethiopian grooves sharing the stage with traditional Ethiopian musicians, making for the funkiest world music possible in what gradually became an overheated room due to all the moving bodies.
Tonight Balliceaux was a little slice of slinky groove heaven.
Like I said, you should have been there.
My regrets if you weren't.
Okay, same deal, different band, but another limited big-city tour that just miraculously included us: Boston, Philly, NYC and DC.
Oh yes, and RVA.
The Debo Band out of Boston had everything they needed to lay down 60s and 70s-era Ethiopian grooves: congas, electric guitar, bass, accordion, sousaphone, saxophone and whatever else they decided to play.
Tonight's show featured them along with the visiting Fendika, a group of traditional Azmari artists from Ethiopia, lending their vocal and dancing talents.
This was truly a dream bill.
The place was packed. Bartender Sean told me they'd sold 100 tickets just today and the room only holds 200 people.
Add in planning types like me who'd bought their tickets before today and the brave souls who just walked up to the door and you've got a full house.
It was a tight fit to start and once the crowd started dancing, well let's just say body parts met body parts.
When I got there, I established my spot with a good view at the corner of the bar, where an Ethiopian guy immediately introduced himself to me; he'd driven from Harrisonburg for this show.
Later, I met a girl who'd come from DC.
It was a huge bonus to hear from two Ethiopians who had seen the band before and they only whetted my appetite further for the show we were all so excited about.
They tried to verse me on the dancing I was about to see so that I could join in, but you can imagine where that went.
I felt much better when the guy told me he wasn't any good at Ethiopian dancing either.
"Well, if you aren't any good with your heritage, what chance does this American have?" I asked, making him laugh and give up.
Peter Solomon from WCVE stopped by to chat with me, telling me that he sees me at every music event he attends.
He mistakenly assumed that that meant I had musical talent, so I relieved him of that misconception, clarifying that I'm just a music fan.
He was thrilled that the Debo Band had a sousaphone because it was the instrument that made him want to learn to play music.
Unfortunately, his dad found a trombone for a dollar, so he ended up learning that instead, but his love for the sousaphone lives on apparently.
But then the entire room was full of music lovers tonight.
I was one of many who loved how the Debo Band slipped into a groove and just stayed there.
With the addition of Fendika, the music became even more North African sounding and when the dancers shared the stage with them, it was like watching a complete circle of music and dance.
So we had this 14-piece jazz collective who already focus on Ethiopian grooves sharing the stage with traditional Ethiopian musicians, making for the funkiest world music possible in what gradually became an overheated room due to all the moving bodies.
Tonight Balliceaux was a little slice of slinky groove heaven.
Like I said, you should have been there.
My regrets if you weren't.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Road Tripping It Down Route 1
I guess I just needed a road trip.
After the reading this afternoon, I started thinking about where I might want to have dinner and what it came down to was where not what.
I felt like taking a drive.
But I had plans later, so there were some time constraints; I couldn't go as far as Fredericksburg or Charlottesville.
So I got cleaned up and decided to take a drive down colorful Route 1 to Petersburg to enjoy the road view and have a bite to eat.
Yes, I could have taken I-95 except that it sucks my soul to drive that road, so I reserve it for times it can't be avoided (hello DC).
Besides, if I'd driven 95, I would have missed the series of mid-century motels that once provided respite for north/south travelers.
Places like the Relax Inn, the Snow White Motel, The Martha Kay, The White House Motel, the Par 3 Motel and the wholesome-sounding Family Motel.
And the Sunrise Motel? Yep, it faced east.
I'd have missed the "Coin Laundry. Open 24 Hours. Air-Conditioned" sign. How long has that sign been up, do you suppose?
I wouldn't have seen the gun shop sign saying, "Conceal Carry Class Oct. 2."
Or the "Jefferson Davis Highway/Route 1/Welcome" banners all along the road, which actually tickled me.
I guess I'm not the only one who appreciates the scenic nature of the number one byway.
And certainly I wouldn't have had a guy in a black truck pull up next to me at a stoplight in Colonial Heights, smile right at me and say through our open windows, "You have some pretty teeth."
Sorry, but that kind of stuff just doesn't happen on the interstate.
Once I crossed the Appomattox, I stopped at the first restaurant I came to, Wabi Sabi and took a seat at the sushi bar, much to the staff's surprise.
Since I was there last, they'd added tapas to the sushi menu, so I decided to give a small plate a try.
After an above average house salad due to the roasted red peppers, abundance of red onion and grated cucumber and carrot, I enjoyed the lamb chops with North African and Middle Eastern spices with cucumber salad and kiwi sauce.
The dry rub was excellent and although the server tried to warn me that it was a tapas-size portion (3) and not an entree, it was plenty of food.
The kiwi provided the sweet complement to the savory spice of the chops.
And, yes, I sucked bones.
The owner chatted with me about the ghetto cheeseburger he'd just had (a slice of cheese on a hamburger bun) and the upcoming Hops Festival and how best to milk it.
Then he took his plate of sushi to his office to work and eat on a Saturday night.
Better him than me.
The drive back was just as compellingly scenic, except in a night-time kind of way.
The moon was out and the neon was on and I got a whole different perspective of Route 1 in the dark.
Not only did I satisfy my road trip jones, I had a nice meal in a place where I didn't know a soul, a rare occurence for me.
And did I mention that I now know where I can rent a crane?
Such is the beauty of a drive down Route 1.
After the reading this afternoon, I started thinking about where I might want to have dinner and what it came down to was where not what.
I felt like taking a drive.
But I had plans later, so there were some time constraints; I couldn't go as far as Fredericksburg or Charlottesville.
So I got cleaned up and decided to take a drive down colorful Route 1 to Petersburg to enjoy the road view and have a bite to eat.
Yes, I could have taken I-95 except that it sucks my soul to drive that road, so I reserve it for times it can't be avoided (hello DC).
Besides, if I'd driven 95, I would have missed the series of mid-century motels that once provided respite for north/south travelers.
Places like the Relax Inn, the Snow White Motel, The Martha Kay, The White House Motel, the Par 3 Motel and the wholesome-sounding Family Motel.
And the Sunrise Motel? Yep, it faced east.
I'd have missed the "Coin Laundry. Open 24 Hours. Air-Conditioned" sign. How long has that sign been up, do you suppose?
I wouldn't have seen the gun shop sign saying, "Conceal Carry Class Oct. 2."
Or the "Jefferson Davis Highway/Route 1/Welcome" banners all along the road, which actually tickled me.
I guess I'm not the only one who appreciates the scenic nature of the number one byway.
And certainly I wouldn't have had a guy in a black truck pull up next to me at a stoplight in Colonial Heights, smile right at me and say through our open windows, "You have some pretty teeth."
Sorry, but that kind of stuff just doesn't happen on the interstate.
Once I crossed the Appomattox, I stopped at the first restaurant I came to, Wabi Sabi and took a seat at the sushi bar, much to the staff's surprise.
Since I was there last, they'd added tapas to the sushi menu, so I decided to give a small plate a try.
After an above average house salad due to the roasted red peppers, abundance of red onion and grated cucumber and carrot, I enjoyed the lamb chops with North African and Middle Eastern spices with cucumber salad and kiwi sauce.
The dry rub was excellent and although the server tried to warn me that it was a tapas-size portion (3) and not an entree, it was plenty of food.
