To paraphrase the Purple One, I'm glad it was Sunday, cause that's my fun day, all the more so for having two of my favorite monthly events fall on the same rainy night.
The Silent Music Revival at Gallery 5 requires me to get there early enough to score seats in the front row, preferably with good friends on either side of me. That was easily enough accomplished, with plenty of time for conversation, too (Rocktopussy is still a hot topic).
Tonight's film was a complete departure for the SMR, which tends to highlight avant garde and artsy silent films (I say this as someone who has attended this event for three years). but this film was nothing like either.
Poor Mrs. Jones was made by the Department of Agriculture in 1926, essentially as propaganda to help sway people from leaving farms. Poor Mrs. Jones is having a tough day on the farm and wants her husband to sell it and move to the city where he can earn a fabulous $2,000 a year (as opposed to the meager $400 a year he makes on the farm).
Instead he suggests she visit her sister in the big city for a much-needed break. The humor came with Mrs. Jones' introduction to the horrors of city life.
Flights of stairs to reach her sister's apartment wind her. Evaporated milk instead of cream in her coffee disgusts her. Prices at the grocery store shock her. And her feet hurt from walking all over the hard city sidewalks.
Bermuda Triangles provided the improvised soundtrack to tonight's unusual movie, no easy job for a film so plot-driven.
They were especially effective in the scenes involving the stresses of the urban world: women fighting over dresses in a shop, people pounding the pavement, the endless line to get into a movie theater. Multiple drummers made for an especially rhythmic accompaniment.
Organizer Jameson always invites audience members who want to geek out over the film to come talk to him afterwards and I was part of the little group that did just that.
A first-timer to the SMR was also among that group as we discussed the heavy-handed treatment city dwellers got in the government's attempt to glorify farm life. The question was, how much was an accurate depiction of life in the 1920s and how much was exaggeration for the sake of making a point?
Not surprisingly, a good part of SMR's crowd then moved over to Grace Street for Live at Ipanema with Kentucky's Englishman, a band I'd seen twice before and was still eager to see again. My seatmates at SMR became my seatmates at Ipanema, except they switched sides so as to confuse me.
We had plenty of time before the show started, so I had a piece of the chocolate Mexican pie with a warming glass of vin rouge. I loved the heat of the spices layered under the chocolate so much that I ended up recommending the pie to another diner considering it (she agreed with my assessment but was smarter and got hers a la mode).
Not long after finishing, it was time to turn around on my stool and enjoy the view from the bar. I had already told my new-to-Ipanema friend about Englishman's evocation of 70s singer/songwriters and he heard what I was talking about, commenting on the purity of the sound (he's a musician of course). He was even so curious as to check out the recording equipment later, praising the warm vocal sound produced.
With just guitar, keyboard and two beautiful voices, the band's lovely folk pop filled the little basement restaurant, capturing the crowd. Favorite lyric: I may thirst with others, but I drink because of you.
During the performance, talk was at a minimum but when a couple walked out mid-song, singer Andrew said, "You didn't like Matt's piano playing?" to their disappearing backs. I laughed, hoping the couple had heard him.
When their set was over, Matt and Andrew moved to the bar to hang out (their words, but really to quaff with the audience) while everyone began moving around to chat about some rather unusual subjects, like childhood cruelty, for instance.
Somehow I was sucked into a discussion with a couple friends about giving Indian rug burns, a practice I had all but forgotten, but was a little appalled to hear about "swirling" (holding a kid upside down so his hair goes in the toilet) and how many kids it takes to manage this maneuver.
I ran into a musician I hadn't seen in months; turns out he'd moved north and that was why. He made my evening by telling me that he still reads my blog regularly to keep up with what's going on here. I couldn't have been more complimented.
Various groups of us also discussed all the music of the past few days, as well as what's upcoming. Despite, or perhaps because of, the holidays, we're in a really great run of shows right now.
If this keeps up, every day will be fun day. Wouldn't that be a lovely thing?
