I don't know what lunch and a lecture cost back during the Great Depression, but today it was $2.22, not that that isn't a perfectly reasonable price given the current Great Recession (and don't tell me it's over).
Arriving early enough to have lunch before the lecture at the Library of Virginia, I noticed for the first time the "Please enjoy the patio today" signs and thought, why not? Around the corner at the Positive Vibe Express, nothing was grabbing my attention, but my server informed me, "We can make whatever you want." Well, okay then.
A request for a BLT on wheat yielded a large sandwich within moments, and brought one of the staffers out to find the source of the delicious smell. She admitted she hadn't had bacon in two years (just kill me now) and I offered my sympathy. But nothing could have prepared me for the price when she rang me up: $2.22. Excuse me? Isn't that less than a drink usually costs?
The little patio on the 9th Street side had a couple of other occupants and was a lovely place to enjoy an al fresco lunch away from the fray but with a great view of people bustling by on their lunch hour.
I was very interested in the lecture topic, Soul of a People, about the lives and experiences of people who worked on the Federal Writer's Project back in the1930s. Naturally I'm one of those people who believe that during tough economic times, we need to look out for the creative class and the bounty of work that came out of doing just that back then should be proof enough of why.
It's not just that stories of massive unemployment resonate especially now, although of course they do, but the idea of economic stimulus policies that benefit the cultural good as well as the physical infrastructure should be on the table.
Author and filmmaker David Taylor spoke of the Federal Writer's Project as undoubtedly the most amazing instance of democracy in literature that we'll ever see. Just as importantly, it allowed for a mirror to be held up to American life, something that hadn't been done before.
Since there were still slaves and Civil War veterans alive in the 30s, even as the old ways of life were dying, the project coincided with an urgency to get people's individual stories. Part of the project became obtaining oral histories, an unprecedented effort to balance official histories with life history interviews.
I think a clear case could be made for the same sort of cultural collecting today and goodness knows we've got plenty of un- and under-employed writers and filmmakers available to do the job. We might have to up the pay from $70 a month, though.
While we're better about getting oral histories now, the fact is that the people who lived through the Great Depression, fought in WWII and Korea and have memories of a life completely unlike the ones we live today are rapidly dying. Every one of them has a unique experience to share.
In the same way that the Federal Writer's Project's travel books still provide a viable link to knowing and understanding the country's regions as they were 70 years ago (several attendees mentioned still using them when traveling), the accumulated knowledge collected in the 21st century would only grow more valuable with time.
And probably just like back then, it would be no badge of honor for the people doing federally-funded interviewing and writing. But it would be one rung above joblessness, and that alone would be worthwhile.
Maybe it's time to look backwards for inspiration, much like Positive Vibe Express' backward-looking pricing. Both suit the time.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Drinking to My Health
You'd think that a person going to the screening of a documentary called Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead would have the sense not to get buttered popcorn to scarf down while being educated and entertained. But not me and I didn't even feel too badly about it because I wasn't the only one.
Joe Cross' first moviemaking endeavor revolved around his quest to lose weight and get healthy after years of getting heavier and sicker. The Australian decided to challenge himself by accomplishing this in the land of plenty, namely NYC for a month followed a by a month-long cross-country trip. All in full view of a film crew so he couldn't cheat.
With the approval of his physician, he set out to do a two-month juice diet and see if he could go off the meds that were barely keeping his medical conditions in check.
Along the way he interviewed scores of Americans about their health and obesity (to a man/woman, they blamed only themselves), occasionally inspiring others to try what was working so well for him.
The film had plenty of humor, from one fat sibling nonchalantly judging his fat brother ("He needs to do something.") to a friend of Joe's stating that his "weight had fluctuated up and down like a broad's nightie." Said in a thick Australian accent, that was a big laugh-getter.
Australia was also nicely represented in the music choices, which included INXS and Men at Work, as well as the scenic locations where Cross jogged.
One of the people inspired by Joe's efforts was a truck driver from Iowa who weighed 429 pounds and had the same auto-immune disease that Joe had suffered from before his weight loss. He was willing to try a plant-based liquid diet out of fear he would soon die otherwise.
Phil's story became the emotional heart of the film and by the time he was finally able to jog and play ball with his son towards the end, the audience was cheering and clapping for him and his determination.
Whole Foods was sponsoring the screening at the Byrd and Joe Cross took questions afterwards from a seriously interested audience. Cross' Australian accent was thick at times, but the difference in how he'd first appeared in the movie at 310 pounds and now was dramatic. He'd looked much older fat and much younger these three years later after losing ninety pounds.
The film won't be released in the U.S. until next March, so tonight's preview was yet another example of RVA scoring an event that many cities won't get, definitely our gain.
The takeaway was that since 70% of the negative health and body effects we experience are caused by lifestyle issues, everyone has the ability to make better choices and live longer and healthier if they so choose.
I did take that message to heart, really I did, but I also stopped off for a drink at Rosie Connelly's on the way home to think about how I can possibly incorporate more micro-nutrients (fruits and veggies) into my diet. And I wasn't nearly as bad as I could have been.
As the bartender smilingly reminded me when she served me, "At least you don't have anyone trying to force tequilas on you tonight," a reference to one of my recent visits where a close-talking regular was determined to buy me drinks I didn't want.
Come to think of it, though, tequila is plant-based. But no, probably not what Joe had in mind.
Joe Cross' first moviemaking endeavor revolved around his quest to lose weight and get healthy after years of getting heavier and sicker. The Australian decided to challenge himself by accomplishing this in the land of plenty, namely NYC for a month followed a by a month-long cross-country trip. All in full view of a film crew so he couldn't cheat.
With the approval of his physician, he set out to do a two-month juice diet and see if he could go off the meds that were barely keeping his medical conditions in check.
Along the way he interviewed scores of Americans about their health and obesity (to a man/woman, they blamed only themselves), occasionally inspiring others to try what was working so well for him.
The film had plenty of humor, from one fat sibling nonchalantly judging his fat brother ("He needs to do something.") to a friend of Joe's stating that his "weight had fluctuated up and down like a broad's nightie." Said in a thick Australian accent, that was a big laugh-getter.
Australia was also nicely represented in the music choices, which included INXS and Men at Work, as well as the scenic locations where Cross jogged.
One of the people inspired by Joe's efforts was a truck driver from Iowa who weighed 429 pounds and had the same auto-immune disease that Joe had suffered from before his weight loss. He was willing to try a plant-based liquid diet out of fear he would soon die otherwise.
Phil's story became the emotional heart of the film and by the time he was finally able to jog and play ball with his son towards the end, the audience was cheering and clapping for him and his determination.
Whole Foods was sponsoring the screening at the Byrd and Joe Cross took questions afterwards from a seriously interested audience. Cross' Australian accent was thick at times, but the difference in how he'd first appeared in the movie at 310 pounds and now was dramatic. He'd looked much older fat and much younger these three years later after losing ninety pounds.
The film won't be released in the U.S. until next March, so tonight's preview was yet another example of RVA scoring an event that many cities won't get, definitely our gain.
The takeaway was that since 70% of the negative health and body effects we experience are caused by lifestyle issues, everyone has the ability to make better choices and live longer and healthier if they so choose.
I did take that message to heart, really I did, but I also stopped off for a drink at Rosie Connelly's on the way home to think about how I can possibly incorporate more micro-nutrients (fruits and veggies) into my diet. And I wasn't nearly as bad as I could have been.
As the bartender smilingly reminded me when she served me, "At least you don't have anyone trying to force tequilas on you tonight," a reference to one of my recent visits where a close-talking regular was determined to buy me drinks I didn't want.
Come to think of it, though, tequila is plant-based. But no, probably not what Joe had in mind.
Girls Gone Cocoa
I can't decide if it's small town-like or big city-like to have a pharmacy connected to a restaurant. Go in for pain reliever and then use the connecting door to have a little lunch while you're there.
Which is just how it went down today when a friend and I returning from Church Hill decided on Aziza's for a late lunch. Pulling up, she commented on needing some aspirin, so we went into Edloe's Pharmacy on Main, a place I knew of but had never been in.
Paying for her Alleve, the pharmacist commented that "It's too nice a day to need this." Actually, it was too nice a day to have a pain, so she took a couple right there at the water fountain before we used the shared door to find a table at Aziza's. Since I'm usually at Aziza's at night, I can't say I'd even noticed the door before.
We chose our meal from the array of deli choices, getting Lebanese meat and potatoes, white bean, basil and tuna salad and stewed veggies with garbanzo beans. All three were excellent and toasted pita bread was used to soak up assorted oil, sauce and juices.
She'd wanted to order a fourth choice, but luckily I'd dissuaded her since we had leftovers out of those three. Still, we both love eating that way, tasting a variety of things. Why settle for one if you don't have to, especially if you can have three?
Of course, we're talking food here, although my friend suggested that she'd like to see me reach that point in my personal life, too. Wouldn't I have to get to one first? Let's just say I laughed out loud at the notion of three.
She wanted our next stop to be Pearl's Cupcake Shop over on the Avenues but worried that it was too far out of my comfort zone for me. Not so; I can do Libbie without hyperventilating.
And even though we stuck out like sore thumbs (so not Avenue types), it was well worth it for the trendier-than-thou cupcakes in the overly spacious and cutesy space, which also had a yarn/knitting shop in the basement.
She wanted gluten free and had the luxury of two choices; hers was the chocolate cake with butter cream frosting. There was no way for me to resist the "Pearl Gone Cocoa," a chocolate cake with white icing and coconut.
A lot of coconut. Falling onto my lap and onto the table with every bite lot of coconut. Moist and sweet coconut with dark chocolate underneath. Kind of like a nonpreservative-filled Hostess Snowball. Note to self: enjoy this combination again.
But no matter how much nudging I might get, I couldn't possibly handle three.
Which is just how it went down today when a friend and I returning from Church Hill decided on Aziza's for a late lunch. Pulling up, she commented on needing some aspirin, so we went into Edloe's Pharmacy on Main, a place I knew of but had never been in.
Paying for her Alleve, the pharmacist commented that "It's too nice a day to need this." Actually, it was too nice a day to have a pain, so she took a couple right there at the water fountain before we used the shared door to find a table at Aziza's. Since I'm usually at Aziza's at night, I can't say I'd even noticed the door before.
We chose our meal from the array of deli choices, getting Lebanese meat and potatoes, white bean, basil and tuna salad and stewed veggies with garbanzo beans. All three were excellent and toasted pita bread was used to soak up assorted oil, sauce and juices.
She'd wanted to order a fourth choice, but luckily I'd dissuaded her since we had leftovers out of those three. Still, we both love eating that way, tasting a variety of things. Why settle for one if you don't have to, especially if you can have three?
Of course, we're talking food here, although my friend suggested that she'd like to see me reach that point in my personal life, too. Wouldn't I have to get to one first? Let's just say I laughed out loud at the notion of three.
She wanted our next stop to be Pearl's Cupcake Shop over on the Avenues but worried that it was too far out of my comfort zone for me. Not so; I can do Libbie without hyperventilating.
And even though we stuck out like sore thumbs (so not Avenue types), it was well worth it for the trendier-than-thou cupcakes in the overly spacious and cutesy space, which also had a yarn/knitting shop in the basement.
She wanted gluten free and had the luxury of two choices; hers was the chocolate cake with butter cream frosting. There was no way for me to resist the "Pearl Gone Cocoa," a chocolate cake with white icing and coconut.
A lot of coconut. Falling onto my lap and onto the table with every bite lot of coconut. Moist and sweet coconut with dark chocolate underneath. Kind of like a nonpreservative-filled Hostess Snowball. Note to self: enjoy this combination again.
But no matter how much nudging I might get, I couldn't possibly handle three.
Garage Guru
Somewhere in the midst of all that activity in September, my car's state inspection had expired (oops), so I made myself get up at the ungodly hour of 7:50 today and take my Altima in for its annual check-up.
Luckily, the garage is only three blocks away, so I was back by 8:10 and they'd already finished with it by the time I got home from my walk at 9:30, so I walked back over.
Entering the garage, I crowed, "I guess I must have passed" to the owner. "You knew you would. It's a well-built car and you take care of it," he praised me. Of course, that has a lot to do with the two cars I destroyed in my twenties by not taking care of them. Live and learn, I always say.
"Luckily, it doesn't take much," I told him. "A little maintenance, some attention here and there."
"Just like a man," he said, chuckling.
"I could use one of those, too, preferably one as reliable as my car," I told him.
"Yea, a little fine tuning, a little effort and we can make you pretty happy. But cars don't talk back, either," he winked, walking me to my car and opening the door.
"Keep working at the men, Karen. It'll be worth it," he advised, hitting the top of the car for emphasis just before he closed the door.
Who knew that sixteen dollars covered the price to drive legally for another year and get unexpected man advice?
Luckily, the garage is only three blocks away, so I was back by 8:10 and they'd already finished with it by the time I got home from my walk at 9:30, so I walked back over.
Entering the garage, I crowed, "I guess I must have passed" to the owner. "You knew you would. It's a well-built car and you take care of it," he praised me. Of course, that has a lot to do with the two cars I destroyed in my twenties by not taking care of them. Live and learn, I always say.
"Luckily, it doesn't take much," I told him. "A little maintenance, some attention here and there."
"Just like a man," he said, chuckling.
"I could use one of those, too, preferably one as reliable as my car," I told him.
"Yea, a little fine tuning, a little effort and we can make you pretty happy. But cars don't talk back, either," he winked, walking me to my car and opening the door.
"Keep working at the men, Karen. It'll be worth it," he advised, hitting the top of the car for emphasis just before he closed the door.
Who knew that sixteen dollars covered the price to drive legally for another year and get unexpected man advice?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Just Slide Off Your Stool, Pal
Question: What's the best time to do a post-mortem of Folk Fest weekend?
Answer: At a Monday night jazz show at The Camel.
Tonight's Scott Clark 4-Tet show (with the Marcus Tenney Trio opening) offered up a house full of musicians, all of whom were eager to share whom they'd seen and how they'd liked them. I was happy to hear everyone's opinions and compare notes.
Consensus: Parking was a bitch but the music absolutely ruled. Need I add that the Persians came up yet again?
When I'd arrived, the door guy had teased me about being back so soon (48 hours after my last visit) and how I'm there so often because The Camel has the best music in town. While that isn't always true, they are the most reliable spot for great music on off nights and tonight was another perfect example of that.
Five bucks bought some of the best local jazz talent playing right now as well as some of the most original composing coming out of RVA. I'm a huge fan of Scott Clark's drumming (see bands Ilad and/or Glows in the Dark) and low-key persona; but when he lets loose on the drums, he becomes anything but.
But not quite like the completely drunk guy at the bar whom I mistakenly sat down next to. He's the same one who often attends shows there and does the fist pumping and off-beat dancing inches away from the band.
Looking at me bleary-eyed, he asked, "Do you need a drink?" to which I answered, "No, I don't need a drink."
He gave me the hairy eyeball and to punish me, I guess, said, "Good, then you're not getting one," and turned his back on me, shortly before beginning his slow slide out of the stool. "Better pay," he mumbled to the bartender. "You already did, Ace," Dave informed him. "Twice."
Trumpet, sax, upright bass and drums. If it's Monday, it must be jazz.
Answer: At a Monday night jazz show at The Camel.
Tonight's Scott Clark 4-Tet show (with the Marcus Tenney Trio opening) offered up a house full of musicians, all of whom were eager to share whom they'd seen and how they'd liked them. I was happy to hear everyone's opinions and compare notes.
Consensus: Parking was a bitch but the music absolutely ruled. Need I add that the Persians came up yet again?
When I'd arrived, the door guy had teased me about being back so soon (48 hours after my last visit) and how I'm there so often because The Camel has the best music in town. While that isn't always true, they are the most reliable spot for great music on off nights and tonight was another perfect example of that.
Five bucks bought some of the best local jazz talent playing right now as well as some of the most original composing coming out of RVA. I'm a huge fan of Scott Clark's drumming (see bands Ilad and/or Glows in the Dark) and low-key persona; but when he lets loose on the drums, he becomes anything but.