The kiwi provided the sweet complement to the savory spice of the chops.
And, yes, I sucked bones.
The owner chatted with me about the ghetto cheeseburger he'd just had (a slice of cheese on a hamburger bun) and the upcoming Hops Festival and how best to milk it.
Then he took his plate of sushi to his office to work and eat on a Saturday night.
Better him than me.
The drive back was just as compellingly scenic, except in a night-time kind of way.
The moon was out and the neon was on and I got a whole different perspective of Route 1 in the dark.
Not only did I satisfy my road trip jones, I had a nice meal in a place where I didn't know a soul, a rare occurence for me.
And did I mention that I now know where I can rent a crane?
Such is the beauty of a drive down Route 1.
Meatless Mondays Made Easy with Kim O'Donnel
My mother is an O'Donnell.
This has her disgusted at the moment because of Tea Party victor Christine O'Donnell.
I, on the other hand, went to a reading at Chop Suey by Kim O'Donnel, former food writer for the Washington Post and author of the new book The Meat Lover's Meatless Cookbook and no embarrassment to the family name at all.
As a bonus, Kendra, Ipanema's owner, had prepared four recipes from the cookbook for the reading audience to enjoy.
With the exception of the Chop Suey reading I went to where a jar of moonshine was passed around, here, today's reading had the most to offer beyond just words.
In a nod to the world we live in today, the reading began on Twitter when Kendra (who follows Kim) contacted her about making a stop in RVA before beginning her press blitz for the new cookbook.
She graciously accommodated, even bringing her book and cat-loving husband along.
Kim started the informal talk with the sobering statistic that Americans eat 200 pounds of meat per capita a year.
Her cookbook is part of the Meatless Monday movement, an attempt to gradually reduce the amount of meat we consume for health's sake as well as the good of the planet.
Mario Batali has made all fourteen of his restaurants meatless on Mondays, so we're not talking about just a fad.
She made it clear that the recipes were designed for hearty satisfaction rather than just using faux meats, which she reminded the audience are highly processed.
Her measuring stick for inclusion was her mother's husband, a carnivore she referred to as Mr. Sausage.
To be included, the dish had to come from a meat-lover's perspective and satisfy him.
The dishes we tasted today were hits: kale chips, hummus-stuffed cherry tomatoes, vinegar slaw shots and roasted cauliflower and broccoli.
The kale chips, in particular, were wildly popular with their combination of super-food status and salty crunch.
Just don't try reheating them in your toaster oven, Kim warned, or it may catch on fire. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.
She was also a big proponent of Americans cooking more at home, a habit she feels is slowly dying.
Her cookbook offers up a menu for each week of the year as a way to ease meat-eaters into a shift in their habits.
Afterwards, a few of us sat around talking about Richmond ("It's changed a lot in 20 years," Kim noted), our vibrant food scene and her next few stops, including a homeless facility run by Franciscan monks in Baltimore.
I'll have to let my Mom know that there are still O'Donnells out there that she can be proud of.
It might even be enough to get her and my Dad to give up their mighty meat habit.
We're talking about a woman who, at any given moment, always has a ham in her refrigerator ("It's so versatile," she swears. "You can serve it for breakfast, lunch or dinner.").
Okay, the meat thing may be a tough sell for her, but the O'Donnell part will at least distract her from the recent disgrace to her family name.
And I know my Dad would love the kale chips.
This has her disgusted at the moment because of Tea Party victor Christine O'Donnell.
I, on the other hand, went to a reading at Chop Suey by Kim O'Donnel, former food writer for the Washington Post and author of the new book The Meat Lover's Meatless Cookbook and no embarrassment to the family name at all.
As a bonus, Kendra, Ipanema's owner, had prepared four recipes from the cookbook for the reading audience to enjoy.
With the exception of the Chop Suey reading I went to where a jar of moonshine was passed around, here, today's reading had the most to offer beyond just words.
In a nod to the world we live in today, the reading began on Twitter when Kendra (who follows Kim) contacted her about making a stop in RVA before beginning her press blitz for the new cookbook.
She graciously accommodated, even bringing her book and cat-loving husband along.
Kim started the informal talk with the sobering statistic that Americans eat 200 pounds of meat per capita a year.
Her cookbook is part of the Meatless Monday movement, an attempt to gradually reduce the amount of meat we consume for health's sake as well as the good of the planet.
Mario Batali has made all fourteen of his restaurants meatless on Mondays, so we're not talking about just a fad.
She made it clear that the recipes were designed for hearty satisfaction rather than just using faux meats, which she reminded the audience are highly processed.
Her measuring stick for inclusion was her mother's husband, a carnivore she referred to as Mr. Sausage.
To be included, the dish had to come from a meat-lover's perspective and satisfy him.
The dishes we tasted today were hits: kale chips, hummus-stuffed cherry tomatoes, vinegar slaw shots and roasted cauliflower and broccoli.
The kale chips, in particular, were wildly popular with their combination of super-food status and salty crunch.
Just don't try reheating them in your toaster oven, Kim warned, or it may catch on fire. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.
She was also a big proponent of Americans cooking more at home, a habit she feels is slowly dying.
Her cookbook offers up a menu for each week of the year as a way to ease meat-eaters into a shift in their habits.
Afterwards, a few of us sat around talking about Richmond ("It's changed a lot in 20 years," Kim noted), our vibrant food scene and her next few stops, including a homeless facility run by Franciscan monks in Baltimore.
I'll have to let my Mom know that there are still O'Donnells out there that she can be proud of.
It might even be enough to get her and my Dad to give up their mighty meat habit.
We're talking about a woman who, at any given moment, always has a ham in her refrigerator ("It's so versatile," she swears. "You can serve it for breakfast, lunch or dinner.").
Okay, the meat thing may be a tough sell for her, but the O'Donnell part will at least distract her from the recent disgrace to her family name.
And I know my Dad would love the kale chips.
Friday, September 17, 2010
ISO Duck Tongue Lover
Being the documentary dork that I am and given my fascination with all the South African exhibits going on in RVA at the moment, I was a sucker for an evening of South African documentaries at VMFA's Friday Films series.
Leading the double feature bill (and deservedly so) was the 1966 documentary, Miriam Makeba Live at Bern's Salonger, Stockholm, Sweden. Filmed for Swedish television, the film was pretty much a straight performance by Makeba at the height of her powers. The setting was a magnificent 19th century theater/club oozing with the kind of glamour that no longer exists.
Tonight's audience treated the film like it was watching the real performance, clapping after each of Makeba's numbers (some in Afrikaans, others in English), except that we were sitting in a museum theater and the original audience was in a club-like theater, seated at tables with candles burning and drinking cocktails. That is to say, nothing like tonight's experience.
Except for the power of Makeba's voice and the charisma of her personality, and both were undeniable as we watched her performance. She was wearing an actual leopard skin dress given to her by the President of Kenya and her undulating hips echoed every rhythm of her songs. Her backup trio (from the US, St. Thomas and Brazil) was exceptional, low-key and completely supportive.
The second documentary was African Jim, made in 1949 and the first film with an all-black South African cast. The film was not terribly sophisticated with its stereotypes and cliches, but it did reflect the optimism of post- World War II South Africa before apartheid became the rule of the day.
I found it especially interesting since most of the action took place in an all-black nightclub, something that did not exist in South Africa in 1949. Of course, such a setting provided the perfect place to showcase African talent to the greater world and there was a lot of that.