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
On Not Escaping Queen
How great is it when the hardest choice I have to make on a Saturday night is which show to attend first? Well, that and who's worth saving a seat for.
My decision about where to start was actually a no-brainer because the CD release party show at the Camel was for Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird. Speckled Bird vocalist/accordion player Antonia is also Jonathan's wife and when Antonia is involved, shows start on time, even in a town notorious for late-starting shows. We love her for this.
Knowing this, I began my night at the Camel, arriving early enough to score a front table (and even save a seat for a late-arriving friend who, when he finally arrived told me that saving him a seat was "the nicest thing anyone's done for me all year." That may be the best thank you I've had all year) and do some mingling before the musical magic happened.
It was then that one of my favorite musicians came over and said, "You know I stalk your blog, but what's the scoop on what's happening with you?" Fair enough; I do omit plenty of details, so I told her what was up lately and she was kindly supportive of my slow-moving pace. It was a nice shot of unexpected girl talk.
Low Branches kicked off the show after singer Christina had deadpanned to a few of us that, "We're doing some Queen and I'll be rapping." If you've ever heard her ethereal singing voice, that statement would be as hysterical to you as it was to me. Matt's drumming and guitar playing combined with her voice set the tone (and standard) for a beautiful night of music.
Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat played next and, honestly, I never tire of that beat. They'd added a second violinist, making for a much fuller sound, even as the crowd continued to grow in size. They're also in recording mode, hoping to be out in the spring.
By the time Jonathan Vassar and Speckled Bird played, the room was filled to bursting with friends, families and old high school buddies.
Antonia even acknowledged that, "I think I told a couple people that this is even better than a wedding," a statement which could be misconstrued, except that she explained what she meant about the assembled group (part of it was about alcohol being involved...but just a small part).
It was a true album release show, with the band playing the new one, "Signs and Wonders" in order, as if for consideration of the audience. The crowd clearly gave off an energy of devotion and admiration for the band as well as the excellent new material, with loud and enthusiastic applause after every song.
No question, it was a love fest. Camel owner Rand came up to me afterwards and said, "That was magic, wasn't it?" For devotees of Americana folk, thoughtful songwriting and mesmerizing harmonies, it was indeed that.
But like all good punctual shows, it was over at a reasonable hour, so a friend and I gathered our forces and went to Gallery 5 for the end of the Ghost of Pop 6 show. Since it featured seven bands, we felt sure that we still had time to catch at least two and maybe three. We were right.
I was pleased that we'd made it in time for Fuzzy Baby's set, because I love their unique sound and offbeat song topics. They're playing the next Listening Room ("No booze! No talking! It's going to be great!" Giustin told the audience, suggesting everyone come).
Those who had been there for Roctopussy's set (James Bond movie music covers) raved about what an amazing set we had missed. There was violin shredding! A French horn! Madness! I only hope they play again soon so I, too, can have the "Goldfinger" experience I missed tonight.
After Fuzzy Baby's set we ran into upright bass player extraordinaire, Matt Gold, of Prabir and the Goldrush, who was charmingly loopy but only slightly concerned about his ability to play next. I assured him he'd be fine, noting that his muscle memory would save the day. "Oh, you're a musician then?" he asked, his eyes lighting up at the thought that I understood. As if.
"No," I explained. "But I can talk to one." His concern was for naught because Prabir and the Goldrush played a rollicking set, ending with Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and a crowd sing-along. One way or another, it looks like I was destined to hear Queen tonight after all.
Afterwards, a friend came up and asked if I wanted to go get drunk and ride the Bottom and Back bus with him tonight. Tempting as it sounded (and we consider ourselves soul mates since we show up at so many of the same places), I declined.
Later Andrew asked me if I would do it on another occasion, assuring me that the people-watching alone makes it well worth it. Not one to rule things out, I guess I'll have to put it on my bucket list.
Problem is that I always seem to be too busy to take the time to come up with the damn list...but I'm not sure that's a problem at all.