But not quite like the completely drunk guy at the bar whom I mistakenly sat down next to. He's the same one who often attends shows there and does the fist pumping and off-beat dancing inches away from the band.
Looking at me bleary-eyed, he asked, "Do you need a drink?" to which I answered, "No, I don't need a drink."
He gave me the hairy eyeball and to punish me, I guess, said, "Good, then you're not getting one," and turned his back on me, shortly before beginning his slow slide out of the stool. "Better pay," he mumbled to the bartender. "You already did, Ace," Dave informed him. "Twice."
Trumpet, sax, upright bass and drums. If it's Monday, it must be jazz.
Columbus Day Field Trip
In fourteen hundred and ninety two
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
With no idea what the appropriate way to celebrate Columbus Day might be, I jumped at a friend's offer to go tripping through Charlottesville wine country today.
His original plan included two wineries and Albemarle Cider Works, but they ended up being closed today, so we subbed another vineyard for the apple juice (and I'm not a cider fan, anyway) and carried on.
Starting at Jefferson Vineyards with the grounds still beautifully in bloom, we listened to a perfunctory description of their wines from our tasting guy. I hope he was enjoying himself more than he appeared to be, because otherwise he must hate getting up every day.
The 2009 Rose was my favorite, as was the usual pink advice on the tasting notes: drink soon and often. Done, still doing.
Lunch was at Hamilton's on the downtown mall at an outdoor table to enjoy the perfect October day. Still full from last night's pork belly feast, I toned it down with a salad with Polyface Farm chicken on romaine with apple wood-smoked bacon, fried shallots, local grape tomatoes and a blue cheese vinaigrette.
No ingredient could have tasted any fresher and the Polyface poultry, as always,was light years beyond average yard bird. My friend had the curried Polyface chicken on flat bread and seemed just as satisfied.
Since October is Virginia Wine month Hamilton's had a long list of quaffable specials, so my friend indulged in a glass of the Albemarle Cider, thereby making up for our lost visit. I took a sip, but I just don't think it's for me. Maybe I'm not enough of a farm girl type or something.
Burnley was next, but I'd been there, so nothing new to report; we ended with Cooper Vineyards in Louisa. It turned out to be my favorite tasting of the day and included Virginia's native grape Norton, the grape with no middling ground; you either love it or hate it and their Reserve had a lot to recommend it to lovers.
He had three ships and sailed from Spain
He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain.
Cooper was satisfying also because winemaking was in full view and progress; I passed the winemaker stirring vats of bright red grapes on my way through the arbor (okay, on my way to the restroom, but whatever), flies buzzing around. My only regret was not meeting the winery beagle who was apparently off napping. Next time, I hope.
October 12, their dream came true
You never saw a happier crew!
We were pretty happy ourselves, tastings done, future wine festivals discussed, bottles of wine in the trunk and a fine full day in the sunshine.
Just not sure we discovered anything we didn't already know, but some days I guess it's just about savoring the exploration.
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
With no idea what the appropriate way to celebrate Columbus Day might be, I jumped at a friend's offer to go tripping through Charlottesville wine country today.
His original plan included two wineries and Albemarle Cider Works, but they ended up being closed today, so we subbed another vineyard for the apple juice (and I'm not a cider fan, anyway) and carried on.
Starting at Jefferson Vineyards with the grounds still beautifully in bloom, we listened to a perfunctory description of their wines from our tasting guy. I hope he was enjoying himself more than he appeared to be, because otherwise he must hate getting up every day.
The 2009 Rose was my favorite, as was the usual pink advice on the tasting notes: drink soon and often. Done, still doing.
Lunch was at Hamilton's on the downtown mall at an outdoor table to enjoy the perfect October day. Still full from last night's pork belly feast, I toned it down with a salad with Polyface Farm chicken on romaine with apple wood-smoked bacon, fried shallots, local grape tomatoes and a blue cheese vinaigrette.
No ingredient could have tasted any fresher and the Polyface poultry, as always,was light years beyond average yard bird. My friend had the curried Polyface chicken on flat bread and seemed just as satisfied.
Since October is Virginia Wine month Hamilton's had a long list of quaffable specials, so my friend indulged in a glass of the Albemarle Cider, thereby making up for our lost visit. I took a sip, but I just don't think it's for me. Maybe I'm not enough of a farm girl type or something.
Burnley was next, but I'd been there, so nothing new to report; we ended with Cooper Vineyards in Louisa. It turned out to be my favorite tasting of the day and included Virginia's native grape Norton, the grape with no middling ground; you either love it or hate it and their Reserve had a lot to recommend it to lovers.
He had three ships and sailed from Spain
He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain.
Cooper was satisfying also because winemaking was in full view and progress; I passed the winemaker stirring vats of bright red grapes on my way through the arbor (okay, on my way to the restroom, but whatever), flies buzzing around. My only regret was not meeting the winery beagle who was apparently off napping. Next time, I hope.
October 12, their dream came true
You never saw a happier crew!
We were pretty happy ourselves, tastings done, future wine festivals discussed, bottles of wine in the trunk and a fine full day in the sunshine.
Just not sure we discovered anything we didn't already know, but some days I guess it's just about savoring the exploration.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
On Not Squaring Shoulders
Why is it that long days always follow short nights? There was the excitement of the Folk Fest, followed by a much-needed nap and finally getting some work done, and all of a sudden it was after 8 and I hadn't even begun to consider dinner.
And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.
Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).
Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.
More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.
The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.
After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.
Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.
Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?
And Sunday nights can be problematic for going out anyway because so many places aren't open or close early (missed the Kuba, Kuba cut-off by 8 minutes). But not Bonvenu and with their door sitting invitingly open on Cary Street, I made a bee-line for it, only to be greeted with, "Long time, no see!" from the bartender. It had been a while.
Which worked out well, because there were plenty of changes to the menu, two of which I tried. Tonight's soup was a chicken, veggie and rice gumbo, chock full of okra and carrots and just what I needed to warm me up in the overly air-conditioned temperature of the restaurant (it takes me a while to adjust to cool, especially when outside was so nice and warm. No blood).
Dinner was the bourbon-braised pork belly brochettes topped with citrus gremolata with a side of pickled red onions over arugula and sweet potato chips, freshly fried. Each of the four brochettes was a good-sized hunk of meat/fat, perfectly seasoned and dripping in, well, you know. The tang of the onions cut all that delicious fat and the chips were just a crispy bonus.
More new food choices are on the brunch menu over which I salivated (BLT: pork belly, arugula and tomato sandwich, a lobster hoagie), trying to think of which friends might be free for brunch some Sunday soon.
The bartender and one other bar sitter and I had a lively discussion of some earlier customers (a 23-top containing one particularly arrogant finger-snapping ass) and our thoughts on a couple of the new restaurants we'd all tried. Meanwhile John the magician was doing his tricks for the Byrd Theater crowds just across the street in the warm October air.
After some talk and so much filling food, I settled in with my newspapers, beginning with yesterday's which I still hadn't gotten to. Just another solo diner without someone with whom I could discuss what I was reading or eating.
Or, as my Saturday horoscope explained so succinctly:
You are self-sufficient and when it comes down to it, you can take care of all your needs. But this does not stop you from wanting to know that you belong and fit into another person's life.
Yes, wanting to know that. Who wouldn't?
Is It Warm or Is It Me?
Oops, I did it again. I went back to the Folk Fest to hear and see more intriguing music and I allowed myself to be sucked in by the Persian's pink bagpipes and hips. Forgive me for my weakness, for which I make no apologies.
Today I got on the Danny Train, as my friend likes to refer to himself, because he hadn't yet made it down to the festival. We parked early and easily and were in place in the second row for Capoeira Luanda with half an hour to spare and time to cruise the food booths before the Brazilians took the stage.
We picked up some candied almonds at the Oktoberfest booth and settled in for the national sport of Brazil. I was fascinated to learn that the art of the moves developed as a disguise for the Africans to practice martial arts without their colonial Portuguese masters being aware.
The restraint, the control and the athleticism of the performers literally took my breath away...and more than once. Their lithe bodies seemed to bend and hold in unimaginable ways before snapping back to normal without ever making contact with the other bodies on stage.
Picture a handsome man in a handstand position doing scissor kicks upside down across the stage. Truly the "gentle warriors" that were described and a thing of beauty to witness.
Afterwards we got Thai food from Carytown's Ginger Thai and trudged up the hill to eat lunch before seeing Otrov, a group of Croatian-American musicians paying gypsy bluegrass music, if such a thing can be imagined (and if we've got gypsy punk, why not gypsy bluegrass?). They employed five different fretted string instruments and sang in their native tongue in voices easily imagined in a tavern.
And because I'm weak and because I'd already run into three people who'd agreed that Ensemble Shanbehzadeh had stolen the festival, I took the D-Train to the Dominion Stage for a repeat performance. The MC made the comment that over the weekend, the band "has become as popular in Richmond as it is unpopular with its native government." High praise indeed.
I was gratified to hear from the female half of the couple who had hosted the ensemble earlier in the week that when she suggested that the pink bagpipe had a sensual quality to it, Shanbehzadeh openly acknowledged, "Not just sensual, sexual."
Yes well, I certainly had noticed. Just like I'd noticed other repeat female audience members besides myself today.
What a lovely hot afternoon at the Folk Fest. Perhaps I should have brought a fan.
Today I got on the Danny Train, as my friend likes to refer to himself, because he hadn't yet made it down to the festival. We parked early and easily and were in place in the second row for Capoeira Luanda with half an hour to spare and time to cruise the food booths before the Brazilians took the stage.
We picked up some candied almonds at the Oktoberfest booth and settled in for the national sport of Brazil. I was fascinated to learn that the art of the moves developed as a disguise for the Africans to practice martial arts without their colonial Portuguese masters being aware.
The restraint, the control and the athleticism of the performers literally took my breath away...and more than once. Their lithe bodies seemed to bend and hold in unimaginable ways before snapping back to normal without ever making contact with the other bodies on stage.
Picture a handsome man in a handstand position doing scissor kicks upside down across the stage. Truly the "gentle warriors" that were described and a thing of beauty to witness.
Afterwards we got Thai food from Carytown's Ginger Thai and trudged up the hill to eat lunch before seeing Otrov, a group of Croatian-American musicians paying gypsy bluegrass music, if such a thing can be imagined (and if we've got gypsy punk, why not gypsy bluegrass?). They employed five different fretted string instruments and sang in their native tongue in voices easily imagined in a tavern.
And because I'm weak and because I'd already run into three people who'd agreed that Ensemble Shanbehzadeh had stolen the festival, I took the D-Train to the Dominion Stage for a repeat performance. The MC made the comment that over the weekend, the band "has become as popular in Richmond as it is unpopular with its native government." High praise indeed.
I was gratified to hear from the female half of the couple who had hosted the ensemble earlier in the week that when she suggested that the pink bagpipe had a sensual quality to it, Shanbehzadeh openly acknowledged, "Not just sensual, sexual."
Yes well, I certainly had noticed. Just like I'd noticed other repeat female audience members besides myself today.
What a lovely hot afternoon at the Folk Fest. Perhaps I should have brought a fan.
Pulling Back the Curtain
Any way you look at it, tonight was a stellar opportunity to hear music in the capital city. There was Folk Fest, Acme Thunderer Label launch at Gallery 5, Built to Spill at the National, Diamond Center house show in Oregon Hill. And my choice, the Triple Stamp show at the Camel.
Any Triple Stamp show is worth taking in because of the quality of the musicians on their label, but tonight there was the added bonus of a reunion show by the too-long absent Mermaid Skeletons.
Yes, the same Mermaid Skeletons who seared a permanent place in my heart a few summers back with a memorable show in the garden of the Poe Museum on a sticky hot night where fans surrounded the garden to listen to the sold-out show.
They were preceded by the always-excellent Ophelia, minus their drummer and, for a change, Grant on guitar and David on bass and banjo. For several of my friends, it was their first Ophelia show and they were as impressed as I'd assured them they'd be.
Mermaid Skeletons, they of the many members, entrancing music and beautiful/silly lyrics, took the stage to a capacity crowd. When you haven't played for a few years, the devoted gather in droves. Tonight no one had to climb a pointed stone wall to see the band, but the enthusiasm to hear that distinctive sound was just as great.
During Homemade Knives's set, Will got almost four songs in before remembering to acknowledge his stage fright, a rarity for a guy who usually opens their set with panic attack talk. His voice, as ever, was as stirring on older original material as it was on an Otis Redding cover learned for a recent wedding.
Last but certainly not least, was Anousheh Khalili, a member of Homemade Knives, but doing her own thing along with drum and bass. Hers was the loudest set, relatively speaking, and the combination of her keyboards and voice did justice to the 80s-influenced new songs she was playing.
It was a truly mesmerizing show start to finish and the fact that the Camel was just as crowded at the start of the evening as it was at midnight was tribute to the brilliance of the Triple Stamp bill.
An unexpected highlight of the evening was meeting one of my most regular blog commenters who came to the show with a mutual friend. Owing to some music opining I had done for him, he was in my debt for a good tequila, so after the show we went around the corner to Balliceaux to settle up.
Satisfyingly, he turned out to be as big a music geek as I am, and it's always a pleasure to talk to those as obsessed as oneself. He has the added fortune of actually being a musician, so technically he's probably even more obsessed, a fact I almost envy. After discovering our mutual fandom for Beach House, bartender Austin made it so by playing the album.
My only concern is that now that he's met the person behind the curtain, he won't be nearly as fascinated by my ramblings.
And you can imagine how much I'd hate to lose a clever commenter. After all, it's the hope that my writing will engage someone enough to cause them to comment that makes all of this worthwhile in the first place.
Conversation, whether virtual or face-to-face, is always the objective with me. Nothing like stating the obvious.
Any Triple Stamp show is worth taking in because of the quality of the musicians on their label, but tonight there was the added bonus of a reunion show by the too-long absent Mermaid Skeletons.
Yes, the same Mermaid Skeletons who seared a permanent place in my heart a few summers back with a memorable show in the garden of the Poe Museum on a sticky hot night where fans surrounded the garden to listen to the sold-out show.
They were preceded by the always-excellent Ophelia, minus their drummer and, for a change, Grant on guitar and David on bass and banjo. For several of my friends, it was their first Ophelia show and they were as impressed as I'd assured them they'd be.
Mermaid Skeletons, they of the many members, entrancing music and beautiful/silly lyrics, took the stage to a capacity crowd. When you haven't played for a few years, the devoted gather in droves. Tonight no one had to climb a pointed stone wall to see the band, but the enthusiasm to hear that distinctive sound was just as great.
During Homemade Knives's set, Will got almost four songs in before remembering to acknowledge his stage fright, a rarity for a guy who usually opens their set with panic attack talk. His voice, as ever, was as stirring on older original material as it was on an Otis Redding cover learned for a recent wedding.
Last but certainly not least, was Anousheh Khalili, a member of Homemade Knives, but doing her own thing along with drum and bass. Hers was the loudest set, relatively speaking, and the combination of her keyboards and voice did justice to the 80s-influenced new songs she was playing.
It was a truly mesmerizing show start to finish and the fact that the Camel was just as crowded at the start of the evening as it was at midnight was tribute to the brilliance of the Triple Stamp bill.
An unexpected highlight of the evening was meeting one of my most regular blog commenters who came to the show with a mutual friend. Owing to some music opining I had done for him, he was in my debt for a good tequila, so after the show we went around the corner to Balliceaux to settle up.
Satisfyingly, he turned out to be as big a music geek as I am, and it's always a pleasure to talk to those as obsessed as oneself. He has the added fortune of actually being a musician, so technically he's probably even more obsessed, a fact I almost envy. After discovering our mutual fandom for Beach House, bartender Austin made it so by playing the album.
My only concern is that now that he's met the person behind the curtain, he won't be nearly as fascinated by my ramblings.
And you can imagine how much I'd hate to lose a clever commenter. After all, it's the hope that my writing will engage someone enough to cause them to comment that makes all of this worthwhile in the first place.