And, as unrelated as it was to the point of the film, my favorite shot was of a herd of springbok running through an open field. I know from experience what delicious carpaccio springbok makes, but they are also beautiful runners and jumpers, so I tried to focus on that.
After the films, we were told there was a small "dessert," an 8-minute interview with Makeba in white go-go boots, a hip 60s outfit and an African headdress. She answered questions about singing protest songs (something she rarely did once she was exiled from South Africa, preferring to cater to her audiences' taste) and then sang one. She was truly mesmerizing to watch. I can think of no one with that kind of musical presence today.
Afterwards, I debated where to go have a bite and a drink and took the lazy approach by heading home and staying in the neighborhood. Driving by Bistro 27, Chef Carlos spotted me from inside and waved, so I parked and planted myself at the bar.
He suggested the Albaliza Temperanillo/Garnacha and who was I to argue? I generally defer to the Brazilian's superior wine palate and he knows my taste well enough to order for me. With it, I ordered the local pork and duck pate served with gherkins, spiced mustard and toasted baguette slices. It did the job of a late supper and a post-film snack, so I was more than satisfied.
Meanwhile, he wanted to brag about his Restaurant Week menu, sure to be a hit with foodies and frequent restaurant diners alike (stuffed quail and osso buco: neither often seen during the dreaded RW). He wanted new restaurant recommendations from me but I had only one contender for his limited time and he was impressed enough with my description to commit to Tuesday to check it out.
We got off on a tangent about Full Kee and the delectability of their varied menu, like ducks' tongues and beef tripe soup. Given our similar tastes, we decided on a field trip to Full Kee together to eat the stuff that none of our usual dining partners will eat. Report to follow.
Meanwhile a colorful group had come in to drink, so I moved a stool over to give them room. One girl's tights were so notable that I had to ask from whence they'd come. They resembled a pair I'd gotten a lot of mileage and compliments out of last winter, and now that I know her source, I'll be scoring a pair or two sooner rather than later.
Tights aside, they were a cocktail drinking group (unlike me) but bartender Ron convinced me that I needed to try their Cucumber Citron drink and it was, well, cool as a cucumber. I'll just never understand why people drink cocktails when they could be drinking fine tequila on ice, but that's just me.
And therein lies the problem. What are the chances there's someone who'd appreciate a tequila-sipping, tights-wearing, pate-loving, long-winded, music-obsessed documentary dork?
As my Richmond grandmother used to say, "Slim to none and Slim just left town."
He probably went to South Africa for that carpaccio.
Leading the double feature bill (and deservedly so) was the 1966 documentary, Miriam Makeba Live at Bern's Salonger, Stockholm, Sweden. Filmed for Swedish television, the film was pretty much a straight performance by Makeba at the height of her powers. The setting was a magnificent 19th century theater/club oozing with the kind of glamour that no longer exists.
Tonight's audience treated the film like it was watching the real performance, clapping after each of Makeba's numbers (some in Afrikaans, others in English), except that we were sitting in a museum theater and the original audience was in a club-like theater, seated at tables with candles burning and drinking cocktails. That is to say, nothing like tonight's experience.
Except for the power of Makeba's voice and the charisma of her personality, and both were undeniable as we watched her performance. She was wearing an actual leopard skin dress given to her by the President of Kenya and her undulating hips echoed every rhythm of her songs. Her backup trio (from the US, St. Thomas and Brazil) was exceptional, low-key and completely supportive.
The second documentary was African Jim, made in 1949 and the first film with an all-black South African cast. The film was not terribly sophisticated with its stereotypes and cliches, but it did reflect the optimism of post- World War II South Africa before apartheid became the rule of the day.
I found it especially interesting since most of the action took place in an all-black nightclub, something that did not exist in South Africa in 1949. Of course, such a setting provided the perfect place to showcase African talent to the greater world and there was a lot of that.
And, as unrelated as it was to the point of the film, my favorite shot was of a herd of springbok running through an open field. I know from experience what delicious carpaccio springbok makes, but they are also beautiful runners and jumpers, so I tried to focus on that.
After the films, we were told there was a small "dessert," an 8-minute interview with Makeba in white go-go boots, a hip 60s outfit and an African headdress. She answered questions about singing protest songs (something she rarely did once she was exiled from South Africa, preferring to cater to her audiences' taste) and then sang one. She was truly mesmerizing to watch. I can think of no one with that kind of musical presence today.
Afterwards, I debated where to go have a bite and a drink and took the lazy approach by heading home and staying in the neighborhood. Driving by Bistro 27, Chef Carlos spotted me from inside and waved, so I parked and planted myself at the bar.
He suggested the Albaliza Temperanillo/Garnacha and who was I to argue? I generally defer to the Brazilian's superior wine palate and he knows my taste well enough to order for me. With it, I ordered the local pork and duck pate served with gherkins, spiced mustard and toasted baguette slices. It did the job of a late supper and a post-film snack, so I was more than satisfied.
Meanwhile, he wanted to brag about his Restaurant Week menu, sure to be a hit with foodies and frequent restaurant diners alike (stuffed quail and osso buco: neither often seen during the dreaded RW). He wanted new restaurant recommendations from me but I had only one contender for his limited time and he was impressed enough with my description to commit to Tuesday to check it out.
We got off on a tangent about Full Kee and the delectability of their varied menu, like ducks' tongues and beef tripe soup. Given our similar tastes, we decided on a field trip to Full Kee together to eat the stuff that none of our usual dining partners will eat. Report to follow.
Meanwhile a colorful group had come in to drink, so I moved a stool over to give them room. One girl's tights were so notable that I had to ask from whence they'd come. They resembled a pair I'd gotten a lot of mileage and compliments out of last winter, and now that I know her source, I'll be scoring a pair or two sooner rather than later.
Tights aside, they were a cocktail drinking group (unlike me) but bartender Ron convinced me that I needed to try their Cucumber Citron drink and it was, well, cool as a cucumber. I'll just never understand why people drink cocktails when they could be drinking fine tequila on ice, but that's just me.
And therein lies the problem. What are the chances there's someone who'd appreciate a tequila-sipping, tights-wearing, pate-loving, long-winded, music-obsessed documentary dork?
As my Richmond grandmother used to say, "Slim to none and Slim just left town."
He probably went to South Africa for that carpaccio.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thursday Thrills
Ever since the VMFA transformed itself into a world-class museum, it's been one amazing thing after another. The latest was the lecture tonight by Jun Kaneko, the Japanese sculptor who did all those massive and beautiful pieces temporarily residing in the VMFA sculpture garden.
The evening got off to an auspicious start when, while walking to Will Call to pick up my ticket, I passed an Asian man with flowing white hair and glasses who smiled at me. Smiling back, I immediately knew that he was the artist and I don't even know why. And I could tell I was going to enjoy hearing him talk.
I joined a nearly full house to hear this painter-turned-sculptor share his life and art. His passion for creating imbued every word of his lecture and he emphasized that creative energy comes from curiosity. Being a naturally curious person myself, I loved having my need to know validated.
He said his origins as a painter left him in the dark about sculpture. "It's really great not to know anything because you have nothing to worry about, " he recalled. "Lots of things I did shouldn't have worked."
I could say the same about my own life, although I have no sculpture to show for it (well, except for the little blue glazed flower pot I made in 4th grade...but I digress). Next up was dinner.