My decision about where to start was actually a no-brainer because the CD release party show at the Camel was for Jonathan Vassar and the Speckled Bird. Speckled Bird vocalist/accordion player Antonia is also Jonathan's wife and when Antonia is involved, shows start on time, even in a town notorious for late-starting shows. We love her for this.
Knowing this, I began my night at the Camel, arriving early enough to score a front table (and even save a seat for a late-arriving friend who, when he finally arrived told me that saving him a seat was "the nicest thing anyone's done for me all year." That may be the best thank you I've had all year) and do some mingling before the musical magic happened.
It was then that one of my favorite musicians came over and said, "You know I stalk your blog, but what's the scoop on what's happening with you?" Fair enough; I do omit plenty of details, so I told her what was up lately and she was kindly supportive of my slow-moving pace. It was a nice shot of unexpected girl talk.
Low Branches kicked off the show after singer Christina had deadpanned to a few of us that, "We're doing some Queen and I'll be rapping." If you've ever heard her ethereal singing voice, that statement would be as hysterical to you as it was to me. Matt's drumming and guitar playing combined with her voice set the tone (and standard) for a beautiful night of music.
Zac Hryciak and the Jungle Beat played next and, honestly, I never tire of that beat. They'd added a second violinist, making for a much fuller sound, even as the crowd continued to grow in size. They're also in recording mode, hoping to be out in the spring.
By the time Jonathan Vassar and Speckled Bird played, the room was filled to bursting with friends, families and old high school buddies.
Antonia even acknowledged that, "I think I told a couple people that this is even better than a wedding," a statement which could be misconstrued, except that she explained what she meant about the assembled group (part of it was about alcohol being involved...but just a small part).
It was a true album release show, with the band playing the new one, "Signs and Wonders" in order, as if for consideration of the audience. The crowd clearly gave off an energy of devotion and admiration for the band as well as the excellent new material, with loud and enthusiastic applause after every song.
No question, it was a love fest. Camel owner Rand came up to me afterwards and said, "That was magic, wasn't it?" For devotees of Americana folk, thoughtful songwriting and mesmerizing harmonies, it was indeed that.
But like all good punctual shows, it was over at a reasonable hour, so a friend and I gathered our forces and went to Gallery 5 for the end of the Ghost of Pop 6 show. Since it featured seven bands, we felt sure that we still had time to catch at least two and maybe three. We were right.
I was pleased that we'd made it in time for Fuzzy Baby's set, because I love their unique sound and offbeat song topics. They're playing the next Listening Room ("No booze! No talking! It's going to be great!" Giustin told the audience, suggesting everyone come).
Those who had been there for Roctopussy's set (James Bond movie music covers) raved about what an amazing set we had missed. There was violin shredding! A French horn! Madness! I only hope they play again soon so I, too, can have the "Goldfinger" experience I missed tonight.
After Fuzzy Baby's set we ran into upright bass player extraordinaire, Matt Gold, of Prabir and the Goldrush, who was charmingly loopy but only slightly concerned about his ability to play next. I assured him he'd be fine, noting that his muscle memory would save the day. "Oh, you're a musician then?" he asked, his eyes lighting up at the thought that I understood. As if.
"No," I explained. "But I can talk to one." His concern was for naught because Prabir and the Goldrush played a rollicking set, ending with Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" and a crowd sing-along. One way or another, it looks like I was destined to hear Queen tonight after all.
Afterwards, a friend came up and asked if I wanted to go get drunk and ride the Bottom and Back bus with him tonight. Tempting as it sounded (and we consider ourselves soul mates since we show up at so many of the same places), I declined.
Later Andrew asked me if I would do it on another occasion, assuring me that the people-watching alone makes it well worth it. Not one to rule things out, I guess I'll have to put it on my bucket list.
Problem is that I always seem to be too busy to take the time to come up with the damn list...but I'm not sure that's a problem at all.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
She Shops!
It has been read into the record that I hate shopping (except for grocery). I only shop when I have something specific to buy and even then, I get in and out as quickly as humanly possible. I am a terrible conspicuous consumer.