Conversation, whether virtual or face-to-face, is always the objective with me. Nothing like stating the obvious.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
"What a Waste!"
There's an old Rx form hanging in Tarrant's that prescribes a gallon of beer for treatment of diabetes. I'd like to see an Rx that prescribes brunch with a girlfriend for any number of female maladies, particularly machinations of the head and heart.
That's a roundabout way of saying that after three hours at the Empress with a girlfriend, I feel so much better about all the stuff that's been chasing around in my head the past two weeks.
As she pointed out, I have a habit of squaring my shoulders to the world and never letting on when things are occupying my mind, which they most certainly have been of late.
She chose the Empress because she's gluten-intolerant and every single thing on the brunch menu is gluten-free, including French toast and crepes. She ordered my favorite salad with arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken, garbanzo bean, sunflower seeds in a red wine vinaigrette, but I wasn't going to let myself go that route again.
Instead, I couldn't pass up the green eggs and lamb (Derby sage scrambled eggs, grilled lamb chops and hash browns), which was every bit as amazing as it sounds.
Props to Dr. Seuss for being the inspiration for something so catchy-sounding and mouth-watering. And how often do you get to suck bones at brunch? I'd say not nearly often enough.
Our server was a delight, relating to us and our conversation every time he stopped by to check on us. For every dilemma we were discussing, he had an anecdote and empathy to offer (men!). After the first hour, we were the only customers left, so we didn't feel like we were taking him from more pressing things.
Dessert was the ginger/cayenne chocolate pate, more because the kind of serious dishing we were doing called for chocolate than because either of us really needed it. Or perhaps it was celebratory since she'd been finally addressing a couple of personal issues in her life and I'd had a couple of almost forward steps in mine.
Which is not to say that either of us is satisfied with where our lives are at the moment, but when we're really honest with each other, maybe there is hope that things will eventually work out. You know, like before we're dead.
Or maybe I just need to quit squaring my shoulders and get my prescription refilled more often.
I need to do something, that's for sure.
That's a roundabout way of saying that after three hours at the Empress with a girlfriend, I feel so much better about all the stuff that's been chasing around in my head the past two weeks.
As she pointed out, I have a habit of squaring my shoulders to the world and never letting on when things are occupying my mind, which they most certainly have been of late.
She chose the Empress because she's gluten-intolerant and every single thing on the brunch menu is gluten-free, including French toast and crepes. She ordered my favorite salad with arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken, garbanzo bean, sunflower seeds in a red wine vinaigrette, but I wasn't going to let myself go that route again.
Instead, I couldn't pass up the green eggs and lamb (Derby sage scrambled eggs, grilled lamb chops and hash browns), which was every bit as amazing as it sounds.
Props to Dr. Seuss for being the inspiration for something so catchy-sounding and mouth-watering. And how often do you get to suck bones at brunch? I'd say not nearly often enough.
Our server was a delight, relating to us and our conversation every time he stopped by to check on us. For every dilemma we were discussing, he had an anecdote and empathy to offer (men!). After the first hour, we were the only customers left, so we didn't feel like we were taking him from more pressing things.
Dessert was the ginger/cayenne chocolate pate, more because the kind of serious dishing we were doing called for chocolate than because either of us really needed it. Or perhaps it was celebratory since she'd been finally addressing a couple of personal issues in her life and I'd had a couple of almost forward steps in mine.
Which is not to say that either of us is satisfied with where our lives are at the moment, but when we're really honest with each other, maybe there is hope that things will eventually work out. You know, like before we're dead.
Or maybe I just need to quit squaring my shoulders and get my prescription refilled more often.
I need to do something, that's for sure.
Folk Me
What's the best thing about the Richmond Folk Fest over the National Folk Fest? That would be the increasing focus on international music and tonight provided a an unparalleled kick-off to that emphasis.
I was meeting a favorite couple, so I arrived just before 6:30 to stake out the best seats (second row center) for a 7:15 show. Already in place in the same row was a guy looking as eager as I no doubt did, who immediately engaged me in conversation. He turned out to be a drummer who recently moved back to RVA from Colorado after 8 years away.
You can imagine what a conversation starter that was! He's just discovering all the changes in our music scene since he was last here and he was terribly impressed when he learned how often I'm out for live music ("I wish everyone was like you.") and asked for recommendations on local bands to check out. Happy to oblige, friend.
After last year's Folk Fest performance by Debashish Bhattacharya, here, I knew that if I was only going to see one performance this weekend, it was going to be Zakir Hussain playing tabla. As my handsome Indian friend (and half my couple date) had told me, the man is a maestro.
Midway through his first piece, the audience began clapping and cheering during one especially fast part, causing Hussain to throw out his hands in a "What are you people doing?" gesture. I had been wondering the same thing since they were drowning out the man's playing.
During the next piece, he was even clearer with the overly-noisy and enthusiastic, admonishing them "I'll tell you when to clap." Of note was that the sizable Indian contingent of the audience knew better than to mar the performance with making noise mid-music.
My new drummer friend, who was not clapping either, said between pieces, "People always do that on a drum solo. They don't know any better." Presumably they did after being told by the maestro.
Hussain had said that all the tabla movement was from the wrist down ("We get tennis wrist.") and at times, his fingers flew so fast they were unrecognizable as digits. His partner, playing the melody, had fingers just as fleet. And it wasn't just me who was left wowed.
After the encore, the drummer turned to me and said, "I can die happy now" with an enormous grin on his face. Drummer nirvana from the second row for both the talented and the mere fan.
That performance alone would have made for an absolutely amazing night, but due to the genius of the programming staff, there was more to come. Ensemble Shanbehzadeh, an Iranian trio, followed with a performance unlike anything I could have imagined.
Leader Saied Shanbehzadeh (now exiled in Paris because he wouldn't alter his music to suit his government) is a master of the double-reed bagpipe, which, I might add, was pink and tasseled. It's hard to describe the magnificence of a man passionately dancing while playing a pink bagpipe between two drummers (one his teenage son).
There may be men with more sinuous dance stylings on the planet, but I doubt you could find a member of tonight's audience who would believe that. From Cossack-style leg kicks to provocative pelvic thrusting and the most fluid hips imaginable on a man, you could almost see the females in the crowd responding.
At one point, the female half of my couple date looked over at me, her eyes enormous and just nodded knowingly at me. I nodded right back. Words weren't necessary, although we came up with a few choice ones later.
Afterwards, I spotted a friend who looked a little glazed and she said, "I need to go find someplace to dance and release some of this pent-up energy after that." I'm quite sure she wasn't the only one feeling that way. The man was a force of nature and the music's raw emotion was captivating.
With a mere 45 minutes to perform, Shanbehzadeh eschewed stage banter, saying only that he "loved people of all countries." He closed the show with, "Next year, all of us in New York!" Don't I wish.
Walking back up 5th Street, the handsome one suggested Lemaire to finish off the evening with wine, cocktails, cheeses and beef tartare. Since we'd been engrossed in music all evening, it was really our first chance for extended conversation.
He, like Hussain, is Indian, she's from Ukraine and the ensemble was Persian, making for a most international night at the Richmond Folk Fest.
I couldn't feel any more white-bread or any more thrilled to have witnessed such far-flung talent tonight.
Did I mention those hips?
I was meeting a favorite couple, so I arrived just before 6:30 to stake out the best seats (second row center) for a 7:15 show. Already in place in the same row was a guy looking as eager as I no doubt did, who immediately engaged me in conversation. He turned out to be a drummer who recently moved back to RVA from Colorado after 8 years away.
You can imagine what a conversation starter that was! He's just discovering all the changes in our music scene since he was last here and he was terribly impressed when he learned how often I'm out for live music ("I wish everyone was like you.") and asked for recommendations on local bands to check out. Happy to oblige, friend.
After last year's Folk Fest performance by Debashish Bhattacharya, here, I knew that if I was only going to see one performance this weekend, it was going to be Zakir Hussain playing tabla. As my handsome Indian friend (and half my couple date) had told me, the man is a maestro.
Midway through his first piece, the audience began clapping and cheering during one especially fast part, causing Hussain to throw out his hands in a "What are you people doing?" gesture. I had been wondering the same thing since they were drowning out the man's playing.
During the next piece, he was even clearer with the overly-noisy and enthusiastic, admonishing them "I'll tell you when to clap." Of note was that the sizable Indian contingent of the audience knew better than to mar the performance with making noise mid-music.
My new drummer friend, who was not clapping either, said between pieces, "People always do that on a drum solo. They don't know any better." Presumably they did after being told by the maestro.
Hussain had said that all the tabla movement was from the wrist down ("We get tennis wrist.") and at times, his fingers flew so fast they were unrecognizable as digits. His partner, playing the melody, had fingers just as fleet. And it wasn't just me who was left wowed.
After the encore, the drummer turned to me and said, "I can die happy now" with an enormous grin on his face. Drummer nirvana from the second row for both the talented and the mere fan.
That performance alone would have made for an absolutely amazing night, but due to the genius of the programming staff, there was more to come. Ensemble Shanbehzadeh, an Iranian trio, followed with a performance unlike anything I could have imagined.
Leader Saied Shanbehzadeh (now exiled in Paris because he wouldn't alter his music to suit his government) is a master of the double-reed bagpipe, which, I might add, was pink and tasseled. It's hard to describe the magnificence of a man passionately dancing while playing a pink bagpipe between two drummers (one his teenage son).
There may be men with more sinuous dance stylings on the planet, but I doubt you could find a member of tonight's audience who would believe that. From Cossack-style leg kicks to provocative pelvic thrusting and the most fluid hips imaginable on a man, you could almost see the females in the crowd responding.
At one point, the female half of my couple date looked over at me, her eyes enormous and just nodded knowingly at me. I nodded right back. Words weren't necessary, although we came up with a few choice ones later.
Afterwards, I spotted a friend who looked a little glazed and she said, "I need to go find someplace to dance and release some of this pent-up energy after that." I'm quite sure she wasn't the only one feeling that way. The man was a force of nature and the music's raw emotion was captivating.
With a mere 45 minutes to perform, Shanbehzadeh eschewed stage banter, saying only that he "loved people of all countries." He closed the show with, "Next year, all of us in New York!" Don't I wish.
Walking back up 5th Street, the handsome one suggested Lemaire to finish off the evening with wine, cocktails, cheeses and beef tartare. Since we'd been engrossed in music all evening, it was really our first chance for extended conversation.
He, like Hussain, is Indian, she's from Ukraine and the ensemble was Persian, making for a most international night at the Richmond Folk Fest.
I couldn't feel any more white-bread or any more thrilled to have witnessed such far-flung talent tonight.
Did I mention those hips?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Pre-Parisian Soul Food
A good friend leaves for France Sunday, which guarantees me two things.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
First, I will get an artistic and suggestive postcard from him while he's away (although I'm not sure he'll ever top the Picasso postcard from Barcelona) and on his return, a pair of funky Parisian tights (he's the source of the Berlin tights in my blog profile picture, too).
Today we had our bon voyage lunch and I especially picked a place I knew a) he'd love and b) would be as unlike what he'll be eating for the next two weeks as possible. Destination: Mama J's Kitchen, right here in the Ward.
The menu at Mama J's is just what you'd expect: catfish, spare ribs, chicken-fried steak, smothered pork chops and, our choice, fried chicken. With your entree, you get a corn muffin or dinner roll (we had both) and then you get to pick from the soul sides. I got string beans and he got candied yams. Oh, yes, and we started with their distinctive seafood chowder.
I love Mama J's because it's a stylish little place (easily one of the loveliest ladies' rooms in the city) and always filled with people from the 'hood, both residents and business people. The tables are close enough together that people talk to their neighbors sociably and we couldn't resist admiring the food coming out to all the surrounding tables as we waited for ours.
Licking his greasy fingers as he put down a bare drumstick bone, my friend grinned at me and said, "This is the real deal!" Next week he'll be eating in a sweetbreads-only bistro and today he was drooling over my string beans long-cooked in salt pork and his obscenely sweet yams. That's my kind of eating partner.
You can't go to Mama J's without eating an enormous piece of one of the sumptuous cakes that Mama's sister bakes. We had the rum cake, crusted in nuts and soaked through with so much rum that we felt a little giddy trying to finish it.
Or maybe it was a food coma, given the abundance of food we'd already consumed. I don't know how people go back to work and are the least bit productive after a lunch like that. Or maybe they don't and that's why the place is mobbed on Fridays.
It can't all be travelers headed to France out enjoying a taste of soul food with a friend before jumping the pond. Or if it is, J-Ward is going to be awash in stylish tights in another month or so.
I can't imagine who'd have a complaint with that.
Trout and Bossa Nova
Every restaurant visit should begin with a hug and kiss from both the bartender and chef, don't you think? It sets such an inviting mood for guests. Kudos to Bouchon for already adopting this custom. Now if I can just get them to take bar reservations.
I had suggested Bouchon to a girlfriend who wanted to meet for dinner because the last couple of times she'd suggested going there had been within days of me being there solo, so I'd nixed it.
Since she doesn't go out alone, she hadn't been there in months. She loves the place for both the array of sides (she's a carb fiend) and the always-interesting conversational partners we inevitably meet; tonight was no different.
Additional praise goes to their bar menu, priced at $6 and $14 and only available to bar sitters. The entree choices, all priced at $14, are a steal of a deal. I had the rainbow trout and lemon butter mashed potatoes and she had the chicken stuffed with crab meat and mushrooms and truffled mac and cheese.
My trout was perched atop the potatoes and the lemon butter flavor that permeated both was both subtle and rich. Any virtue I felt about having fish was nullified by the sheer amount of butter on the plate (not complaining), making Karen a very happy camper...for fourteen bones.
Her chicken, prepared in the sous vide method (Olivier: "You know about that?"), was delectable, with its crispy skin and succulent filling. She upped the ante by also ordering pommes frites, after foolishly asking, "Will you eat some if I get them?" Duh.
Midway through dinner, bartender Olivier looked at me and asked, "Why aren't you at 27?" I explained that I was headed there afterwards, but had to laugh at his presumption that he knew me well enough to think I'd be there (even if he was correct).
There were green Chartreuse tastings, discussion of the new wine menu soon to be unveiled (some truly amazing choices by the glass coming) and explanation of the criteria for getting a drink named after oneself (I'll never qualify).
I met another blogger (we're a dime a dozen) and a Slip regular whom my friend and I had met before (she still has his number in her phone from 8 months ago when he insisted we take it and call him next time we were there. I threw away the slip of paper he gave me). It's always a crowd of regulars at the bar at Bouchon.
We lingered longer than I had expected to, so the music had already begun by the time I got to 27. Quatro Na Bossa was playing their smooth bossa nova tonight, so it was a bit more low-key than it had been when Mirimar played two weeks ago. Still it's a superb space for listening to music and dancing.
I ended up situated between two interesting couples I know (and it had been too long since my last couple date, so I was pleased to no end), one from J-Ward whom I've chatted up before at various locations and the other a good friend and his main squeeze. It made for some great back and forth, not to mention over-sharing, in between sets.
The dancing got started a bit later and was a tad more sedate than last time, but just as perfectly suited to the music. I'm always impressed when I see people I know acquit themselves so well on the dance floor (Ron, I'm talking to you).
And then it was the bewitching hour and the band was finished and we all began to leave. Having come from downtown, I had uncharacteristically driven to 27, so I couldn't even walk home with my neighbor couple.
Good thing I'd gotten hugged and kissed at the beginning of the evening. Kidding.
I had suggested Bouchon to a girlfriend who wanted to meet for dinner because the last couple of times she'd suggested going there had been within days of me being there solo, so I'd nixed it.
Since she doesn't go out alone, she hadn't been there in months. She loves the place for both the array of sides (she's a carb fiend) and the always-interesting conversational partners we inevitably meet; tonight was no different.
Additional praise goes to their bar menu, priced at $6 and $14 and only available to bar sitters. The entree choices, all priced at $14, are a steal of a deal. I had the rainbow trout and lemon butter mashed potatoes and she had the chicken stuffed with crab meat and mushrooms and truffled mac and cheese.