With flamenco on the menu at Olio tonight, I couldn't resist a stop for food and a chance to listen to the flying fingers of guitarist Frank Bourke. I'd heard him previously at the Listening Room, so I knew how good he was. And how often do I have a chance to hear flamenco guitar playing?
I arrived in between sets, so I went to the counter to choose my meal. One thing I love abut Olio is that you don't have to order off the menu. Tonight I chose a couple of things from the case, paid by the ounce and was delivered a lovely plate of roasted chicken salad on mesclun greens with cumin-spiced black bean and corn salad on the side. It looked so much more appealing on the plate than it had in the plastic containers.
Between songs, a nearby diner asked if he could join me at my table, despite there being plenty of empty tables. He asked if I played guitar (ha!), informed me he likes music without lyrics and
then said I looked fantastic in blue ("It's your dark hair."). It seemed like a good time to leave for the Visual Arts Center and one of my favorite annual events.
Musicircus, the yearly tribute to composer John Cage, is assembled by drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones. The cacophony of a dozen or so different musicians and groups performing whatever they like simultaneously is an aural treat unlike any other.
Moving from room to room and space to space, music blends and becomes something different entirely. Tonight's offerings included Josh Small and Lance Koehler (banjo and percussion), yet another Brian Jones trio (drums, two bass clarinets), Scott Clark and Scott Burton aka SCUO (drums and jazz guitar), Richmond Gamelon Orchestra (they encouraged viewers to play the cymbals with them), Happy Lucky Combo, a female duo (violin and viola) and a bluegrass band I didn't know (upright bass, two banjos, fiddle, guitar and washboard). And that's just what I remember right now.
Moving around to hear and see different music, I ran into all kinds of random people. The complimentary biologist whom I'd also seen at the Kaneko lecture, the jewelry-maker I'd met at the Down Home Family Reunion, the renowned local guitarist I'd asked to explain pedal steel playing to me, the fellow former coworker who barely leaves the house anymore, and of course the walking writer I run into everywhere.
But I never lingered to chat for long because Musicircus only lasts for an hour and I didn't want to miss a moment of the experience. As Cage said, "You should let each thing that happens happen from its own center..."
And there was much happening from many centers. I was just there to bear witness to it all and smile with the pleasure of being part of it.
And, no, I did not have the nerve to pick up the cymbals and join in, although I thought about it. Maybe next year.
Because if Brian Jones puts on a musicircus, I will come. I always have. I always will.
The evening got off to an auspicious start when, while walking to Will Call to pick up my ticket, I passed an Asian man with flowing white hair and glasses who smiled at me. Smiling back, I immediately knew that he was the artist and I don't even know why. And I could tell I was going to enjoy hearing him talk.
I joined a nearly full house to hear this painter-turned-sculptor share his life and art. His passion for creating imbued every word of his lecture and he emphasized that creative energy comes from curiosity. Being a naturally curious person myself, I loved having my need to know validated.
He said his origins as a painter left him in the dark about sculpture. "It's really great not to know anything because you have nothing to worry about, " he recalled. "Lots of things I did shouldn't have worked."
I could say the same about my own life, although I have no sculpture to show for it (well, except for the little blue glazed flower pot I made in 4th grade...but I digress). Next up was dinner.
With flamenco on the menu at Olio tonight, I couldn't resist a stop for food and a chance to listen to the flying fingers of guitarist Frank Bourke. I'd heard him previously at the Listening Room, so I knew how good he was. And how often do I have a chance to hear flamenco guitar playing?
I arrived in between sets, so I went to the counter to choose my meal. One thing I love abut Olio is that you don't have to order off the menu. Tonight I chose a couple of things from the case, paid by the ounce and was delivered a lovely plate of roasted chicken salad on mesclun greens with cumin-spiced black bean and corn salad on the side. It looked so much more appealing on the plate than it had in the plastic containers.
Between songs, a nearby diner asked if he could join me at my table, despite there being plenty of empty tables. He asked if I played guitar (ha!), informed me he likes music without lyrics and
then said I looked fantastic in blue ("It's your dark hair."). It seemed like a good time to leave for the Visual Arts Center and one of my favorite annual events.
Musicircus, the yearly tribute to composer John Cage, is assembled by drummer extraordinaire Brian Jones. The cacophony of a dozen or so different musicians and groups performing whatever they like simultaneously is an aural treat unlike any other.
Moving from room to room and space to space, music blends and becomes something different entirely. Tonight's offerings included Josh Small and Lance Koehler (banjo and percussion), yet another Brian Jones trio (drums, two bass clarinets), Scott Clark and Scott Burton aka SCUO (drums and jazz guitar), Richmond Gamelon Orchestra (they encouraged viewers to play the cymbals with them), Happy Lucky Combo, a female duo (violin and viola) and a bluegrass band I didn't know (upright bass, two banjos, fiddle, guitar and washboard). And that's just what I remember right now.
Moving around to hear and see different music, I ran into all kinds of random people. The complimentary biologist whom I'd also seen at the Kaneko lecture, the jewelry-maker I'd met at the Down Home Family Reunion, the renowned local guitarist I'd asked to explain pedal steel playing to me, the fellow former coworker who barely leaves the house anymore, and of course the walking writer I run into everywhere.
But I never lingered to chat for long because Musicircus only lasts for an hour and I didn't want to miss a moment of the experience. As Cage said, "You should let each thing that happens happen from its own center..."
And there was much happening from many centers. I was just there to bear witness to it all and smile with the pleasure of being part of it.
And, no, I did not have the nerve to pick up the cymbals and join in, although I thought about it. Maybe next year.
Because if Brian Jones puts on a musicircus, I will come. I always have. I always will.
Catfishin' at Comfort
Planning a quickie is all about knowing where you're going to do it. A friend wanted to have lunch with me today but said that it had to be short and sweet. Based on that, I suggested Comfort, puzzling him. "But it's always mobbed at dinner," he said as we walked through the door.
Ah, but it's not always mobbed at lunch and, in fact, within the first ten minutes we were there, the four occupied tables paid their bills and left the restaurant to just the two of us. With the kitchen cooking for only two people, this lunch was bound to be brief, even if we ordered entrees instead of sandwiches.
So I did, enjoying the fried catfish with squash casserole and fries. How's that for a nice light lunch? His cheddar and bacon grilled cheese and house made chips weren't a whole lot lighter, but just as tasty. It seemed like they arrived from the kitchen mere moments after we ordered them.
The cornmeal-crusted catfish was crispy and steaming; the squash and zucchini bound thickly with cheese sauce was decadent, especially for lunch. It led to a discussion of making a meal of sides when you had such a rich starting point as this dish.
Josh, one of my favorite bartenders, came in for lunch wearing a Benedictine Football t-shirt and telling me he'd heard I'd been in to 6B on a night he didn't work. Which was true, but I'd been taken care of by the guy he'd trained, who'd done a fine job subbing for the master.
My only complaint was that his trainee couldn't talk music with me like Josh can, but that's not really something you can train someone to do either, nor is it fair to expect it from someone hired to sling drinks. I'm smart enough to know that I can hope for it, but I can't expect it.
What I can expect when I eat with this particular friend is dessert, so we listened politely to our server's elaborate description of their house specialty, the banana pudding, only to have my friend respond, "Sounds nice, but I don't like bananas." Ergo we got the chocolate mousse and devoured that instead.