That said, it's the season of gift giving, so I am forced to shop. Yes, I could do it online, but that wouldn't help the Richmond economy any, would it now? So I invited a favorite couple to join me for a stroll through Carytown to procure presents and end with some seasonal sipping.
And despite the hordes of people clogging the sidewalk in indecision about which way to walk, it turned into a pretty enjoyable afternoon. The leaden sky definitely gave a wintry vibe to it all (looks like snow, everyone was saying) and then there was the usual Carytown color.
We saw a bike strung with battery-powered lights, a purple poodle with red toenails, a three-piece accordion band (including sculptor and parade organizer Lily, who stopped mid-squeeze to throw her arms around me and say, "I love you, Karen!") and the decorated horse-drawn carriage clopping down Cary Street.
In River City Cellars was a dog in full Santa regalia sprawled in the center of the floor, his owners buying New Year's Eve dinner tickets for Secco (nearly sold out) while I bought a gift certificate for a beer geek friend.
At Bygones, the sales staff was fiddling with Internet radio in pursuit of Christmas music when suddenly the Smiths "There is a light that never goes out" burst forth. I was thrilled, as were a couple of those girls, although they acknowledged that should their boss walk in, they'd be in big trouble.
I offered to take the fall, promising to tell the owner I'd requested the Smiths while I shopped (I also found the red gloves of my dreams, but I wasn't shopping for me. Sigh).
At Chop Suey, we went upstairs to shop the Bizarre Market, finding several gifts there among all the handmade items crowded into that tiny space. When my friend went to pay with her debit card, she was amazed to see Bird swipe the card on her iPad ("Yea, it's crazy the apps you can get for these things!"). Interesting buying old-school artisan crafts using the latest 21st century technology.
After stops at Mongrel (a favorite DJ friend had somehow "lost" her 6'-plus boyfriend with the magnificent mutton chops) and Luxor (where I love to ogle dated labels: Julius Garfinckle & Co. Miller & Rhoads, Arden), I was over shopping.
My solution was to go to Can-Can for hot chocolate, easily the best in RVA, in my humble opinion. And since I don't drink coffee or hot tea, when I crave a warm drink, it's my only option.
I'd learned my lesson the last time though, and ordered the small rather than the large (which comes in a soup bowl-sized mug). Thick and tasting like a bowl of liquid chocolate, it made me forget that I was only there because I'd just spent hours (shudder) shopping. The fries didn't hurt, either.
By the time my sweet/salty snack was finished, it was starting to drizzle and time to head home, gifts procured and taste buds satisfied. If only I didn't have to do it again...the shopping part, I mean.
That said, it's the season of gift giving, so I am forced to shop. Yes, I could do it online, but that wouldn't help the Richmond economy any, would it now? So I invited a favorite couple to join me for a stroll through Carytown to procure presents and end with some seasonal sipping.
And despite the hordes of people clogging the sidewalk in indecision about which way to walk, it turned into a pretty enjoyable afternoon. The leaden sky definitely gave a wintry vibe to it all (looks like snow, everyone was saying) and then there was the usual Carytown color.
We saw a bike strung with battery-powered lights, a purple poodle with red toenails, a three-piece accordion band (including sculptor and parade organizer Lily, who stopped mid-squeeze to throw her arms around me and say, "I love you, Karen!") and the decorated horse-drawn carriage clopping down Cary Street.
In River City Cellars was a dog in full Santa regalia sprawled in the center of the floor, his owners buying New Year's Eve dinner tickets for Secco (nearly sold out) while I bought a gift certificate for a beer geek friend.
At Bygones, the sales staff was fiddling with Internet radio in pursuit of Christmas music when suddenly the Smiths "There is a light that never goes out" burst forth. I was thrilled, as were a couple of those girls, although they acknowledged that should their boss walk in, they'd be in big trouble.
I offered to take the fall, promising to tell the owner I'd requested the Smiths while I shopped (I also found the red gloves of my dreams, but I wasn't shopping for me. Sigh).