My trout was perched atop the potatoes and the lemon butter flavor that permeated both was both subtle and rich. Any virtue I felt about having fish was nullified by the sheer amount of butter on the plate (not complaining), making Karen a very happy camper...for fourteen bones.
Her chicken, prepared in the sous vide method (Olivier: "You know about that?"), was delectable, with its crispy skin and succulent filling. She upped the ante by also ordering pommes frites, after foolishly asking, "Will you eat some if I get them?" Duh.
Midway through dinner, bartender Olivier looked at me and asked, "Why aren't you at 27?" I explained that I was headed there afterwards, but had to laugh at his presumption that he knew me well enough to think I'd be there (even if he was correct).
There were green Chartreuse tastings, discussion of the new wine menu soon to be unveiled (some truly amazing choices by the glass coming) and explanation of the criteria for getting a drink named after oneself (I'll never qualify).
I met another blogger (we're a dime a dozen) and a Slip regular whom my friend and I had met before (she still has his number in her phone from 8 months ago when he insisted we take it and call him next time we were there. I threw away the slip of paper he gave me). It's always a crowd of regulars at the bar at Bouchon.
We lingered longer than I had expected to, so the music had already begun by the time I got to 27. Quatro Na Bossa was playing their smooth bossa nova tonight, so it was a bit more low-key than it had been when Mirimar played two weeks ago. Still it's a superb space for listening to music and dancing.
I ended up situated between two interesting couples I know (and it had been too long since my last couple date, so I was pleased to no end), one from J-Ward whom I've chatted up before at various locations and the other a good friend and his main squeeze. It made for some great back and forth, not to mention over-sharing, in between sets.
The dancing got started a bit later and was a tad more sedate than last time, but just as perfectly suited to the music. I'm always impressed when I see people I know acquit themselves so well on the dance floor (Ron, I'm talking to you).
And then it was the bewitching hour and the band was finished and we all began to leave. Having come from downtown, I had uncharacteristically driven to 27, so I couldn't even walk home with my neighbor couple.
Good thing I'd gotten hugged and kissed at the beginning of the evening. Kidding.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Balcony Bliss at Xtra's
I thought I was having lunch with one of my best friends today, but his position had been usurped by the time he picked me up at noon.
His replacement? Well, that would be VCU's Facebook page because of their unlikely choice to use my "Unofficial Tour Guide" post on their page (sample comment: "Nice stumps").
Fortunately, my head still fit in his vehicle, so off we went to Carytown to partake of a lovely lunch on Xtra's balcony. It's a stylish place, designed by a professional restaurant designer and, as usual, my main complaint was the TV (aka: ambiance killer). Favorite design element: the metalwork in the opening of the balcony's brick wall with the bluest sky visible through it.
But we had no intention of staying inside, instead choosing a two-top at the railing, which put my legs conveniently in the sun, right where I wanted them.
We had a view of the Merita white bread billboard atop Mary Angela's and a bird's eye view of passersby. It's kind of fascinating to be above everyone else.
After much back and forth to coordinate ordering different side dishes, I opted for the mini muffuletta, made of roasted turkey, Genoa salami, roast beef, cheddar, and Gruyere on toasted ciabatta with mufuletta relish and Mediterranean vinaigrette with Greek pasta salad.
Recently demoted friend got all manly on me, ordering the Black Angus burger with Gruyere and sweet pepper aioli with Thai cole slaw. He said he liked his burger and my muffuletta was filling, if a tad over-relished (further proof of why I'm not a food blogger). Before long, we both called it quits and he had our leftovers boxed up for his Scooby snack later.
He also provided the best quip in many a lunch. He was telling a mutual friend that he had a new girlfriend and she responded, "It's not Karen, is it?" to which he responded, "Nooo, she missed her chance to get on the Danny train." I laughed so hard I started wheezing.
And with that, he reclaimed his former friend standing on humor points alone. VCU who? Make me laugh and all is right with the world.
Even better, do it on a sunny balcony.
His replacement? Well, that would be VCU's Facebook page because of their unlikely choice to use my "Unofficial Tour Guide" post on their page (sample comment: "Nice stumps").
Fortunately, my head still fit in his vehicle, so off we went to Carytown to partake of a lovely lunch on Xtra's balcony. It's a stylish place, designed by a professional restaurant designer and, as usual, my main complaint was the TV (aka: ambiance killer). Favorite design element: the metalwork in the opening of the balcony's brick wall with the bluest sky visible through it.
But we had no intention of staying inside, instead choosing a two-top at the railing, which put my legs conveniently in the sun, right where I wanted them.
We had a view of the Merita white bread billboard atop Mary Angela's and a bird's eye view of passersby. It's kind of fascinating to be above everyone else.
After much back and forth to coordinate ordering different side dishes, I opted for the mini muffuletta, made of roasted turkey, Genoa salami, roast beef, cheddar, and Gruyere on toasted ciabatta with mufuletta relish and Mediterranean vinaigrette with Greek pasta salad.
Recently demoted friend got all manly on me, ordering the Black Angus burger with Gruyere and sweet pepper aioli with Thai cole slaw. He said he liked his burger and my muffuletta was filling, if a tad over-relished (further proof of why I'm not a food blogger). Before long, we both called it quits and he had our leftovers boxed up for his Scooby snack later.
He also provided the best quip in many a lunch. He was telling a mutual friend that he had a new girlfriend and she responded, "It's not Karen, is it?" to which he responded, "Nooo, she missed her chance to get on the Danny train." I laughed so hard I started wheezing.
And with that, he reclaimed his former friend standing on humor points alone. VCU who? Make me laugh and all is right with the world.
Even better, do it on a sunny balcony.
Lend Me Your Layers
Sadly, tonight was probably one of the last nights suitable for a performance on the deck (at least for us thin-blooded types), so I had no intention of missing the potluck and music at the log cabin by the bamboo forest, even if it meant crossing the river.
The last such invitation had resulted in a perfect summer evening, here, ending in a thunderstorm that drowned out our applause. Tonight's show required extra layers, a fire pit and a quilt, but was no less impressive for the musical talent showcased.
We started by eating (chili, homemade pizza, artichoke squares, hot pepper pasta, deviled eggs, bread and Nutella, hummus and pita, mashed sweet potatoes, and pomelo, which we were told is meant to be shared by friends...and was) Mulled wine, hot cider and beer aided the mingling and prepared us for the outside.
The show began out back with most of us on the deck and the rest gathered in the yard just below to enjoy the crackling fire. Our hostess had made homemade marshmallows for toasting; if you knew her, this wouldn't surprise you in the least. When she serves s'mores, she also makes the graham crackers. As far as we know, she hasn't started making her own chocolate yet.
Low Branches gave another of their hushed and pretty performances, with Christina telling us it was only the second time she'd played electric guitar on stage (no one would have guessed had she not said that).
Their set ended with a Jonathan Vassar cover in tribute to his birthday tomorrow. Singer Christina called it "goofy" but the audience loved the rendition, very different from Jonathan's but just as spectacular.
Kentucky's Englishman were next and had added a drummer since I last saw them. Lead singer Andrew has a voice made for folk (sample lyric: "Sometimes I cope with absence with absinthe") and very reminiscent of 70s-era singer-songwriters. The group's harmonies were just beautiful and the addition of percussion to guitar and keys made a nice difference.
Watching the band play was enhanced by the drummer's movements which caused a nearby 5' plant's branches and flowers to move with his every stroke. It made for a lovely visual against the trail of smoke on a crisp fall night.
Their last song contained my favorite lyric, "I'm classically trained to find you in the end." (Hopeful sigh) After finishing, Andrew announced, "Let's drink...until our hosts want to go to bed!"
Driving home later was more successful than driving there; despite multiple previous visits I had gotten turned around in the dark on my way over, although I did finally get to see the river a few streets away. (Ooh, scenic! Boy, am I lost in the dark!)
I fully intended to call it a night, but driving home up Lombardy, I was enticed by the thought of Fight the Big Bull playing at Balliceaux, so I made one last stop. I haven't seen them since they'd played at Duke University with Justin Vernon (aka Bon Iver) and now that they'd played with indie royalty, I couldn't resist seeing if they looked different.
The room was packed with lots of familiar faces and it wasn't long before one of my favorite cabin cohorts showed up, too. There were the usual jazz lovers, intently bopping their heads to every note, as well as the see-and-be-seen-crowd. My favorite bartender Austin had just gotten off so we discussed the show we're both eagerly anticipating next week.
FTBB played an intense set, as usual, and I was glad I'd stopped by to hear all that brass set off so well by upright bass, drums and jazz guitar. The music couldn't have been any more different than the cabin show and that was kind of the appeal. Two very different musical experiences back to back.
Okay, Jameson, it's not a port city, but where are you going to find all that Richmond has to offer?
Take your time. You can get back with me on that.
The last such invitation had resulted in a perfect summer evening, here, ending in a thunderstorm that drowned out our applause. Tonight's show required extra layers, a fire pit and a quilt, but was no less impressive for the musical talent showcased.
We started by eating (chili, homemade pizza, artichoke squares, hot pepper pasta, deviled eggs, bread and Nutella, hummus and pita, mashed sweet potatoes, and pomelo, which we were told is meant to be shared by friends...and was) Mulled wine, hot cider and beer aided the mingling and prepared us for the outside.
The show began out back with most of us on the deck and the rest gathered in the yard just below to enjoy the crackling fire. Our hostess had made homemade marshmallows for toasting; if you knew her, this wouldn't surprise you in the least. When she serves s'mores, she also makes the graham crackers. As far as we know, she hasn't started making her own chocolate yet.
Low Branches gave another of their hushed and pretty performances, with Christina telling us it was only the second time she'd played electric guitar on stage (no one would have guessed had she not said that).
Their set ended with a Jonathan Vassar cover in tribute to his birthday tomorrow. Singer Christina called it "goofy" but the audience loved the rendition, very different from Jonathan's but just as spectacular.
Kentucky's Englishman were next and had added a drummer since I last saw them. Lead singer Andrew has a voice made for folk (sample lyric: "Sometimes I cope with absence with absinthe") and very reminiscent of 70s-era singer-songwriters. The group's harmonies were just beautiful and the addition of percussion to guitar and keys made a nice difference.
Watching the band play was enhanced by the drummer's movements which caused a nearby 5' plant's branches and flowers to move with his every stroke. It made for a lovely visual against the trail of smoke on a crisp fall night.
Their last song contained my favorite lyric, "I'm classically trained to find you in the end." (Hopeful sigh) After finishing, Andrew announced, "Let's drink...until our hosts want to go to bed!"
Driving home later was more successful than driving there; despite multiple previous visits I had gotten turned around in the dark on my way over, although I did finally get to see the river a few streets away. (Ooh, scenic! Boy, am I lost in the dark!)
I fully intended to call it a night, but driving home up Lombardy, I was enticed by the thought of Fight the Big Bull playing at Balliceaux, so I made one last stop. I haven't seen them since they'd played at Duke University with Justin Vernon (aka Bon Iver) and now that they'd played with indie royalty, I couldn't resist seeing if they looked different.
The room was packed with lots of familiar faces and it wasn't long before one of my favorite cabin cohorts showed up, too. There were the usual jazz lovers, intently bopping their heads to every note, as well as the see-and-be-seen-crowd. My favorite bartender Austin had just gotten off so we discussed the show we're both eagerly anticipating next week.
FTBB played an intense set, as usual, and I was glad I'd stopped by to hear all that brass set off so well by upright bass, drums and jazz guitar. The music couldn't have been any more different than the cabin show and that was kind of the appeal. Two very different musical experiences back to back.
Okay, Jameson, it's not a port city, but where are you going to find all that Richmond has to offer?
Take your time. You can get back with me on that.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Music
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Your Unofficial Tour Guide
I may not look like a VCU tour guide, but I spent the day so far playing one. A friend had e-mailed me yesterday (subject line: short notice) asking if she could bring her daughter down today for a tour of VCU.
I'm not exactly an expert, not having gone to school or taught at VCU, but between lectures, music, films, plays, demonstrations, interviews, and even just walking, I've spent my fair share of time on campus, so I graciously agreed to do what I could.
I like to think that my spiel had a unique twist to it ("This is Monroe Park, where the annual Halloween parade starts.") and included some pertinent facts not normally shared during the official school tours ("Whether or not you like Ethiopian food, don't miss the dance parties at the Nile."). Hey, I did my best.
To be complete, I did do some actual touring, taking them into the library, the student commons, the dance building, the Singleton Center and the Grace Street Theater and pointing out any number of other big buildings.
Naturally I had to take her into Rumors so she'd know where to shop (she bought a jacket), resulting in owner Marche and I crowing over our recent shared photo taken at Ipanema, another place the potential student needed to know about.
I explained the compass, the Village, Strange Matter and Plaza Art as we headed east for lunch, making a brief stop at Lift. We heard a trumpet player near the theater and a bongo player near the dance building. I've got to tell you, showing her everywhere she might want to hang out or spend money was getting exhausting.
We lunched at Tarrant's for the variety of menu (mother and daughter were in completely different food moods) and with my infrequent daylight presence there, the staff greeted me enthusiastically (Friend: "Do they know you everywhere?"). We took a discreet table on the new side (Owner Ted on our way out, "I saw you hiding over there.").
The student was most impressed by two things on the menu: fresh-squeezed lemonade and meatloaf; apparently these aren't common menu items at home. Welcome to the south, I guess?
I went with the Monte Cristo with the hand-cut chips, which I highly recommended to my friend, who added them to her Cubano sandwich, much to her eating pleasure. The student got a cheeseburger that looked like it weighed more than she did and devoured it. She'll do well as a starving student.
We stopped by Gallery 5 on our way home so they could get the feel of a local gallery space. Leaving, my friend spotted the sign on the door saying, "No alcohol beyond this point."
"But why would there be alcohol in a gallery?" she inquired earnestly. Maybe I hadn't covered everything I needed to cover about Richmond.
"Let me explain a few more things, " I said as we headed down the street...
I'm not exactly an expert, not having gone to school or taught at VCU, but between lectures, music, films, plays, demonstrations, interviews, and even just walking, I've spent my fair share of time on campus, so I graciously agreed to do what I could.
I like to think that my spiel had a unique twist to it ("This is Monroe Park, where the annual Halloween parade starts.") and included some pertinent facts not normally shared during the official school tours ("Whether or not you like Ethiopian food, don't miss the dance parties at the Nile."). Hey, I did my best.
To be complete, I did do some actual touring, taking them into the library, the student commons, the dance building, the Singleton Center and the Grace Street Theater and pointing out any number of other big buildings.
Naturally I had to take her into Rumors so she'd know where to shop (she bought a jacket), resulting in owner Marche and I crowing over our recent shared photo taken at Ipanema, another place the potential student needed to know about.
I explained the compass, the Village, Strange Matter and Plaza Art as we headed east for lunch, making a brief stop at Lift. We heard a trumpet player near the theater and a bongo player near the dance building. I've got to tell you, showing her everywhere she might want to hang out or spend money was getting exhausting.
We lunched at Tarrant's for the variety of menu (mother and daughter were in completely different food moods) and with my infrequent daylight presence there, the staff greeted me enthusiastically (Friend: "Do they know you everywhere?"). We took a discreet table on the new side (Owner Ted on our way out, "I saw you hiding over there.").
The student was most impressed by two things on the menu: fresh-squeezed lemonade and meatloaf; apparently these aren't common menu items at home. Welcome to the south, I guess?
I went with the Monte Cristo with the hand-cut chips, which I highly recommended to my friend, who added them to her Cubano sandwich, much to her eating pleasure. The student got a cheeseburger that looked like it weighed more than she did and devoured it. She'll do well as a starving student.
We stopped by Gallery 5 on our way home so they could get the feel of a local gallery space. Leaving, my friend spotted the sign on the door saying, "No alcohol beyond this point."
"But why would there be alcohol in a gallery?" she inquired earnestly. Maybe I hadn't covered everything I needed to cover about Richmond.