Walking out, my friend mentioned the sudden appeal of a nap. I could see his point; sometimes even a quickie can wear you out.
Ah, but it's not always mobbed at lunch and, in fact, within the first ten minutes we were there, the four occupied tables paid their bills and left the restaurant to just the two of us. With the kitchen cooking for only two people, this lunch was bound to be brief, even if we ordered entrees instead of sandwiches.
So I did, enjoying the fried catfish with squash casserole and fries. How's that for a nice light lunch? His cheddar and bacon grilled cheese and house made chips weren't a whole lot lighter, but just as tasty. It seemed like they arrived from the kitchen mere moments after we ordered them.
The cornmeal-crusted catfish was crispy and steaming; the squash and zucchini bound thickly with cheese sauce was decadent, especially for lunch. It led to a discussion of making a meal of sides when you had such a rich starting point as this dish.
Josh, one of my favorite bartenders, came in for lunch wearing a Benedictine Football t-shirt and telling me he'd heard I'd been in to 6B on a night he didn't work. Which was true, but I'd been taken care of by the guy he'd trained, who'd done a fine job subbing for the master.
My only complaint was that his trainee couldn't talk music with me like Josh can, but that's not really something you can train someone to do either, nor is it fair to expect it from someone hired to sling drinks. I'm smart enough to know that I can hope for it, but I can't expect it.
What I can expect when I eat with this particular friend is dessert, so we listened politely to our server's elaborate description of their house specialty, the banana pudding, only to have my friend respond, "Sounds nice, but I don't like bananas." Ergo we got the chocolate mousse and devoured that instead.
Walking out, my friend mentioned the sudden appeal of a nap. I could see his point; sometimes even a quickie can wear you out.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Not a Fan of the Randy Type
My evening began with an artistic South African who was followed by a randy American. Guess which one I enjoyed more?
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a walkabout with Siemon Allen, the force behind Imaging South Africa: Collection Projects by Siemon Allen.
I'd been impressed by the exhibit when I first saw it, here, so I was especially interested in hearing the artist speak about it.
As were the dozens of other people who showed up; this walkabout, which had to be confined to one gallery because of the sheer size of the audience, was surprisingly well-attended.
He explained in his lilting accent that the South African newspaper article collection demonstrated the image constructed by external sources, whereas the stamp collection reflected the South African image constructed internally (stamps as government propaganda, essentially).
I was fascinated to hear that his South African record collection began with a $2 find at the old Diversity Thrift store.
But it wasn't so much the records that had captured him, but the liner notes.
The wall of mostly singer Miriam Makeba albums contained harsh critiques of the apartheid policies of the former South African government, in some cases comparing it to that of Nazi Germany.
These were liner notes as political statement for sure.
Allen, a native South African who lives here now, would like to see the record collection eventually go back to South Africa.
The stamp piece, massive as it is, has already been purchased by a collector in Johannesburg.
Allen acknowledged that he has been building an archive of lost information for his homeland, a country still struggling with its international identity.
So while it didn't turn out to be much of a walkabout due to sheer numbers, the talk itself was fascinating.
I only hope that the exhibit gets the wide audience that it deserves while it is in RVA.
Stop number two was Secco and although it started badly, it ended well.
I'd barely found a bar stool when a guy came in and asked if the one next to me was taken.
I had to admit that it was not and the newcomer couldn't have looked more pleased (or predatory).
Moments later owner Julia appeared and asked me to come with her.
Turns out that the new arrival was the same one with whom she'd tangled and chronicled their conversation on Facebook just a couple of weeks ago.
Knowing he was arrogant, ignorant and obnoxious from her own experience, she was doing a rescue mission on me.
He was also the same guy we had seen hitting on the heavily botoxed woman we referred to as The Joker a while back.
Apparently he's a regular at Secco because of the high percentage of women who hang out there.
Yuck.
But I was spirited away to the front couch and saved from inane conversation with Randy (yes, that really was his name), whom I later learned had saved my stool indefinitely in hopes that I'd return.
Both a customer and a server said he told them that he was holding my stool "until death" or I returned, whichever came first.
Finally the honest Amanda just told him, "Look, she's not coming back. She's with friends up front," and he tossed back his wine and left.
That's what friends are for.
I had the pleasure of drinking a new wine not yet on the list, the P'Tit Rouquin (carrot-topped kid or little redhead, neither of which describes me but both sound a lot like Julia), an organic and bio-dynamic table red grown on 60-year old Gamay vines. Very nice.
Later I had the chevre salad (in a nod to my filling lunch) and a hunk of Camembert (recommended to complement my wine by my server Matt, who also pointed out that "Whenever you come, so do the 11-year olds," referring to the extreme youth of the bar crowd tonight).
I bypassed the pork rilletes that have just been added to the menu, so I'll probably want to try them next visit.
Of course, coming back for pig puts me at risk of Randy showing up again, in which case I'll have to try to redirect his attention to the 11-year olds.
I can't always a count on somebody saving me from unwanted advances.
And it's been a long time since I've experienced a wanted advance.
The Anderson Gallery was hosting a walkabout with Siemon Allen, the force behind Imaging South Africa: Collection Projects by Siemon Allen.
I'd been impressed by the exhibit when I first saw it, here, so I was especially interested in hearing the artist speak about it.
As were the dozens of other people who showed up; this walkabout, which had to be confined to one gallery because of the sheer size of the audience, was surprisingly well-attended.
He explained in his lilting accent that the South African newspaper article collection demonstrated the image constructed by external sources, whereas the stamp collection reflected the South African image constructed internally (stamps as government propaganda, essentially).
I was fascinated to hear that his South African record collection began with a $2 find at the old Diversity Thrift store.
But it wasn't so much the records that had captured him, but the liner notes.
The wall of mostly singer Miriam Makeba albums contained harsh critiques of the apartheid policies of the former South African government, in some cases comparing it to that of Nazi Germany.
These were liner notes as political statement for sure.
Allen, a native South African who lives here now, would like to see the record collection eventually go back to South Africa.
The stamp piece, massive as it is, has already been purchased by a collector in Johannesburg.
Allen acknowledged that he has been building an archive of lost information for his homeland, a country still struggling with its international identity.
So while it didn't turn out to be much of a walkabout due to sheer numbers, the talk itself was fascinating.
I only hope that the exhibit gets the wide audience that it deserves while it is in RVA.
Stop number two was Secco and although it started badly, it ended well.
I'd barely found a bar stool when a guy came in and asked if the one next to me was taken.
I had to admit that it was not and the newcomer couldn't have looked more pleased (or predatory).
Moments later owner Julia appeared and asked me to come with her.
Turns out that the new arrival was the same one with whom she'd tangled and chronicled their conversation on Facebook just a couple of weeks ago.
Knowing he was arrogant, ignorant and obnoxious from her own experience, she was doing a rescue mission on me.
He was also the same guy we had seen hitting on the heavily botoxed woman we referred to as The Joker a while back.
Apparently he's a regular at Secco because of the high percentage of women who hang out there.
Yuck.
But I was spirited away to the front couch and saved from inane conversation with Randy (yes, that really was his name), whom I later learned had saved my stool indefinitely in hopes that I'd return.
Both a customer and a server said he told them that he was holding my stool "until death" or I returned, whichever came first.
Finally the honest Amanda just told him, "Look, she's not coming back. She's with friends up front," and he tossed back his wine and left.
That's what friends are for.