At Chop Suey, we went upstairs to shop the Bizarre Market, finding several gifts there among all the handmade items crowded into that tiny space. When my friend went to pay with her debit card, she was amazed to see Bird swipe the card on her iPad ("Yea, it's crazy the apps you can get for these things!"). Interesting buying old-school artisan crafts using the latest 21st century technology.
After stops at Mongrel (a favorite DJ friend had somehow "lost" her 6'-plus boyfriend with the magnificent mutton chops) and Luxor (where I love to ogle dated labels: Julius Garfinckle & Co. Miller & Rhoads, Arden), I was over shopping.
My solution was to go to Can-Can for hot chocolate, easily the best in RVA, in my humble opinion. And since I don't drink coffee or hot tea, when I crave a warm drink, it's my only option.
I'd learned my lesson the last time though, and ordered the small rather than the large (which comes in a soup bowl-sized mug). Thick and tasting like a bowl of liquid chocolate, it made me forget that I was only there because I'd just spent hours (shudder) shopping. The fries didn't hurt, either.
By the time my sweet/salty snack was finished, it was starting to drizzle and time to head home, gifts procured and taste buds satisfied. If only I didn't have to do it again...the shopping part, I mean.
A Leo Line
My walk didn't even get started until after noon today and then I was surprised to find Grace Street crowded with families and graduates in gowns. And...
Him: I'm a Leo and I'm from Jersey, so I gotta say what's on my mind.
Me: Shoot.
Him: You're gorgeous, in really great shape.
Me: You mean for a white girl?
Him: I mean for any color girl.
Me: Thanks. (starting to walk away and thinking how well that went)
Him: One more thing. Think about me when you're in bed tonight.
Sir, you're not setting a very good example for the graduates, now are you?
Him: I'm a Leo and I'm from Jersey, so I gotta say what's on my mind.
Me: Shoot.
Him: You're gorgeous, in really great shape.
Me: You mean for a white girl?
Him: I mean for any color girl.
Me: Thanks. (starting to walk away and thinking how well that went)
Him: One more thing. Think about me when you're in bed tonight.
Sir, you're not setting a very good example for the graduates, now are you?
A Simple Plan
The plan: a movie at the VMFA and then meeting the birthday boy for a show by one of our favorite bands at Balliceaux.
The bonus invitation: a reader-turned-friend suggested meeting at Bogart's to go to a house show in Randolph before moving on to Balliceaux. Well, I did have an hour and a half free in between stops, so why not?
The Friday Film:1958's Mon Oncle, by Jaqcues Tati, the darling of French art house cinema circa the 50s through the 70s. Known for his nearly silent films (but with loads of sound effects; I loved the clickity-clack tapping of the women's high heels on hard floors) and long observational shots, the movie looked at the changes in technology and consumerism happening at that time.
Favorite period details: a horse-drawn cart, baby carriages, a charcuterie in the neighborhood, and a street sweeper (man and broom, not machine). People carried their baguettes in hand (no bag) and women went to the milliner. 1958. Wow.
The mix-up: I went to meet reader friend at Bogart's and he wasn't there. Meanwhile, he went o Bogart's and I wasn't there. Turns out we were both there and somehow missed each other entirely. On the other hand, it was my first time in the new Bogart's.
The unexpected celebration: Arriving at Balliceaux, I ran into the birthday boy, who invited me to join his birthday dinner celebration. I was now part of the party of six discussing pork belly and kimchee. He found my birthday card amusing, although he did not follow its instructions to the letter. Just saying.
The birthday dinner: After a four-course lunch, you'd think I'd order something nice and light, but not so much. I went with the heritage burger made of ancient breed Virginia beef (I think that must be like heirloom tomatoes, don't you?) and artisan cheese with truffle fries. Three of the guys at the table got the Bonger (same as mine but with pork belly and kimchee added), but I had to draw the line somewhere (before giving in to complete gluttony, that is).