"Let me explain a few more things, " I said as we headed down the street...
Monday, October 4, 2010
So Long (not Goodbye)
How's this for an amazing way to spend the last couple of hours of daylight?
In a parking lot at Grace and Adams (a mere five blocks from home), sitting with our backs to the band Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird, watching chimney swifts swoop and flutter against a fading sky before finally roosting in the chimney atop a nearby tall building.
What in the world, you wonder? The chimney swifts are soon to migrate to the mid-range Andes for the winter. So before that happens, a group was gathered to enjoy a musical dedication to these fluttering birds who have adapted to urban living by roosting in chimneys rather than caves and trees.
I'd brought a chair, as advised, but friends Andrew and even the biologist Dan (who should have known better) had not, so we returned to my car to fetch two beach chairs so they wouldn't have to sit on cold asphalt.
When I opened my trunk, they both noticed it had a beach smell (granted, I've only been back from the beach for five days) and I spotted my beach towel, the perfect thing to keep me warm as the sun dropped lower in the sky. It's true, I have no blood.
Mary from the Audubon Society gave a short talk about the birds as we watched them pattern the evening sky. She pointed out that they look like "cigars with wings" and had an irregular wing-flapping pattern and a distinctive warble, all of which we could see and hear.
Her D.C. associate at the Society had pronounced that the swifts are "disappearing like crazy" (surely a scientific term) as fewer chimneys are built and those that are tend to have covers.
The solution, she said, was fake chimneys on rooftops and likened providing such things to the plethora of bluebird boxes that were mounted when bluebirds began disappearing not so long ago.
As she spoke, the flock of swifts grew larger and larger and then the music began. It was a moving experience watching the birds in the sky while the un-amplified music wrapped around us. The band was only doing four songs and as the last strains of the third song wound down, the last of the swifts dropped down into the chimney.
The final song, written especially for the occasion, "A Slow Song for Swifts" was performed to a now-empty sky, which was somehow appropriate since the swifts will soon be gone on their long migration to South America, hopefully to return to RVA in the spring.
I'm not doing an adequate job of describing the beauty of the birds and the music being interwoven as we watched, but take my word for it, it was spectacular.
All that field observation (as my biologist friend calls it) in the cold evening air had made me hungry, so I dropped by Secco for dinner and ran into an unexpected Oktoberfest walk instead.
Never has there been so much testosterone in Secco at one time. Walking in, one of the two guys standing outside gave me that classic, "How YOU doin'?" line and I almost laughed (which would not have been kind). Inside they were wall to wall.
But the front couches were full of off-duty Secco employees and friends who suggested I join them. Needless to say, they were more my speed than the beer walkers, so I sat down on a hassock. (The walkers had already done Joe's Inn and Commercial Taphouse; Can Can was to come after Secco from what I heard).
Dinner was speck-wrapped hanger steak with local veggies and legumes, truffle sauce and black truffle shavings, roasted spiced almonds with sea salt and Burgundy. It was so satisfying after being out in the cold (sorry, but for me this weather feels cold; a few days ago I was bare-legged with sandals on). Red meat and red wine were just what I needed to thicken my blood a little.
But it was well worth getting cold for the magic of the chimney swifts and the music. How can I move away from this city with things like this happening?
Well, should I decide to, you can be sure I'll have a chimney for swifts...or put a fake chimney on my house.
Wherever I end up.
In a parking lot at Grace and Adams (a mere five blocks from home), sitting with our backs to the band Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird, watching chimney swifts swoop and flutter against a fading sky before finally roosting in the chimney atop a nearby tall building.
What in the world, you wonder? The chimney swifts are soon to migrate to the mid-range Andes for the winter. So before that happens, a group was gathered to enjoy a musical dedication to these fluttering birds who have adapted to urban living by roosting in chimneys rather than caves and trees.
I'd brought a chair, as advised, but friends Andrew and even the biologist Dan (who should have known better) had not, so we returned to my car to fetch two beach chairs so they wouldn't have to sit on cold asphalt.
When I opened my trunk, they both noticed it had a beach smell (granted, I've only been back from the beach for five days) and I spotted my beach towel, the perfect thing to keep me warm as the sun dropped lower in the sky. It's true, I have no blood.
Mary from the Audubon Society gave a short talk about the birds as we watched them pattern the evening sky. She pointed out that they look like "cigars with wings" and had an irregular wing-flapping pattern and a distinctive warble, all of which we could see and hear.
Her D.C. associate at the Society had pronounced that the swifts are "disappearing like crazy" (surely a scientific term) as fewer chimneys are built and those that are tend to have covers.
The solution, she said, was fake chimneys on rooftops and likened providing such things to the plethora of bluebird boxes that were mounted when bluebirds began disappearing not so long ago.
As she spoke, the flock of swifts grew larger and larger and then the music began. It was a moving experience watching the birds in the sky while the un-amplified music wrapped around us. The band was only doing four songs and as the last strains of the third song wound down, the last of the swifts dropped down into the chimney.
The final song, written especially for the occasion, "A Slow Song for Swifts" was performed to a now-empty sky, which was somehow appropriate since the swifts will soon be gone on their long migration to South America, hopefully to return to RVA in the spring.
I'm not doing an adequate job of describing the beauty of the birds and the music being interwoven as we watched, but take my word for it, it was spectacular.
All that field observation (as my biologist friend calls it) in the cold evening air had made me hungry, so I dropped by Secco for dinner and ran into an unexpected Oktoberfest walk instead.
Never has there been so much testosterone in Secco at one time. Walking in, one of the two guys standing outside gave me that classic, "How YOU doin'?" line and I almost laughed (which would not have been kind). Inside they were wall to wall.
But the front couches were full of off-duty Secco employees and friends who suggested I join them. Needless to say, they were more my speed than the beer walkers, so I sat down on a hassock. (The walkers had already done Joe's Inn and Commercial Taphouse; Can Can was to come after Secco from what I heard).
Dinner was speck-wrapped hanger steak with local veggies and legumes, truffle sauce and black truffle shavings, roasted spiced almonds with sea salt and Burgundy. It was so satisfying after being out in the cold (sorry, but for me this weather feels cold; a few days ago I was bare-legged with sandals on). Red meat and red wine were just what I needed to thicken my blood a little.
But it was well worth getting cold for the magic of the chimney swifts and the music. How can I move away from this city with things like this happening?
Well, should I decide to, you can be sure I'll have a chimney for swifts...or put a fake chimney on my house.
Wherever I end up.
Bring Me Your Shoegaze
When you begin your evening with pheasant ravioli in a sage butter sauce, it surely must mean that wonderful things are ahead for the evening. And they were.
I dropped by my neighborhood joint for wine and then got sucked in by the ravioli du jour, savoring its delicate flavor and rich sauce while enjoying conversation with the staff about how only regular customers have the nerve to show up not long before closing, knowing they will be welcomed, and allowed to linger.
That contingent at Bistro 27 tonight included the Italian four-top, the wine shop owner and his main squeeze, and yours truly once the crowd thinned out, which was just fine with me. I never lack for chatty types in the neighborhood. And then it was music time.
Tonight's Live at Ipanema show featured The Diamond Center and was technically a redo since they'd already played once. But there had been recording issues, so we were graced with their shoegaze presence a second time.
Let me just state for the record that Kirk's twelve-string guitar made my night and I told him so. I'm a huge fan of the twelve-string anyway and too few guitarists use it, so when one does, I become his slave. Or maybe enraptured would be a better description.
The Diamond Center is already doing everything right as far as I'm concerned and I've seen them probably a half dozen times in the year since they relocated to RVA, first from Athens, GA and then Lubbock, TX, absorbing influences along the way.
Noisy guitars, reverb, male and female vocals, psychedelic sounds and 60s-ish pop can only mean one thing to me: music from a cave! If I were any more devoted to this musical genre, I'd have to marry it (and I'm not the marrying kind).
It worked out well, too, because I'd taken my favorite bar stool, situated next to band photographer extraordinaire P.J. Sykes and his honey and we were joined by a couple of superb local musicians I know, providing me with a coterie of music geeks. How do I get so lucky sometimes?
Being near the door put us essentially behind and to the side of the band, making for ideal listening because TDC can be loud and the volume was pitch perfect where we were and we still had a view.
We also had the added benefit of being near the door, allowing cool air to enter the rapidly warming restaurant. With each addition to the crowd, the body heat rose exponentially.
I saw no less than six guys remove their sweaters mid-set, seven if you include the bartender (and why would we not include the charming, musical and artistic Brandon?). Between songs, guitarist Kirk also acknowledged the heat in the band's corner, but I didn't see him remove anything.
After a set that included a song the band had learned only last night, the appreciative crowd clapped their devotion loudly. The usual post-show mingling began and I lucked into a conversation with a musician about the importance of sequencing a band's CD or even a mix tape, a subject near and dear to my heart.
Maybe it's the time I spent working in radio, but I always notice train wrecks; you know, when one song follows the wrong song and your ear tells you that they should never have been placed together.
Tonight I learned that there are other people who feel that way, too. We didn't start a support group or anything, but we may have wallowed a bit in our mutual music obsession. Clearly it was good for both of us, because he requested a hug afterwards.
Considering how I spent most of the day, I couldn't have asked for a better finish to it.
A twelve-string guitar and music from a cave: the panacea for anything that might ail me.
Well, almost anything.
I dropped by my neighborhood joint for wine and then got sucked in by the ravioli du jour, savoring its delicate flavor and rich sauce while enjoying conversation with the staff about how only regular customers have the nerve to show up not long before closing, knowing they will be welcomed, and allowed to linger.
That contingent at Bistro 27 tonight included the Italian four-top, the wine shop owner and his main squeeze, and yours truly once the crowd thinned out, which was just fine with me. I never lack for chatty types in the neighborhood. And then it was music time.
Tonight's Live at Ipanema show featured The Diamond Center and was technically a redo since they'd already played once. But there had been recording issues, so we were graced with their shoegaze presence a second time.
Let me just state for the record that Kirk's twelve-string guitar made my night and I told him so. I'm a huge fan of the twelve-string anyway and too few guitarists use it, so when one does, I become his slave. Or maybe enraptured would be a better description.
The Diamond Center is already doing everything right as far as I'm concerned and I've seen them probably a half dozen times in the year since they relocated to RVA, first from Athens, GA and then Lubbock, TX, absorbing influences along the way.
Noisy guitars, reverb, male and female vocals, psychedelic sounds and 60s-ish pop can only mean one thing to me: music from a cave! If I were any more devoted to this musical genre, I'd have to marry it (and I'm not the marrying kind).
It worked out well, too, because I'd taken my favorite bar stool, situated next to band photographer extraordinaire P.J. Sykes and his honey and we were joined by a couple of superb local musicians I know, providing me with a coterie of music geeks. How do I get so lucky sometimes?
Being near the door put us essentially behind and to the side of the band, making for ideal listening because TDC can be loud and the volume was pitch perfect where we were and we still had a view.
We also had the added benefit of being near the door, allowing cool air to enter the rapidly warming restaurant. With each addition to the crowd, the body heat rose exponentially.
I saw no less than six guys remove their sweaters mid-set, seven if you include the bartender (and why would we not include the charming, musical and artistic Brandon?). Between songs, guitarist Kirk also acknowledged the heat in the band's corner, but I didn't see him remove anything.
After a set that included a song the band had learned only last night, the appreciative crowd clapped their devotion loudly. The usual post-show mingling began and I lucked into a conversation with a musician about the importance of sequencing a band's CD or even a mix tape, a subject near and dear to my heart.
Maybe it's the time I spent working in radio, but I always notice train wrecks; you know, when one song follows the wrong song and your ear tells you that they should never have been placed together.
Tonight I learned that there are other people who feel that way, too. We didn't start a support group or anything, but we may have wallowed a bit in our mutual music obsession. Clearly it was good for both of us, because he requested a hug afterwards.
Considering how I spent most of the day, I couldn't have asked for a better finish to it.
A twelve-string guitar and music from a cave: the panacea for anything that might ail me.
Well, almost anything.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Hearing is Believing
I don't have a TV, so I don't know how realistic the dialog is on medical shows, but if what I overheard in the E.R. today is any indication, it's got to be hysterical.
Doctor: How much do you drink?
Patient #1: You know, like a 40 every other day.
Doctor: You drink a 40 every single day?
Patient #1: At least.
Doctor: What seems to be the problem?
Patient #2, age 19: I can't stop freaking out.
Doctor: When did this start?
Patient #2: This morning. I got up and smoked a joint and I hadn't done that in a while, so I drank a Red Bull and felt worse, so I started drinking beer.
Doctor: (pause)
Patient #2: Man, I'm really hungry. Can you get me some food?
Doctor: When did the bleeding symptoms start?
Patient: Late yesterday afternoon.
Doctor: Why didn't you come in then?
Patient: And miss Saturday night?
Doctor: Do you still have your gall bladder?
Patient: They didn't give me one when I came in.
Doctor: No, no, you're born with it.
Patient: Then I must still have it.
Somebody needs to enlighten me. Are television writers making up stuff this funny? Cause if they're not, they need to spend a few hours on site soaking up such rich dialog.
If I hadn't overheard it myself, I'm not sure I'd believe it, though.
Doctor: How much do you drink?
Patient #1: You know, like a 40 every other day.
Doctor: You drink a 40 every single day?
Patient #1: At least.
Doctor: What seems to be the problem?
Patient #2, age 19: I can't stop freaking out.
Doctor: When did this start?
Patient #2: This morning. I got up and smoked a joint and I hadn't done that in a while, so I drank a Red Bull and felt worse, so I started drinking beer.
Doctor: (pause)
Patient #2: Man, I'm really hungry. Can you get me some food?
Doctor: When did the bleeding symptoms start?
Patient: Late yesterday afternoon.
Doctor: Why didn't you come in then?
Patient: And miss Saturday night?
Doctor: Do you still have your gall bladder?
Patient: They didn't give me one when I came in.
Doctor: No, no, you're born with it.
Patient: Then I must still have it.
Somebody needs to enlighten me. Are television writers making up stuff this funny? Cause if they're not, they need to spend a few hours on site soaking up such rich dialog.
If I hadn't overheard it myself, I'm not sure I'd believe it, though.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
2 Street: Sweet Night, Sweet Song
"If you come to the 2 Street Festival and don't see anybody you know, then you don't have any friends!" the MC told the enormous crowd at the Waverly Crawley stage at 2nd and Marshall Streets tonight. Luckily for my ego, I'd already seen several people I knew as I ambled around the fried seafood-scented festival, admiring African art and goods.
Hizzoner the mayor was up next and he led us in a rah-rah session, instructing us to say Jackson Ward after everything he said. Maggie Walker! JW! Bill "Bojangles" Robinson! JW! First Consolidated Bank! JW! The Hippodrome Theater! JW! Harlem of the South! JW! You can be sure no one shouted louder than me.
Once we were all worked up, we were finally rewarded with what we'd come for: Con Funk Shun. The band has been around for 45 years, still boasts three of the original seven members and once toured with the likes of the Commodores and Bootsy's Rubber Band, back when funk ruled.
And it was ruling tonight as the dancing crowd sang along to most every song to one degree or another. Like all good 70s rhythm and blues, there was a big old bass line and plenty of horn action. Songs were meant for one of two things: either shaking your booty or sl-o-o-o-w dancing, if you know what I'm saying.
Guitarist Micheal Cooper said that the band has played Richmond 60, 70, maybe 80 times in the past 45 years and the people around me were testifying to that. Toward the end, the band even offered up a prayer for their long-running success, bringing on a chorus of amens afterwards.
If I had any complaints, it was with the boldness of some of the guys in the crowd. One drunk man apparently thought I wouldn't notice if he started rubbing my back; the first time I moved away, assuming it was unintentional, but the second time, I swung around and told him flat-out to stop touching me. He stared off into space and said, "How do you know it was me?" Right.
Another older guy asked if he could sit next to me and then proceeded to try to sit on my lap. I gave him the benefit of the doubt because it was dark and maybe he just couldn't see well until he tried a second time. Yeesh.