I had the pleasure of drinking a new wine not yet on the list, the P'Tit Rouquin (carrot-topped kid or little redhead, neither of which describes me but both sound a lot like Julia), an organic and bio-dynamic table red grown on 60-year old Gamay vines. Very nice.
Later I had the chevre salad (in a nod to my filling lunch) and a hunk of Camembert (recommended to complement my wine by my server Matt, who also pointed out that "Whenever you come, so do the 11-year olds," referring to the extreme youth of the bar crowd tonight).
I bypassed the pork rilletes that have just been added to the menu, so I'll probably want to try them next visit.
Of course, coming back for pig puts me at risk of Randy showing up again, in which case I'll have to try to redirect his attention to the 11-year olds.
I can't always a count on somebody saving me from unwanted advances.
And it's been a long time since I've experienced a wanted advance.
Roy's Big Burger Delivers
Months after being advised to visit Roy's Big Burger, here, I finally made it to Northside for lunch there.
Anticipating long lines and men eating in their cars, we were surprised not to find the former but amazed to see the latter in spades.
There were two lone people waiting for pick-up when we arrived, but that was it.
I didn't even know they did hot dogs, but obviously I wasn't at a place called Roy's Big Burger for a dog.
Nope, I wanted a cheeseburger with grilled onions (my favorite burger add-on), fries and a chocolate shake.
The only difference between my friend's cheeseburger and mine was in the condiment department; I opted out of mayo and he declined ketchup.
We admired the rock sitting next to RBB's order checks (a legal pad), labeled "Security Department."
No doubt a deterrent, I have to assume that that's just how things are done in Lakeside.
Standing there waiting for our number to come up, I admired the simplicity of Roy's, a place that looks virtually unchanged from the vintage photograph of it in the window.
You know, the one with the sign advertising "35-cent quarter pound burgers on Merita rolls."
The car in the picture is clearly of another gas-guzzling era and the customers milling about are distinguished by how much better dressed they were than today's customers.
Well, that and none of them were obese.
When our order was ready, we took it to nearby Bryan Park rather than join the parking lot lunchers, who really were all men.
It's one thing to eat in your car at John's Drive-in at the beach with the ocean just across the street, but frankly there wasn't much appealing about eating alongside scenic Lakeside Avenue.
Shelter #3, on the other hand, provided tables and a shady escape on a sunny day.
I loved that the shelter had two enormous fireplaces at either end.
My friend commented on how wonderful and warm it would be in that shelter with both of them going on a cold day, making for a warm cold day.
That reminded me of how in my college days when my electricity was included in my rent, I would run the a/c but have all the windows open, to enjoy cool heat.
Luckily I outgrew that frivolous habit, but I think the concept is similar.
The glassless windows provided park views all around us.
It was a most pleasant place to unwrap our parchment paper-wrapped burgers and start sipping possibly the darkest chocolate shake I've ever sucked trhough a straw.
I don't know what I appreciated more, my greasy fingers or the grease stain left by my burger on the paper.
Either way, I scarfed mine down, along with fries and way too much milkshake (the beauty of which is enjoying dessert right along with the meal) while my manly friend ate only part of his burger and then wrapped up the rest for later.
So much for my dainty feminine appetite.
Afterwards, we watched two guys with red mohawks playing Frisbee golf and a less distinct-looking group of guys throwing things at a tree trying to retrieve someone's disc.
I'm no athlete, but clearly there are different hazards to Frisbee golf than the ball kind.
The only hazard to Roy's that my friend and I could think of was that a meal like that might put a person in need of a nap.
Or a coronary bypass, but the nap sounds so much more enticing.
Anticipating long lines and men eating in their cars, we were surprised not to find the former but amazed to see the latter in spades.
There were two lone people waiting for pick-up when we arrived, but that was it.
I didn't even know they did hot dogs, but obviously I wasn't at a place called Roy's Big Burger for a dog.
Nope, I wanted a cheeseburger with grilled onions (my favorite burger add-on), fries and a chocolate shake.
The only difference between my friend's cheeseburger and mine was in the condiment department; I opted out of mayo and he declined ketchup.
We admired the rock sitting next to RBB's order checks (a legal pad), labeled "Security Department."
No doubt a deterrent, I have to assume that that's just how things are done in Lakeside.
Standing there waiting for our number to come up, I admired the simplicity of Roy's, a place that looks virtually unchanged from the vintage photograph of it in the window.
You know, the one with the sign advertising "35-cent quarter pound burgers on Merita rolls."
The car in the picture is clearly of another gas-guzzling era and the customers milling about are distinguished by how much better dressed they were than today's customers.
Well, that and none of them were obese.
When our order was ready, we took it to nearby Bryan Park rather than join the parking lot lunchers, who really were all men.
It's one thing to eat in your car at John's Drive-in at the beach with the ocean just across the street, but frankly there wasn't much appealing about eating alongside scenic Lakeside Avenue.
Shelter #3, on the other hand, provided tables and a shady escape on a sunny day.
I loved that the shelter had two enormous fireplaces at either end.
My friend commented on how wonderful and warm it would be in that shelter with both of them going on a cold day, making for a warm cold day.
That reminded me of how in my college days when my electricity was included in my rent, I would run the a/c but have all the windows open, to enjoy cool heat.
Luckily I outgrew that frivolous habit, but I think the concept is similar.
The glassless windows provided park views all around us.
It was a most pleasant place to unwrap our parchment paper-wrapped burgers and start sipping possibly the darkest chocolate shake I've ever sucked trhough a straw.
I don't know what I appreciated more, my greasy fingers or the grease stain left by my burger on the paper.
Either way, I scarfed mine down, along with fries and way too much milkshake (the beauty of which is enjoying dessert right along with the meal) while my manly friend ate only part of his burger and then wrapped up the rest for later.
So much for my dainty feminine appetite.
Afterwards, we watched two guys with red mohawks playing Frisbee golf and a less distinct-looking group of guys throwing things at a tree trying to retrieve someone's disc.
I'm no athlete, but clearly there are different hazards to Frisbee golf than the ball kind.
The only hazard to Roy's that my friend and I could think of was that a meal like that might put a person in need of a nap.
Or a coronary bypass, but the nap sounds so much more enticing.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Rebel L
Low-key evening launches with libations and lepers and lingers through laughter and lyrics.
Lepers
Given the lower temperature, it seemed like a good night to walk over to the Black Sheep to eat. I'd run into Melissa recently and the first thing she'd said was "I haven't seen you in forever!"
And wouldn't you just know, she wasn't working tonight. No matter, the other servers know me and offered me a booth, which I was reluctant to take, being alone and all, but they insisted.
My server didn't ask what I wanted to drink, but instead, "Which wine looks good tonight?" I chose the Kluge Estate 2008 Albemarle Rose, figuring it was good match for the bowl of vegetarian chili I also ordered (it was the soup DJ). Pretty and pink and with a big floral nose, it was the right libation for dining alone.
The chili had garbanzo beans, black beans and Great Northern beans but definitely didn't qualify for vegan status given the enormous dollop of sour cream on top. But then I'm no vegan, either.
The chili was excellent, hearty and with just the right amount of heat, but so filling that it precluded dessert. Which probably made it a good thing that Melissa wasn't there, because she expects me to have my usual LaBrea tarpit and scolds me when I don't. I was just too full.