The surprise guest: Mr. M.I. A. from Bogart's came to Balliceaux and joined our group. Turns out he was secretly looking for a reason not to go to the house show, so our missing each other gave him that. Now he was here to enjoy the band with me. (Side note: he had found me in the crowd by asking the bartender where "Karen who likes Beach House and drinks tequila" was sitting." And I was pointed out. No, really; I thought he was making that up, too.
The music: Marionette, as talented a band as RVA currently has, but so under the radar that most people don't recognize their name. They played a terrific show and my friend was blown away with their energy, talent and tightness. Being a musician, I have to assume he's a pretty good judge of such things. Besides, I already knew that they're one of the best things going musically here.
The conversation: All over the place. On not giving up ("I love that your blog has hope. Weren't you in a really bad place two years ago?"), on defining the right to be a musician ("They've proven they're worthy in one set"), on recommending a new band to a friend ("Okay, so you were right.").
The ending: The recorded music got ungodly loud, the lights came up bright enough to land aircraft and the temperature dropped noticeably. As I heard the bartender tell a guy half-heartedly looking for a place to throw away his half-full PBR, "Just down it and I'll take the can." When it's 2 a.m., it's time to close the bar, friends.
The final analysis: Great movie, charming and so French, interesting conversation, jovial celebration with friends and outstanding local music.
In FB parlance: Like.
The bonus invitation: a reader-turned-friend suggested meeting at Bogart's to go to a house show in Randolph before moving on to Balliceaux. Well, I did have an hour and a half free in between stops, so why not?
The Friday Film:1958's Mon Oncle, by Jaqcues Tati, the darling of French art house cinema circa the 50s through the 70s. Known for his nearly silent films (but with loads of sound effects; I loved the clickity-clack tapping of the women's high heels on hard floors) and long observational shots, the movie looked at the changes in technology and consumerism happening at that time.
Favorite period details: a horse-drawn cart, baby carriages, a charcuterie in the neighborhood, and a street sweeper (man and broom, not machine). People carried their baguettes in hand (no bag) and women went to the milliner. 1958. Wow.
The mix-up: I went to meet reader friend at Bogart's and he wasn't there. Meanwhile, he went o Bogart's and I wasn't there. Turns out we were both there and somehow missed each other entirely. On the other hand, it was my first time in the new Bogart's.
The unexpected celebration: Arriving at Balliceaux, I ran into the birthday boy, who invited me to join his birthday dinner celebration. I was now part of the party of six discussing pork belly and kimchee. He found my birthday card amusing, although he did not follow its instructions to the letter. Just saying.
The birthday dinner: After a four-course lunch, you'd think I'd order something nice and light, but not so much. I went with the heritage burger made of ancient breed Virginia beef (I think that must be like heirloom tomatoes, don't you?) and artisan cheese with truffle fries. Three of the guys at the table got the Bonger (same as mine but with pork belly and kimchee added), but I had to draw the line somewhere (before giving in to complete gluttony, that is).
The surprise guest: Mr. M.I. A. from Bogart's came to Balliceaux and joined our group. Turns out he was secretly looking for a reason not to go to the house show, so our missing each other gave him that. Now he was here to enjoy the band with me. (Side note: he had found me in the crowd by asking the bartender where "Karen who likes Beach House and drinks tequila" was sitting." And I was pointed out. No, really; I thought he was making that up, too.
The music: Marionette, as talented a band as RVA currently has, but so under the radar that most people don't recognize their name. They played a terrific show and my friend was blown away with their energy, talent and tightness. Being a musician, I have to assume he's a pretty good judge of such things. Besides, I already knew that they're one of the best things going musically here.
The conversation: All over the place. On not giving up ("I love that your blog has hope. Weren't you in a really bad place two years ago?"), on defining the right to be a musician ("They've proven they're worthy in one set"), on recommending a new band to a friend ("Okay, so you were right.").