But they were just two out of hundreds of friendly, music-loving people who were there for some serious funk and old-school memories. When Con Funk Shun launched into "Love's Train/You Are the One" for the finale, there was a collective squeal from the crowd.
Cause you're never too old to want to be on love's train with the one. I'll testify to that.
Do I hear an amen?
Hizzoner the mayor was up next and he led us in a rah-rah session, instructing us to say Jackson Ward after everything he said. Maggie Walker! JW! Bill "Bojangles" Robinson! JW! First Consolidated Bank! JW! The Hippodrome Theater! JW! Harlem of the South! JW! You can be sure no one shouted louder than me.
Once we were all worked up, we were finally rewarded with what we'd come for: Con Funk Shun. The band has been around for 45 years, still boasts three of the original seven members and once toured with the likes of the Commodores and Bootsy's Rubber Band, back when funk ruled.
And it was ruling tonight as the dancing crowd sang along to most every song to one degree or another. Like all good 70s rhythm and blues, there was a big old bass line and plenty of horn action. Songs were meant for one of two things: either shaking your booty or sl-o-o-o-w dancing, if you know what I'm saying.
Guitarist Micheal Cooper said that the band has played Richmond 60, 70, maybe 80 times in the past 45 years and the people around me were testifying to that. Toward the end, the band even offered up a prayer for their long-running success, bringing on a chorus of amens afterwards.
If I had any complaints, it was with the boldness of some of the guys in the crowd. One drunk man apparently thought I wouldn't notice if he started rubbing my back; the first time I moved away, assuming it was unintentional, but the second time, I swung around and told him flat-out to stop touching me. He stared off into space and said, "How do you know it was me?" Right.
Another older guy asked if he could sit next to me and then proceeded to try to sit on my lap. I gave him the benefit of the doubt because it was dark and maybe he just couldn't see well until he tried a second time. Yeesh.
But they were just two out of hundreds of friendly, music-loving people who were there for some serious funk and old-school memories. When Con Funk Shun launched into "Love's Train/You Are the One" for the finale, there was a collective squeal from the crowd.
Cause you're never too old to want to be on love's train with the one. I'll testify to that.
Do I hear an amen?
Sausage over Werewolves
I stretched my First Friday activities (gallery walking, a sandwich at Lift, music in the courtyard and running into all the usual suspects there) into first Saturday with brunch and a day-late art opening at Sprout this afternoon.
When we arrived, the two outside tables were taken, but inside it was just us.
I was amazed because lately the place has been packed every time I've been in, whether for music or a meal.
And, note to self, now that I know they do happy hour, I can think of any number of friends who'd be inclined to join me there for a glass and some chatting after a hard day at the factory.
Friend and I were both in a sausage mood (but then, when am I not?), made all the better for being local, so she got the sausage scramble and I got the sausage and egg breakfast sandwich.
Farm fresh eggs really are such a lovely difference from your supermarket specimens.
The new art show was by Mike Moses, a local Renaissance man who labels himself a tattooer/artist/researcher.
He also gardens, builds things (like the beautiful suspension frames around his paintings) and makes music.
I'm sure he does even more than that, but that's all he's admitted to me.
The show, "Hair of the Dog," is a series based on accounts from ancient times through the 18th century involving what we now call werewolves.
Being Mike Moses, he even crafted the paintbrushes (of human hair) that he used in this series.
Next time I see him, I'm thinking I'll ask whose hair was involved. Inquiring minds want to know.
As you can probably tell, I'm a long-time fan of the guy (owning one of his 2008 prints), but the new works have a completely different feel than what I have.
There's a dreamy, mythical quality to the new stuff and the frames are standouts for their unique look.
The pumpkin cheesecake recently added to the menu was also tempting, as were the oatmeal wedding cookies sitting on the counter when we'd walked in, but sausage and eggs had killed those dreams and we waddled out into the sunshine.
First Saturdays are so much brighter than First Fridays.
Or do my First Friday activities just make it seem that way?
When we arrived, the two outside tables were taken, but inside it was just us.
I was amazed because lately the place has been packed every time I've been in, whether for music or a meal.
And, note to self, now that I know they do happy hour, I can think of any number of friends who'd be inclined to join me there for a glass and some chatting after a hard day at the factory.
Friend and I were both in a sausage mood (but then, when am I not?), made all the better for being local, so she got the sausage scramble and I got the sausage and egg breakfast sandwich.
Farm fresh eggs really are such a lovely difference from your supermarket specimens.
The new art show was by Mike Moses, a local Renaissance man who labels himself a tattooer/artist/researcher.
He also gardens, builds things (like the beautiful suspension frames around his paintings) and makes music.
I'm sure he does even more than that, but that's all he's admitted to me.
The show, "Hair of the Dog," is a series based on accounts from ancient times through the 18th century involving what we now call werewolves.
Being Mike Moses, he even crafted the paintbrushes (of human hair) that he used in this series.
Next time I see him, I'm thinking I'll ask whose hair was involved. Inquiring minds want to know.
As you can probably tell, I'm a long-time fan of the guy (owning one of his 2008 prints), but the new works have a completely different feel than what I have.
There's a dreamy, mythical quality to the new stuff and the frames are standouts for their unique look.
The pumpkin cheesecake recently added to the menu was also tempting, as were the oatmeal wedding cookies sitting on the counter when we'd walked in, but sausage and eggs had killed those dreams and we waddled out into the sunshine.
First Saturdays are so much brighter than First Fridays.
Or do my First Friday activities just make it seem that way?
Friday, October 1, 2010
Closer to Close
"This sold out weeks ago. You are the lucky ones."
So said VMFA Director Alex Nyerges to a packed theater moments before legendary artist Chuck Close took the stage, but not before curator John Ravenal spoke of Close's commitment to portraiture in an era of abstract expressionism as well as Close's devotion to the mechanics of representation.
The event took a conversational format with Close's friend of 42 years, author Christoper Finch, using slides to generate talking points between himself and the artist.
As thrilled as I was to be in the presence of this man, I could have generated endless questions myself with nothing more than curiosity and nosiness, but visuals are nice, too.
Finch recalled first meeting Close and described his outfit at the time as a denim work shirt with a white t-shirt underneath, "That was before Soho black," Close explained, "back when artists had to look like workers." It was the first of his many humorous observations throughout the evening.
Finch showed a slide of a young Close in magician's garb and Close said that he thought painting was the most magical of medias because it allowed, "conjuring up illusions to fool people."
Sipping Scotch as he answered questions and reminisced, Close talked about his learning disabilities, his decision to go to grad school to avoid the draft ("I owe everything to Fidel," he said), and his presumption that art collectors would be jerks ("Except for Frances [Lewis]!" he wisely said, knowing that local legend and great modern art collector was in the audience).
Unlike Warhol who was then painting celebrities, Close wanted to paint anonymous people, preferably those with life experience. "It's hard to paint a baby. They haven't had a life, so they have no wrinkles, the kind of stuff I love to paint."
Some of what he shared was fascinating for its look into the mind of an artist. He said that it's impossible for him to be working on two paintings concurrently. He mentioned that he is still working off of the same 1968 photo of Philip Glass that he has been using since the first portrait he did of Glass. "I need to retire it," he laughed.
And why portraits? "The face is a road map of the life experience you've had," he said simply. He cited Vermeer as his favorite all-time painter. Woman in a Red Hat, his favorite Vermeer, is
"compressed energy in a 6" by 9" painting." He referred to her mouth as "the greatest orifice in the history of painting." Such a wonderful acknowledgement.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Ravenal was back on stage telling Close and Finch that the two had a mere five minutes left. When the artist suggested taking questions, the curator informed him that they weren't set up for questions. "Boo!" Close said to the audience, most of whom would have no doubt loved to ask something, anything of this man.
So things were summarily wrapped up and Close made his final witty observation. "The slides ran out at the exact same time as the Scotch ran out."
Now that's artistry.
So said VMFA Director Alex Nyerges to a packed theater moments before legendary artist Chuck Close took the stage, but not before curator John Ravenal spoke of Close's commitment to portraiture in an era of abstract expressionism as well as Close's devotion to the mechanics of representation.
The event took a conversational format with Close's friend of 42 years, author Christoper Finch, using slides to generate talking points between himself and the artist.
As thrilled as I was to be in the presence of this man, I could have generated endless questions myself with nothing more than curiosity and nosiness, but visuals are nice, too.
Finch recalled first meeting Close and described his outfit at the time as a denim work shirt with a white t-shirt underneath, "That was before Soho black," Close explained, "back when artists had to look like workers." It was the first of his many humorous observations throughout the evening.
Finch showed a slide of a young Close in magician's garb and Close said that he thought painting was the most magical of medias because it allowed, "conjuring up illusions to fool people."
Sipping Scotch as he answered questions and reminisced, Close talked about his learning disabilities, his decision to go to grad school to avoid the draft ("I owe everything to Fidel," he said), and his presumption that art collectors would be jerks ("Except for Frances [Lewis]!" he wisely said, knowing that local legend and great modern art collector was in the audience).
Unlike Warhol who was then painting celebrities, Close wanted to paint anonymous people, preferably those with life experience. "It's hard to paint a baby. They haven't had a life, so they have no wrinkles, the kind of stuff I love to paint."
Some of what he shared was fascinating for its look into the mind of an artist. He said that it's impossible for him to be working on two paintings concurrently. He mentioned that he is still working off of the same 1968 photo of Philip Glass that he has been using since the first portrait he did of Glass. "I need to retire it," he laughed.
And why portraits? "The face is a road map of the life experience you've had," he said simply. He cited Vermeer as his favorite all-time painter. Woman in a Red Hat, his favorite Vermeer, is
"compressed energy in a 6" by 9" painting." He referred to her mouth as "the greatest orifice in the history of painting." Such a wonderful acknowledgement.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Ravenal was back on stage telling Close and Finch that the two had a mere five minutes left. When the artist suggested taking questions, the curator informed him that they weren't set up for questions. "Boo!" Close said to the audience, most of whom would have no doubt loved to ask something, anything of this man.
So things were summarily wrapped up and Close made his final witty observation. "The slides ran out at the exact same time as the Scotch ran out."
Now that's artistry.
Burgers Under a Blue Sky
(With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
Carytown Burgers how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My mouth and soul can reach
I love your large, misshapen patties
Encased in a soft over sized bun
I love the oozing ketchup and mustard
Yellow as the mid-day sun
I love your thick cut fries
Salted and seasoned and hot
I inhale your enormous milkshakes
Even though I know I should not.
But what I love best is that tiny little patio area back by the a/c units. Not the plastic-encased "patio," where most people sit, but the back two-table gravel-floored rectangle where the sky is the ceiling and today it was so beautifully blue that it alone could make a person feel like anything was possible.
And maybe it is...once I stop feeling quite this full.
Carytown Burgers how do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My mouth and soul can reach
I love your large, misshapen patties
Encased in a soft over sized bun
I love the oozing ketchup and mustard
Yellow as the mid-day sun
I love your thick cut fries
Salted and seasoned and hot
I inhale your enormous milkshakes
Even though I know I should not.
But what I love best is that tiny little patio area back by the a/c units. Not the plastic-encased "patio," where most people sit, but the back two-table gravel-floored rectangle where the sky is the ceiling and today it was so beautifully blue that it alone could make a person feel like anything was possible.
And maybe it is...once I stop feeling quite this full.
Extending My Southern Hospitality
In the interest of being a good representative of my adopted city, I played tour guide tonight to an out-of-town visitor.
At issue was how much I could show a non-local on a dark, rainy night, hardly prime sightseeing time. Luckily I didn't have to work at it too hard because he'd already gotten a few recommendations from a local bartender about must-sees. I just had to fill in the cracks.
With that in mind, I figured the least I could do was start with our most scenic boulevard, Monument Avenue and try to wow him that way. He was impressed, more with the houses than the lesson in Civil War history, but that may have been owing to my less-than-detailed history lesson.
The first place he'd been told to experience was Mekong, no doubt due to his home-brewing habits. Or maybe just his love of good beer. An was behind the bar, so they discussed what he likes and An made his recommendations. Fortunately for a non-beer drinker like me, they had one decent tequila.
A beer and wine geek friend was also in attendance, which worked out well because I was able to provide the visitor with a kindred soul with whom to discuss such things. The funny part was when my friend suggested Capital Ale House at Innsbrook to the visitor as the place to go for the largest beer offerings.
Obviously the visitor didn't know me well enough to realize that I was already at the outer limits of the city as far as I'm concerned, making my friend laugh at even the thought that I might venture further west. Not happening.
But I'd already promised that I'd take him to Commercial Taphouse, which delivered on several levels. First and most importantly, they had cask ale, a fact which apparently couldn't delight a home brewer (or true beer geek) more.
He happily ordered some and I told him of my recent curiosity about experiencing it, here, and what guy can resist giving a girl a first experience? So I had my first cask ale and I'd have to say it was way more interesting than any beers I've tasted in the past. I should have known I could trust an art-lover for beer advice,
We were several hours in to our evening at this point and both hungry, so we decided to eat and here's the funny part. The visitor looked at the menu, looked at me and asked, "Do you eat ribs?" It was to laugh. Of course I eat ribs, but according to him, "Most girls don't." How's that for a blanket generalization?
So we got a half rack and the Ploughman's platter (which inexplicably now comes with leaves of romaine lettuce in addition to toast, which the visitor used to make ploughman wraps, giving him points for creativity, at least in my book). "Eat this," he directed so I did.
Earlier in the car we had furthered our music talk and one band he had specifically mentioned was the English post-punk band Killing Joke, with whom I was not familiar. In a truly odd coincidence, while in Commercial, they played a Killing Joke song off their 1980 debut album.
He was thrilled and I got a frame of reference for his description. Now what were the chances of such a thing happening?
Our final stop was my choice and what I had planned to do before getting a call from the help-a-visitor foundation. Julep was hosting a benefit for Tricycle Gardens and I wanted to do my part to support community gardening.
We arrived around 10:30 for the 8:30 event and it was packed with other do-gooders (okay, drinkers). I ran into a girlfriend I hadn't seen in a year and we caught up; she's still not dating, either.
Probably not your typical list of must-sees, but he sure seemed to enjoy them all. Or maybe it was the sparkling local company.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
At issue was how much I could show a non-local on a dark, rainy night, hardly prime sightseeing time. Luckily I didn't have to work at it too hard because he'd already gotten a few recommendations from a local bartender about must-sees. I just had to fill in the cracks.
With that in mind, I figured the least I could do was start with our most scenic boulevard, Monument Avenue and try to wow him that way. He was impressed, more with the houses than the lesson in Civil War history, but that may have been owing to my less-than-detailed history lesson.
The first place he'd been told to experience was Mekong, no doubt due to his home-brewing habits. Or maybe just his love of good beer. An was behind the bar, so they discussed what he likes and An made his recommendations. Fortunately for a non-beer drinker like me, they had one decent tequila.
A beer and wine geek friend was also in attendance, which worked out well because I was able to provide the visitor with a kindred soul with whom to discuss such things. The funny part was when my friend suggested Capital Ale House at Innsbrook to the visitor as the place to go for the largest beer offerings.
Obviously the visitor didn't know me well enough to realize that I was already at the outer limits of the city as far as I'm concerned, making my friend laugh at even the thought that I might venture further west. Not happening.
But I'd already promised that I'd take him to Commercial Taphouse, which delivered on several levels. First and most importantly, they had cask ale, a fact which apparently couldn't delight a home brewer (or true beer geek) more.
He happily ordered some and I told him of my recent curiosity about experiencing it, here, and what guy can resist giving a girl a first experience? So I had my first cask ale and I'd have to say it was way more interesting than any beers I've tasted in the past. I should have known I could trust an art-lover for beer advice,
We were several hours in to our evening at this point and both hungry, so we decided to eat and here's the funny part. The visitor looked at the menu, looked at me and asked, "Do you eat ribs?" It was to laugh. Of course I eat ribs, but according to him, "Most girls don't." How's that for a blanket generalization?