I'd brought my latest read, Who Walk Alone, about the author's life as a leper. It's so engagingly written, although its 1940 publication date makes for some dated vernacular ("It was a peach of a fight.") and some with which I'm just not familiar ("Some of those babies really came tough in the regulars." Huh?).
I lingered over my book taking time to digest and drink pink after my satisfying meal. And luckily I had the walk home to help that full feeling before going to Sprout for music.
Lobo Marino
I love this band's sound with its oblique lyrics and South American influences. When I first saw accordionist Laney tonight, the first thing she said to me was, "We're doing a longer set because you said to."
I laughed, knowing she was referring to a post I'd done about another show they'd done and I'd said it was wonderful but too short. "You don't have to listen to me, " I told her sincerely. "But you're wise," she said. Great then, I'd love to hear a longer set.
The crowd at Sprout was a lot of friends and fans of the band, making for an informal vibe with the audience talking back to the band. Guitarist and singer Jameson was playing especially exuberantly tonight and the new material (he referred to them as instrumental movements) between songs added a lot to the set.
When they finished and the applause died down, Jameson looked across the room at me and asked, "Was that better, Karen?" What band wouldn't appreciate a fan who wants to hear more? He later told me that they were tired of playing the same set, too, so it was good for them as well as me.
Low Branches
Lo and behold, when I'd walked into Sprout, Christina from the Low Branches had approached me and introduced herself. "I see you everywhere," she said in a voice as languid and delicate as her singing voice. Drummer/percussionist Matt extended his hand, reminding me that we had met before.
Waiting for Lobo Marino to start, I asked Christina about what she listens to and we had a good talk about folk music in particular. Not surprisingly, she's a big fan of 60s and 70s folk, despite her tender age. I gave her my take on why I like new music so much and she seemed to get it.
Their set, as in the past, was strong on evocative lyrics and lingering sounds. The dynamic of this band is hushed and sweet, the kind of songs (sung poetry?) you lean forward to hear. Christina's voice is a thing of beauty and there's just no better way to describe it.
I logged a lovely evening listening to lyrics both laugh-worthy and lush. Not even lonely. Lucky, aren't I?
Lepers
Given the lower temperature, it seemed like a good night to walk over to the Black Sheep to eat. I'd run into Melissa recently and the first thing she'd said was "I haven't seen you in forever!"
And wouldn't you just know, she wasn't working tonight. No matter, the other servers know me and offered me a booth, which I was reluctant to take, being alone and all, but they insisted.
My server didn't ask what I wanted to drink, but instead, "Which wine looks good tonight?" I chose the Kluge Estate 2008 Albemarle Rose, figuring it was good match for the bowl of vegetarian chili I also ordered (it was the soup DJ). Pretty and pink and with a big floral nose, it was the right libation for dining alone.
The chili had garbanzo beans, black beans and Great Northern beans but definitely didn't qualify for vegan status given the enormous dollop of sour cream on top. But then I'm no vegan, either.
The chili was excellent, hearty and with just the right amount of heat, but so filling that it precluded dessert. Which probably made it a good thing that Melissa wasn't there, because she expects me to have my usual LaBrea tarpit and scolds me when I don't. I was just too full.
I'd brought my latest read, Who Walk Alone, about the author's life as a leper. It's so engagingly written, although its 1940 publication date makes for some dated vernacular ("It was a peach of a fight.") and some with which I'm just not familiar ("Some of those babies really came tough in the regulars." Huh?).
I lingered over my book taking time to digest and drink pink after my satisfying meal. And luckily I had the walk home to help that full feeling before going to Sprout for music.
Lobo Marino
I love this band's sound with its oblique lyrics and South American influences. When I first saw accordionist Laney tonight, the first thing she said to me was, "We're doing a longer set because you said to."
I laughed, knowing she was referring to a post I'd done about another show they'd done and I'd said it was wonderful but too short. "You don't have to listen to me, " I told her sincerely. "But you're wise," she said. Great then, I'd love to hear a longer set.
The crowd at Sprout was a lot of friends and fans of the band, making for an informal vibe with the audience talking back to the band. Guitarist and singer Jameson was playing especially exuberantly tonight and the new material (he referred to them as instrumental movements) between songs added a lot to the set.
When they finished and the applause died down, Jameson looked across the room at me and asked, "Was that better, Karen?" What band wouldn't appreciate a fan who wants to hear more? He later told me that they were tired of playing the same set, too, so it was good for them as well as me.
Low Branches
Lo and behold, when I'd walked into Sprout, Christina from the Low Branches had approached me and introduced herself. "I see you everywhere," she said in a voice as languid and delicate as her singing voice. Drummer/percussionist Matt extended his hand, reminding me that we had met before.
Waiting for Lobo Marino to start, I asked Christina about what she listens to and we had a good talk about folk music in particular. Not surprisingly, she's a big fan of 60s and 70s folk, despite her tender age. I gave her my take on why I like new music so much and she seemed to get it.
Their set, as in the past, was strong on evocative lyrics and lingering sounds. The dynamic of this band is hushed and sweet, the kind of songs (sung poetry?) you lean forward to hear. Christina's voice is a thing of beauty and there's just no better way to describe it.
I logged a lovely evening listening to lyrics both laugh-worthy and lush. Not even lonely. Lucky, aren't I?
Helluva Wake
Once upon a time I met a guy named Andrew and nothing happened. Oh, we worked together and had bland conversations, but that was about it. And then we drove to Ashland one fine day and discovered our mutual music obsession...that and our shared love of people watching and commenting. A friendship was born.
He was the first person I ever knew who blogged, so I started reading his music blog. But Andrew, unlike me, is quiet and sort of reserved. He's not effusive or the complimentary type. I had to presume that he appreciated me because we've continued to hang out for over three years.
Well, I don't have to presume anymore. Andrew gave me my absolute favorite gift: words. Forget jewelry, clothing or anything that comes from a mall; I'd rather a friend or loved one wrote me a note, letter or e-mail than anything else in the world. And I've always been that way.
And Andrew has gone and done just that. Oh sure, I may have teased him a lot lately about the fact that he never says anything complimentary directly to me. But he knows that the way I show affection for friends is to tease them and give them a hard time, sometimes even employing sarcasm (No!) and he wrote about me anyway, here.
And not only wrote about me, but included a link to my namesake song by a favorite band, surely a nod to our shared bond.
He left out a few memorable moments (like the glow-stick dance party at the Plushgun show at Alley Katz), but maybe that's because we have so many great memories together.
So yes, Andrew, we're even for the moment. But you have to promise to read that e-mail at my wake (P.S: I'll be burnt up, so there won't be a body to be a buzz kill) and read it like you mean it.
I'm only sorry I won't be there to hear you do it, but then I'm sorry I won't be there to witness all of my friends and loved ones sharing stories about me. All the different Karens are going to be revealed, for better or for worse, and some of you are going to be shocked and appalled (and delighted) when you hear what some of the others know of me.
Should be a good time.
He was the first person I ever knew who blogged, so I started reading his music blog. But Andrew, unlike me, is quiet and sort of reserved. He's not effusive or the complimentary type. I had to presume that he appreciated me because we've continued to hang out for over three years.
Well, I don't have to presume anymore. Andrew gave me my absolute favorite gift: words. Forget jewelry, clothing or anything that comes from a mall; I'd rather a friend or loved one wrote me a note, letter or e-mail than anything else in the world. And I've always been that way.