So we got a half rack and the Ploughman's platter (which inexplicably now comes with leaves of romaine lettuce in addition to toast, which the visitor used to make ploughman wraps, giving him points for creativity, at least in my book). "Eat this," he directed so I did.
Earlier in the car we had furthered our music talk and one band he had specifically mentioned was the English post-punk band Killing Joke, with whom I was not familiar. In a truly odd coincidence, while in Commercial, they played a Killing Joke song off their 1980 debut album.
He was thrilled and I got a frame of reference for his description. Now what were the chances of such a thing happening?
Our final stop was my choice and what I had planned to do before getting a call from the help-a-visitor foundation. Julep was hosting a benefit for Tricycle Gardens and I wanted to do my part to support community gardening.
We arrived around 10:30 for the 8:30 event and it was packed with other do-gooders (okay, drinkers). I ran into a girlfriend I hadn't seen in a year and we caught up; she's still not dating, either.
Probably not your typical list of must-sees, but he sure seemed to enjoy them all. Or maybe it was the sparkling local company.
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Fine Nine North Fourth
At the moment, the wooden telephone booth built into the back of the dining room is my favorite design element of Nine North Fourth. It reminds me of the one at Ray Milland's club in Dial M for Murder, the one from which he sets in motion the plan to murder his wife. But I digress.
Because Nine North Fourth is in nearby Monroe Ward, I was curious to check it out. I waited until after the lunch rush and ambled on over. Four or five tables were occupied and I was given my choice of the rest. I took a booth for two with a chair at the end, creating a three-top near the back.
The specials occupy a giant chalkboard that takes up the north-facing wall, so I read those before perusing the menu. It was about then that I noticed the goose bumps on my arm, caused by the gale-force air conditioning blowing directly on me and moved to the table behind me to escape it.
I couldn't have been the first to do so either, because my server came over and asked, "Too cold for you?" She pointed to the antiquated a/c unit on the ceiling and said they were working on addressing the problem.
In fact, she said that they sometimes have to leave the front door open to moderate the temperature, a practice I love. Please do let in some warm, un-conditioned air.
There are two sandwiches whose preparation changes daily, one chicken and one flatiron steak. Today's flatiron was being served medium rare with sauteed onions and tarragon aioli on grilled focaccia, which had my name all over it. Coleslaw was my side of choice.
While I waited for it to arrive, I enjoyed the cable radio station being played; it was 70s and 80s soul/funk along the lines of Cameo and KC & the Sunshine Band. I immediately presumed that it was the British-born chef's choice and he later told me that it was indeed.
My server asked me if it was my first time there and when I nodded, she said I was the 7th or 8th new customer today. But for lunch, not breakfast. Apparently breakfast is very slow and she said unless that changes, they may give it up, especially once they start doing dinner in two weeks.
I'm pleased to report that my sandwich was the perfect size, stuffed with pink-centered meat, loads of onions, fresh greens and a savory aioli. After all the fish and seafood the past few days. I tore into it just as Chef Phil Barradell came by my table.
When my server mentioned my newbie status, he grinned at me and said, "We love new customers!"
Mouth full, I mumbled that I love new neighborhood restaurants. Sounds like a recipe for everyone to be happy.
The desserts looked terribly tempting (gingerbread, peach ice cream), but I was too full. Sitting there reading my Post, the chef came out of the kitchen, saying something to the server that I didn't hear, but her answer was clear.
"You're full of yourself today!" she laughed.
"Today?" he shot back.
Accented entertainment and good food 3/4 of a mile from home. Keep it up, Monroe Ward.
Because Nine North Fourth is in nearby Monroe Ward, I was curious to check it out. I waited until after the lunch rush and ambled on over. Four or five tables were occupied and I was given my choice of the rest. I took a booth for two with a chair at the end, creating a three-top near the back.
The specials occupy a giant chalkboard that takes up the north-facing wall, so I read those before perusing the menu. It was about then that I noticed the goose bumps on my arm, caused by the gale-force air conditioning blowing directly on me and moved to the table behind me to escape it.
I couldn't have been the first to do so either, because my server came over and asked, "Too cold for you?" She pointed to the antiquated a/c unit on the ceiling and said they were working on addressing the problem.
In fact, she said that they sometimes have to leave the front door open to moderate the temperature, a practice I love. Please do let in some warm, un-conditioned air.
There are two sandwiches whose preparation changes daily, one chicken and one flatiron steak. Today's flatiron was being served medium rare with sauteed onions and tarragon aioli on grilled focaccia, which had my name all over it. Coleslaw was my side of choice.
While I waited for it to arrive, I enjoyed the cable radio station being played; it was 70s and 80s soul/funk along the lines of Cameo and KC & the Sunshine Band. I immediately presumed that it was the British-born chef's choice and he later told me that it was indeed.
My server asked me if it was my first time there and when I nodded, she said I was the 7th or 8th new customer today. But for lunch, not breakfast. Apparently breakfast is very slow and she said unless that changes, they may give it up, especially once they start doing dinner in two weeks.
I'm pleased to report that my sandwich was the perfect size, stuffed with pink-centered meat, loads of onions, fresh greens and a savory aioli. After all the fish and seafood the past few days. I tore into it just as Chef Phil Barradell came by my table.
When my server mentioned my newbie status, he grinned at me and said, "We love new customers!"
Mouth full, I mumbled that I love new neighborhood restaurants. Sounds like a recipe for everyone to be happy.
The desserts looked terribly tempting (gingerbread, peach ice cream), but I was too full. Sitting there reading my Post, the chef came out of the kitchen, saying something to the server that I didn't hear, but her answer was clear.
"You're full of yourself today!" she laughed.
"Today?" he shot back.
Accented entertainment and good food 3/4 of a mile from home. Keep it up, Monroe Ward.
From the Congo to Boston
The best thing about being back from the beach is that I can put my brain back into gear again. That meant starting at the Anderson Gallery for the panel discussion on "Collecting African Music," something I have no intention of doing but every desire to learn more about.
The discussion was yet another tie-in to the current South African shows, specifically Siemon Allen's record collection at the Anderson. Besides the collector, Bill Lupoletti and David Noyes of WRIR were on the panel to add their music geek perspectives.
The talk was interesting, what with two DJs and the collector himself. The first point of contention was Paul Simon's Graceland. It seemed that while the DJs liked the African rhythms of it, Paul Simon not so much.
On the other hand, Simon's controversial decision to ignore the cultural boycott against performing with South African musicians got widespread approval since it allowed South African musicians to be heard at a time when it was not the norm.
Bill said that, "The album opened a market. It was a synthesis of what Simon did before as well as the South African music that inspired him." He saw this as positive, as did the others.
One thing the talk made clear was that it is no longer possible to just go to your local record store and find the latest in African (or world) music. The Internet and e-Bay have replaced the record store as the places to procure the latest, mainly because there are fewer independent distributors than there used to be.
Bill said, "World music is a term nobody likes and everybody uses," because it means so little. But WRIR's Congolese program gets listeners from all over the world because it is the only broadcast program of Congolese music in the entire country. There goes that WRIR, making us proud again.
The takeaway from the panel was Siemon Allen's directive, "Don't let the collection become an end into itself." Hoarders of music help no one but themselves.
By the end of the talk, it had been a long time since the herring roe breakfast, so I went on over to the Belvidere at Broad for dinner and perhaps some company and ended up with both.
Tonight's soup was vegetarian onion soup gratin, fortunately not vegan, so it had a lovely cheese layer melted on top. Vegetable stock works beautifully instead of beef stock and I am here to attest to that.
Next up was the golden and red beet salad with Maytag Bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens. After that filling soup course (necessary due to the damp coolness of all this rain), I filled up quickly on the beet course.
My neighbors at the bar were business associates in town from Boston and while she didn't last long (8:12), he stayed and chatted for four hours, unexpectedly providing great company with all kinds of literary leanings. How often can a stranger show you e-mails referencing Yeats, Keats and Nirvana?
His extensive travels, his long-time concert-going habit (King Crimson and Devotchka? Damn.)and his sarcasm made him a worthy conversational partner and I was thrilled to have lucked onto someone so interesting and willing to chat up a stranger.
By the time we got ready to leave, the only other person at the bar was using a yellow highlighter to annotate his non-fiction book on love (he was a masseuse and a nutritionist). I wished him luck at book-learning about love.
I dropped the Bostonian (like me, a lapsed Irish-Catholic) at the Doubletree and made my way home in the pouring rain.
Although I like beach rain so much better (lots warmer and I can still hear the ocean), there's nothing like getting home and back into the swing of things.
I can do this. I can do this.
The discussion was yet another tie-in to the current South African shows, specifically Siemon Allen's record collection at the Anderson. Besides the collector, Bill Lupoletti and David Noyes of WRIR were on the panel to add their music geek perspectives.
The talk was interesting, what with two DJs and the collector himself. The first point of contention was Paul Simon's Graceland. It seemed that while the DJs liked the African rhythms of it, Paul Simon not so much.
On the other hand, Simon's controversial decision to ignore the cultural boycott against performing with South African musicians got widespread approval since it allowed South African musicians to be heard at a time when it was not the norm.
Bill said that, "The album opened a market. It was a synthesis of what Simon did before as well as the South African music that inspired him." He saw this as positive, as did the others.
One thing the talk made clear was that it is no longer possible to just go to your local record store and find the latest in African (or world) music. The Internet and e-Bay have replaced the record store as the places to procure the latest, mainly because there are fewer independent distributors than there used to be.
Bill said, "World music is a term nobody likes and everybody uses," because it means so little. But WRIR's Congolese program gets listeners from all over the world because it is the only broadcast program of Congolese music in the entire country. There goes that WRIR, making us proud again.
The takeaway from the panel was Siemon Allen's directive, "Don't let the collection become an end into itself." Hoarders of music help no one but themselves.
By the end of the talk, it had been a long time since the herring roe breakfast, so I went on over to the Belvidere at Broad for dinner and perhaps some company and ended up with both.
Tonight's soup was vegetarian onion soup gratin, fortunately not vegan, so it had a lovely cheese layer melted on top. Vegetable stock works beautifully instead of beef stock and I am here to attest to that.
Next up was the golden and red beet salad with Maytag Bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens. After that filling soup course (necessary due to the damp coolness of all this rain), I filled up quickly on the beet course.
My neighbors at the bar were business associates in town from Boston and while she didn't last long (8:12), he stayed and chatted for four hours, unexpectedly providing great company with all kinds of literary leanings. How often can a stranger show you e-mails referencing Yeats, Keats and Nirvana?
His extensive travels, his long-time concert-going habit (King Crimson and Devotchka? Damn.)and his sarcasm made him a worthy conversational partner and I was thrilled to have lucked onto someone so interesting and willing to chat up a stranger.
By the time we got ready to leave, the only other person at the bar was using a yellow highlighter to annotate his non-fiction book on love (he was a masseuse and a nutritionist). I wished him luck at book-learning about love.
I dropped the Bostonian (like me, a lapsed Irish-Catholic) at the Doubletree and made my way home in the pouring rain.
Although I like beach rain so much better (lots warmer and I can still hear the ocean), there's nothing like getting home and back into the swing of things.
I can do this. I can do this.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Not Ruing the Roe
So it's National Women's Health and Fitness Day and what did this woman do to observe said obscure holiday?
Well, let's see. I didn't walk because it was raining, pouring actually. I didn't work out because I was at the beach. I didn't even take my vitamin, come to think of it, because I forgot (late night, unnecessarily early morning, but I won't mention names).
What I did instead was enjoy a late breakfast at the Nags Head Pier where I inhaled a large plate of eggs scrambled with herring roe (my first), fried potatoes and a hot biscuit half slathered with butter, the other half with strawberry jam. I did drink a glass of orange juice, if that makes it any better.
Meanwhile, the rain and waves were splashing on the pier windows the whole time, making us feel like we were in the center of the storm. It was actually pretty cool.
My Richmond grandmother was right. I am going to hell in a hand basket.
My Washington, D.C. grandmother was right, too. I'll be perfectly at home there.
Both would have been pleased that I had herring roe for breakfast.
Well, let's see. I didn't walk because it was raining, pouring actually. I didn't work out because I was at the beach. I didn't even take my vitamin, come to think of it, because I forgot (late night, unnecessarily early morning, but I won't mention names).
What I did instead was enjoy a late breakfast at the Nags Head Pier where I inhaled a large plate of eggs scrambled with herring roe (my first), fried potatoes and a hot biscuit half slathered with butter, the other half with strawberry jam. I did drink a glass of orange juice, if that makes it any better.
Meanwhile, the rain and waves were splashing on the pier windows the whole time, making us feel like we were in the center of the storm. It was actually pretty cool.
My Richmond grandmother was right. I am going to hell in a hand basket.
My Washington, D.C. grandmother was right, too. I'll be perfectly at home there.
Both would have been pleased that I had herring roe for breakfast.
I Like Being Hot
I am a pig when it comes to eating crabs; I don't have any childhood summer eating memories that don't include crabs. So naturally I am a pro at picking them. And eating them (although in this category I have also been called a glutton).
During our most excellent crab feast on the porch last evening (during which I picked for myself as well as the less competent), we found ourselves drifting into several philosophical discussions; the one which interested me most was the one about air conditioning.
I am currently reading Reprieve: A Memoir by Agnes de Mille about the cerebral hemorrhage she suffered in the late 70s after a longtime career as a groundbreaking dancer and choreographer.
While recovering in one of the best hospitals in NYC (and one of only three in the world at the time that had a CAT scan capability), she mentioned the long summer nights in the hospital.
"It was hot I suppose because it was midsummer and no air conditioning was allowed in the hospital but I was high up and there was always a breeze of sorts [through the window]."
The group was appalled. No a/c in a hospital? How did people survive, much less recover? How inhumane! How archaic.
I told the group I don't use air conditioning and haven't since 1993 by choice. Well, if Agnes' situation was appalling, mine was sheer idiocy. The 70s were one thing, but this is the 21st century, they squealed. Why on earth?
Why not? It's green and oh-so economical (more money for crabs). I never claimed to be like other people. And I really do like feeling warm to the bone.
When we got down here and were choosing bedrooms, there was one with twin beds, one with a double and one with a queen. No one wanted the twin bed room except me, which worked out exceedingly well for me.
It's the only room on the ocean side. So I have the windows flung wide open so I can hear the waves and feel the breeze.
But I am obligated to keep the door to my room shut at all times so my warm, humid salt air doesn't dilute the meat-locker temperature in the rest of the cottage. Can do.
Truthfully, the essence of summer in the south for me isn't crab eating (although I'd hate to do without), it's that little trickle of sweat that runs down between my breasts on a hot day.
Just add it to the list of my oddities.
During our most excellent crab feast on the porch last evening (during which I picked for myself as well as the less competent), we found ourselves drifting into several philosophical discussions; the one which interested me most was the one about air conditioning.
I am currently reading Reprieve: A Memoir by Agnes de Mille about the cerebral hemorrhage she suffered in the late 70s after a longtime career as a groundbreaking dancer and choreographer.
While recovering in one of the best hospitals in NYC (and one of only three in the world at the time that had a CAT scan capability), she mentioned the long summer nights in the hospital.
"It was hot I suppose because it was midsummer and no air conditioning was allowed in the hospital but I was high up and there was always a breeze of sorts [through the window]."
The group was appalled. No a/c in a hospital? How did people survive, much less recover? How inhumane! How archaic.
I told the group I don't use air conditioning and haven't since 1993 by choice. Well, if Agnes' situation was appalling, mine was sheer idiocy. The 70s were one thing, but this is the 21st century, they squealed. Why on earth?
Why not? It's green and oh-so economical (more money for crabs). I never claimed to be like other people. And I really do like feeling warm to the bone.
When we got down here and were choosing bedrooms, there was one with twin beds, one with a double and one with a queen. No one wanted the twin bed room except me, which worked out exceedingly well for me.
It's the only room on the ocean side. So I have the windows flung wide open so I can hear the waves and feel the breeze.
But I am obligated to keep the door to my room shut at all times so my warm, humid salt air doesn't dilute the meat-locker temperature in the rest of the cottage. Can do.