And Andrew has gone and done just that. Oh sure, I may have teased him a lot lately about the fact that he never says anything complimentary directly to me. But he knows that the way I show affection for friends is to tease them and give them a hard time, sometimes even employing sarcasm (No!) and he wrote about me anyway, here.
And not only wrote about me, but included a link to my namesake song by a favorite band, surely a nod to our shared bond.
He left out a few memorable moments (like the glow-stick dance party at the Plushgun show at Alley Katz), but maybe that's because we have so many great memories together.
So yes, Andrew, we're even for the moment. But you have to promise to read that e-mail at my wake (P.S: I'll be burnt up, so there won't be a body to be a buzz kill) and read it like you mean it.
I'm only sorry I won't be there to hear you do it, but then I'm sorry I won't be there to witness all of my friends and loved ones sharing stories about me. All the different Karens are going to be revealed, for better or for worse, and some of you are going to be shocked and appalled (and delighted) when you hear what some of the others know of me.
Should be a good time.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Second Date Brilliance
I went out tonight to shore up a friend who is having a career crisis. Oh yes, and a new relationship crisis (that part's a bit tough for me to relate to, but that's fine). She was feeling down about the negative possibilities of both and needed someone to listen and tell her everything is going to be all right.
And the fact is, I do think both issues will resolve themselves and she'll be just fine. That may be why my friend Danny calls me Pollyana, but I'm okay with that. Worrying never solved anything.
So we went to Six Burner because she hadn't been there in a couple of years. It's not really her kind of place because she's an incredibly picky eater, but it was her suggestion.
Mike, the new bartender greeted me warmly and introduced himself to her, and then was cut because it was a slow night ("I'm the new guy...last in, first out," he shrugged). He looked pretty disappointed to have finally gotten some company only to lose it.
But we soldiered on with a bottle of the Allan Scott Family Sauvignon Blanc (her choice), although the only thing she could find on the menu that appealed to her was the squash gazpacho. I don't even give her a hard time about her finicky taste anymore; she's the one who's missing out.
I ordered the crispy pork belly, slaw, and Thai-style BBQ sauce with no problem whatsoever. I gave her a bite and she actually liked the BBQ sauce, but was appalled at the layer of visible fat. Of course, she's the same person who'll eat an entire rib-eye without batting an eye about fat. And just to be obnoxious, I followed that with chocolate mousse (the bowl was larger than the soup bowl. It was an enormous chocolate mousse).
After a while listening to her predictions of doom and gloom about the wonderful-sounding new guy she's seeing, I decided she needed a distraction. Or maybe I was just tired of hearing such negativity.
So I did something I rarely do. I started offering up information about my past. We've been friends for a year or so, but we usually talk about her life . So I decided to tell her about my first adult relationship (okay, I was nineteen but I thought I was an adult...and he was 28).
On our second date, this boyfriend-to-be showed up with three sets of tickets. One pair was for the National Symphony the following month, the second pair was for the Washington Ballet the month after that and the third pair was for Equus at the Kennedy Center three months out.
How brilliant was that? By getting me to accept, he'd ensured that I'd be seeing him for at least the next few months.
Telling this old story to my friend tonight transformed her. According to her, it was the most romantic gesture she'd ever heard of, unimaginable even. Not only had he paid attention well enough on the first date to ascertain some of my interests, but he'd gambled on offering the tickets as a way to establish that we had some sort of future, at least short-term.
Well, this story so enthralled her that she stopped her descent into Sadville and asked for more, pointing out that I hadn't exactly been forthcoming about myself during the course of our friendship. It's true and it's a complaint I've heard before, but I hate to presume people are interested in that kind of stuff.
After a couple more anecdotes from my past, we looked up to find that we were the last customers and paid up so the staff could leave. My friend's mood was so much better than when we'd arrived, so I felt like I'd helped her in some odd way.
Or maybe I'd just given her something new to obsess about. The last thing she said as we stood outside saying goodbye was, "Where is this guy now? Do you think he's available? I think he might be my soul mate!"
And of course, I have absolutely no idea where he is anymore, although it occurred to me as I walked away that today is his birthday (making him my first Virgo).
So to Curt, wherever you are, happy birthday. And nice job on those second-date tickets. I'm not sure the 19-year old Karen fully appreciated the romantic brilliance of your gesture.
And if you're single, I have a friend you might want to meet...
And the fact is, I do think both issues will resolve themselves and she'll be just fine. That may be why my friend Danny calls me Pollyana, but I'm okay with that. Worrying never solved anything.
So we went to Six Burner because she hadn't been there in a couple of years. It's not really her kind of place because she's an incredibly picky eater, but it was her suggestion.
Mike, the new bartender greeted me warmly and introduced himself to her, and then was cut because it was a slow night ("I'm the new guy...last in, first out," he shrugged). He looked pretty disappointed to have finally gotten some company only to lose it.
But we soldiered on with a bottle of the Allan Scott Family Sauvignon Blanc (her choice), although the only thing she could find on the menu that appealed to her was the squash gazpacho. I don't even give her a hard time about her finicky taste anymore; she's the one who's missing out.
I ordered the crispy pork belly, slaw, and Thai-style BBQ sauce with no problem whatsoever. I gave her a bite and she actually liked the BBQ sauce, but was appalled at the layer of visible fat. Of course, she's the same person who'll eat an entire rib-eye without batting an eye about fat. And just to be obnoxious, I followed that with chocolate mousse (the bowl was larger than the soup bowl. It was an enormous chocolate mousse).
After a while listening to her predictions of doom and gloom about the wonderful-sounding new guy she's seeing, I decided she needed a distraction. Or maybe I was just tired of hearing such negativity.
So I did something I rarely do. I started offering up information about my past. We've been friends for a year or so, but we usually talk about her life . So I decided to tell her about my first adult relationship (okay, I was nineteen but I thought I was an adult...and he was 28).
On our second date, this boyfriend-to-be showed up with three sets of tickets. One pair was for the National Symphony the following month, the second pair was for the Washington Ballet the month after that and the third pair was for Equus at the Kennedy Center three months out.
How brilliant was that? By getting me to accept, he'd ensured that I'd be seeing him for at least the next few months.
Telling this old story to my friend tonight transformed her. According to her, it was the most romantic gesture she'd ever heard of, unimaginable even. Not only had he paid attention well enough on the first date to ascertain some of my interests, but he'd gambled on offering the tickets as a way to establish that we had some sort of future, at least short-term.
Well, this story so enthralled her that she stopped her descent into Sadville and asked for more, pointing out that I hadn't exactly been forthcoming about myself during the course of our friendship. It's true and it's a complaint I've heard before, but I hate to presume people are interested in that kind of stuff.
After a couple more anecdotes from my past, we looked up to find that we were the last customers and paid up so the staff could leave. My friend's mood was so much better than when we'd arrived, so I felt like I'd helped her in some odd way.
Or maybe I'd just given her something new to obsess about. The last thing she said as we stood outside saying goodbye was, "Where is this guy now? Do you think he's available? I think he might be my soul mate!"
And of course, I have absolutely no idea where he is anymore, although it occurred to me as I walked away that today is his birthday (making him my first Virgo).
So to Curt, wherever you are, happy birthday. And nice job on those second-date tickets. I'm not sure the 19-year old Karen fully appreciated the romantic brilliance of your gesture.
And if you're single, I have a friend you might want to meet...
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