Truthfully, the essence of summer in the south for me isn't crab eating (although I'd hate to do without), it's that little trickle of sweat that runs down between my breasts on a hot day.
Just add it to the list of my oddities.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
She Can Read, But Can She Fish?
We were beginning to think it was ark-building time down here, but the rain finally stopped long enough for outdoor activity. I suggested a walk and my housemates enthusiastically agreed, so we set out for the pier, a little more than a mile away.
We certainly weren't the only souls seeking the great outdoors; there were dog walkers, parents walking a leashed toddler (soapbox time), a bocce ball game and a woman using a cane and collecting shells. They all looked pleased as I felt to finally be on the beach.
Not so much my crew. Gradually, our foursome became a trio and eventually it was just me who arrived at the pier, soaked from the waist down thanks to the incoming tide. If I'd have been smart, I'd have worn a bathing suit, but I hadn't been that optimistic.
Up on the pier, I walked the abbreviated length of it (never rebuilt after Isabel took off the last third) and admired the view back at shore. I happened upon a couple of guys fishing and inquired if that was what this weather was good for.
"It sure is," the crustier one enthused. "Been catching trout all afternoon!" There were three or four fish there. Shows how much I know; trout are in the ocean?
The other guy looks at my wet legs and points at them, asking, "Water still nice and warm?" I nodded. "Yea, I guess that and fishing are all this weather is good for," I shrugged.
"Well come back and Cap'n Wally'll teach you how to fish," he said, pointing at the crusty guy who was now nodding and smiling at me.
"Maybe I will," I half-promised, taking my wet self back down the pier steps to look for my wimpy housemates.
Unlike some people, I bet Cap'n Wally would be willing to walk a lousy couple of miles with me. Hell, he'd probably even fry up the trout if I asked him to.
I'm just not sure about the conversational potential there and much as I like trout, that's just not worth the risk. Plus he probably listens to classic rock.
Besides, nobody would believe for a second that I'm the fishing type. That said, Thomas McGuane's The Longest Silence: A Life in Fishing was one of the most beautiful books I ever read.
I know, I know. That still doesn't make me the fishing type. Sorry, Cap'n Wally.
We certainly weren't the only souls seeking the great outdoors; there were dog walkers, parents walking a leashed toddler (soapbox time), a bocce ball game and a woman using a cane and collecting shells. They all looked pleased as I felt to finally be on the beach.
Not so much my crew. Gradually, our foursome became a trio and eventually it was just me who arrived at the pier, soaked from the waist down thanks to the incoming tide. If I'd have been smart, I'd have worn a bathing suit, but I hadn't been that optimistic.
Up on the pier, I walked the abbreviated length of it (never rebuilt after Isabel took off the last third) and admired the view back at shore. I happened upon a couple of guys fishing and inquired if that was what this weather was good for.
"It sure is," the crustier one enthused. "Been catching trout all afternoon!" There were three or four fish there. Shows how much I know; trout are in the ocean?
The other guy looks at my wet legs and points at them, asking, "Water still nice and warm?" I nodded. "Yea, I guess that and fishing are all this weather is good for," I shrugged.
"Well come back and Cap'n Wally'll teach you how to fish," he said, pointing at the crusty guy who was now nodding and smiling at me.
"Maybe I will," I half-promised, taking my wet self back down the pier steps to look for my wimpy housemates.
Unlike some people, I bet Cap'n Wally would be willing to walk a lousy couple of miles with me. Hell, he'd probably even fry up the trout if I asked him to.
I'm just not sure about the conversational potential there and much as I like trout, that's just not worth the risk. Plus he probably listens to classic rock.
Besides, nobody would believe for a second that I'm the fishing type. That said, Thomas McGuane's The Longest Silence: A Life in Fishing was one of the most beautiful books I ever read.
I know, I know. That still doesn't make me the fishing type. Sorry, Cap'n Wally.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sparkler Salvation
It never ceases to amaze me that there are adults who are genuinely afraid of thunderstorms, but one such person is part of our little getaway group. This only became a problem when we started talking about going out and she informed us that she couldn't possibly go anywhere until the thunder and lightening subsided.
No problem, we accommodated, we'll do a happy hour until the storm passes. But not everyone had their beverage of choice in house, so we sent a duo out on a hunting and gathering mission (one needed cigarettes, so that was part of it) with instructions to be quick.
They were not quick. They did not remember to get the vermouth, either. They made a side trip and brought back fudge, saltwater taffy and rock candy. They were still backslapping each other about the Brew-Thru. Fail, but not epic.
On a happier note, during their absence the storm had moved on and we were able to leave for dinner. Our destination had been chosen by a vote (I lost) so we went to the Red Drum, a place that touts its 18 beers on tap. "Nuff said.
I can't complain, though, because my rockfish topped with a saute of applewood-smoked bacon, shrimp and tomato in a roasted garlic basil butter was outstanding. The taste I had of storm girl's flounder with artichokes, crab meat and capers in a lemon butter sauce was almost as good.
But even well-prepared fish can't compensate for large family groups and small children banging cups and hollering. When one little girl sitting on her grandfather's lap began rubbing his chest, her mother demanded,"What are you doing, feeling him up?" in a voice that carried across the room.
There is no hope for future generations.
And on that note, we are headed down to the beach to set off fireworks and contemplate a hopeless future. Glasses will necessarily be raised.
But not until storm girl changes into something with no metal zippers. Give me strength.
No problem, we accommodated, we'll do a happy hour until the storm passes. But not everyone had their beverage of choice in house, so we sent a duo out on a hunting and gathering mission (one needed cigarettes, so that was part of it) with instructions to be quick.
They were not quick. They did not remember to get the vermouth, either. They made a side trip and brought back fudge, saltwater taffy and rock candy. They were still backslapping each other about the Brew-Thru. Fail, but not epic.
On a happier note, during their absence the storm had moved on and we were able to leave for dinner. Our destination had been chosen by a vote (I lost) so we went to the Red Drum, a place that touts its 18 beers on tap. "Nuff said.
I can't complain, though, because my rockfish topped with a saute of applewood-smoked bacon, shrimp and tomato in a roasted garlic basil butter was outstanding. The taste I had of storm girl's flounder with artichokes, crab meat and capers in a lemon butter sauce was almost as good.
But even well-prepared fish can't compensate for large family groups and small children banging cups and hollering. When one little girl sitting on her grandfather's lap began rubbing his chest, her mother demanded,"What are you doing, feeling him up?" in a voice that carried across the room.
There is no hope for future generations.
And on that note, we are headed down to the beach to set off fireworks and contemplate a hopeless future. Glasses will necessarily be raised.
But not until storm girl changes into something with no metal zippers. Give me strength.
Guns and Guitars, Open Late
You know, because you never know when you'll get a midnight craving for a Fender or a shotgun. And that wasn't even my favorite of the signs I passed on the way down Route 460 this morning.
That one read: Start Your Day with a Hearty Breakfast -ABC ON! Nothing's heartier than booze for breakfast, at least in New Bohemia.
And of course the only reason I drive through New Bohemia is to go to the beach, in this case to spend a couple days with friends and clear my head. Road trips are good for that, as is a change of scenery; I need to be distracted to think about things.
Walking out of a gas station in Windsor, a guy asked me, "Are you working hard today?" to which I replied, "Hardly working. Going to the beach." His face lit up. "Can I come with you?"
"Nope." His face fell. "Why not?" Oh, let's just say a gut feeling, stranger. "Bye now."
Deciding where to eat lunch was easy because while I've been in Weeping Radish Brewery, Butchery and Pub before, I hadn't eaten there. I passed a sign walking in that said, "Sauerkraut fermenting" and later was told that it's fermenting in French oak barrels with local bacon. That's my kind of sauerkraut.
This place cures all their own meats from the best local farmers have to offer , so choosing anything off the menu was a win/win situation. Fortuitously, the butcher came out while I was deciding and despite German being his primary language and English mine, I got the nod on my choice, the garlic andouille sausage on a pretzel roll with sauerkraut and house-made chips.
I don't drink beer, but they brew their own root beer, so I was more than happy to indulge in that. It was served in a glass that said, "Work is the curse of the drinking class." You think?
The sausage was superb, the garlic taming the spiciness of the andouille so you still tasted it but didn't feel it. That pretzel roll slathered with mustard was a little bit of heaven for a hot pretzel-lover like me. Best of all, there were three local mustards to choose from, so I went with both Bone Suckin' mustard (from Raleigh) and Lusty Monk (from Asheville).
So now I'm at the beach and the rain is pouring, but it's okay because it wasn't when I arrived
so I went out and walked on a mostly deserted beach while one friend took a nap before the others arrive.
Bring on the beach distractions!
That one read: Start Your Day with a Hearty Breakfast -ABC ON! Nothing's heartier than booze for breakfast, at least in New Bohemia.
And of course the only reason I drive through New Bohemia is to go to the beach, in this case to spend a couple days with friends and clear my head. Road trips are good for that, as is a change of scenery; I need to be distracted to think about things.
Walking out of a gas station in Windsor, a guy asked me, "Are you working hard today?" to which I replied, "Hardly working. Going to the beach." His face lit up. "Can I come with you?"
"Nope." His face fell. "Why not?" Oh, let's just say a gut feeling, stranger. "Bye now."
Deciding where to eat lunch was easy because while I've been in Weeping Radish Brewery, Butchery and Pub before, I hadn't eaten there. I passed a sign walking in that said, "Sauerkraut fermenting" and later was told that it's fermenting in French oak barrels with local bacon. That's my kind of sauerkraut.
This place cures all their own meats from the best local farmers have to offer , so choosing anything off the menu was a win/win situation. Fortuitously, the butcher came out while I was deciding and despite German being his primary language and English mine, I got the nod on my choice, the garlic andouille sausage on a pretzel roll with sauerkraut and house-made chips.
I don't drink beer, but they brew their own root beer, so I was more than happy to indulge in that. It was served in a glass that said, "Work is the curse of the drinking class." You think?
The sausage was superb, the garlic taming the spiciness of the andouille so you still tasted it but didn't feel it. That pretzel roll slathered with mustard was a little bit of heaven for a hot pretzel-lover like me. Best of all, there were three local mustards to choose from, so I went with both Bone Suckin' mustard (from Raleigh) and Lusty Monk (from Asheville).
So now I'm at the beach and the rain is pouring, but it's okay because it wasn't when I arrived
so I went out and walked on a mostly deserted beach while one friend took a nap before the others arrive.
Bring on the beach distractions!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Jams and Omens for 100, Alex
If you go to a Belle Boggs reading, you will get jam. Maybe it will be blueberry mint or maybe hot pepper jelly or even strawberry preserves, but it will be named after one of the recurring characters in her short story collection, Mattaponi Queen.
At tonight's reading at Gallery 5, we were treated to part of a story involving the character Skinny, a divorced alcoholic druggie not long for this world. She ended the story by saying, "Sorry to read such a depressing story. They're not all that depressing."
All her stories are set in King and Queen County or King William County, the places she grew up and it is these places that inform all of her writing. Despite the diversity of the area, her writing never gives clues to a person's ethnicity, black, white or native American. Tellingly, race is never stated.
The way characters recur throughout the collection reminded me of John O'Hara's short story collections, where you never knew when a familiar name from Gibbsville was going to reappear in another story. It's a comforting device for short story collection lovers, a group in which I include myself.
After the reading, she offered up the jam she and her mother had made as a gift to the audience. Given the story we'd just heard, I couldn't resist Skinny's blueberry mint; I plan to have it on waffles tomorrow morning.
One of the attendees was part of the group I'd been with at Ipanema last night and she came up to say hello and tell me how much her visiting friend had said he'd enjoyed his extensive conversation with me last night. "She's so cool, " I was told he'd said.
Is there a better compliment than being told that someone raved about his enjoyment of a shared conversation, especially not knowing it would be passed on to me? Not sure that there is.
Conveniently for me, the reading was followed by the Silent Music Revival, an event that counts me as a regular attendee (except that time I was at the beach and I'll never hear the end of that).
We began with a short, Le Retour a la Raison, made by Man Ray, a brilliant man in so many ways. Favorite all-time Man Ray quote: "There is no progress in art, any more than there is progress in making love. There are simply different ways of doing it." True that.
Tonight's feature was 1947's Le Tempestaire, by Jean Epstein with music improvised by the Low Branches. The film was set in Brittany (the shoes and shore were a dead giveaway) about a girl who fears for her love's life when he sets out to fish for sardines right before a storm.
The Low Branches' music was the ideal sound for the endless shots of the surf crashing and the omens with which the girl was obsessed. At one point, lyrics about "saving them all" synched up so well with the unfolding story as to be uncanny.
The storm-tamer's black crystal ball eventually breaks, returning the man to his sweetheart and calming the sea, as the band's sound wound down and we were delivered from the French coast back to Jackson Ward.
It had apparently started raining some time after I'd arrived for the reading, so a friend offered me a ride, but we exited to find only puddles, so he instead walked me home, pointing out places of note.
A friend of his had had sex in one of the milk-bottles of the dairy building pre-renovation (and pre-marriage) and a bartender I knew had lived just around the corner from me.
And because he's a scientist-type, he somehow noticed in the dark that a passing tree branch had grown in a circle, doubling back on itself. "I don't know how I didn't notice that before," he said perfectly seriously.
I'm not the scientific type, but I could say the same here lately.
At tonight's reading at Gallery 5, we were treated to part of a story involving the character Skinny, a divorced alcoholic druggie not long for this world. She ended the story by saying, "Sorry to read such a depressing story. They're not all that depressing."
All her stories are set in King and Queen County or King William County, the places she grew up and it is these places that inform all of her writing. Despite the diversity of the area, her writing never gives clues to a person's ethnicity, black, white or native American. Tellingly, race is never stated.
The way characters recur throughout the collection reminded me of John O'Hara's short story collections, where you never knew when a familiar name from Gibbsville was going to reappear in another story. It's a comforting device for short story collection lovers, a group in which I include myself.
After the reading, she offered up the jam she and her mother had made as a gift to the audience. Given the story we'd just heard, I couldn't resist Skinny's blueberry mint; I plan to have it on waffles tomorrow morning.
One of the attendees was part of the group I'd been with at Ipanema last night and she came up to say hello and tell me how much her visiting friend had said he'd enjoyed his extensive conversation with me last night. "She's so cool, " I was told he'd said.
Is there a better compliment than being told that someone raved about his enjoyment of a shared conversation, especially not knowing it would be passed on to me? Not sure that there is.
Conveniently for me, the reading was followed by the Silent Music Revival, an event that counts me as a regular attendee (except that time I was at the beach and I'll never hear the end of that).
We began with a short, Le Retour a la Raison, made by Man Ray, a brilliant man in so many ways. Favorite all-time Man Ray quote: "There is no progress in art, any more than there is progress in making love. There are simply different ways of doing it." True that.
Tonight's feature was 1947's Le Tempestaire, by Jean Epstein with music improvised by the Low Branches. The film was set in Brittany (the shoes and shore were a dead giveaway) about a girl who fears for her love's life when he sets out to fish for sardines right before a storm.
The Low Branches' music was the ideal sound for the endless shots of the surf crashing and the omens with which the girl was obsessed. At one point, lyrics about "saving them all" synched up so well with the unfolding story as to be uncanny.
The storm-tamer's black crystal ball eventually breaks, returning the man to his sweetheart and calming the sea, as the band's sound wound down and we were delivered from the French coast back to Jackson Ward.
It had apparently started raining some time after I'd arrived for the reading, so a friend offered me a ride, but we exited to find only puddles, so he instead walked me home, pointing out places of note.
A friend of his had had sex in one of the milk-bottles of the dairy building pre-renovation (and pre-marriage) and a bartender I knew had lived just around the corner from me.
And because he's a scientist-type, he somehow noticed in the dark that a passing tree branch had grown in a circle, doubling back on itself. "I don't know how I didn't notice that before," he said perfectly seriously.
I'm not the scientific type, but I could say the same here lately.
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