The ending: The recorded music got ungodly loud, the lights came up bright enough to land aircraft and the temperature dropped noticeably. As I heard the bartender tell a guy half-heartedly looking for a place to throw away his half-full PBR, "Just down it and I'll take the can." When it's 2 a.m., it's time to close the bar, friends.
The final analysis: Great movie, charming and so French, interesting conversation, jovial celebration with friends and outstanding local music.
In FB parlance: Like.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Lingering over a Long Lunch
I was supposed to have one kind of lunch with one friend and ended up with a completely different kind of lunch with another.
In between, I had to turn down the birthday boy, who had also suggested lunch today. Please note, I had no lunch plans any other day this week. Murphy's law of lunch invitations, perhaps?
Work threw me a monkey wrench, so by the time that was resolved, it was 1:30 and my original plans had been rescheduled. I didn't want to insult the birthday boy with a last minute invitation, so I let Door #3 know that I was free after all. Pick me up and pick the place, he said. Can do, I said.
Never having been to Bouchon for lunch, it seemed like the logical place when he said he wanted someplace we could enjoy a multi-course lunch. We were so late arriving that there was only one other couple lunching so we soon had the place to ourselves.
And then we did what the French espouse: ate our way through multiple courses as the afternoon progressed, until we were satisfied and ready for the weekend. Or a nap. Or whatever.
Friend is a baguette snob, so when he pronounced the warm crusty bread the best baguette he's had in Richmond (it was his first visit to Bouchon), I knew I'd made the right choice. We began with glasses of Muscadet and today's soup special, lobster bisque.
As orange as lobster claws and with a depth of flavor that spoke of time and talent, the bisque was the perfect way to take the chill off. It's been a cold week and while it may have warmed up from 25 to 43 degrees, it's still way too chilly for me.
So in the interest of being seasonal, our next course was bacon-wrapped venison pate with cranberry compote (kind of a sick nod to Rudolph and the whole holiday season), cornichons and hot mustard. My, my but this was outstanding, the kind of thing that requires wine and an unhurried attitude. We had plenty of both.
Friend had the beef tenders with potato gratin next and I opted for one of the specials. It was the Crozet Grayson cassoulet, consisting of crozet (tiny buckwheat pasta squares brought back from Francis' trip to France), onions, speck and Grayson cheese from Meadow Creek Dairy. I may have been a very French lunch, but a little touch of Virginia is always appreciated in these parts.
Rich, satisfying and the kind of homey, comforting dish that everyday people eat, just the pungent aroma of that rich and nutty Grayson melted on top was enough to tell me that I'd made the right choice. Maybe I should have been a French peasant instead of a...what? Whatever it is I am.
Friend's beef was exquisite, perfectly cooked and sauced, and the gratin so well done that he said it'll be his new standard for making a potato gratin at home, but I still liked mine better, even after multiple bites of his deliciousness.
You'd think that by this point, so much food and wine would have had us sprawled on the banquette groaning. Instead, we were having a terrific time being the welcoming committee for the restaurant staff as they came in to work dinner or returned from lunch.
Sipping and greeting, we chatted with Chef Francis (who applauded our course selections), bartender Olivier (doing the heavy lifting, but charming as always) and owner Wendy, recently returned from NYC and quick to note that it was my first lunch at Bouchon (when she asked what I'd eaten, she said to my friend, "She always gets the good stuff").
Despite the weather, this particular friend is constitutionally unable to resist homemade ice cream and Bouchon was offering bourbon ice cream with toasted pumpkin seed on top, so his choice was a given.
I had the chocolate cloustillant, a multi-layered dessert, part crispy bottom and part dense mousse on top; all chocolate all the time, and the last bite savored with the last sip of wine. Two and a half hours gone, but not soon forgotten.
Best of all, I still have the lunch with Door #1 to look forward to next week. And lunch with the birthday boy is always certain to be a good time.
But as epic French Friday lunches go, today's really couldn't have been any more pleasurable. Considering it was a last-minute substitute for what I really wanted to do, I'm feeling pretty fortunate right about now.
Or maybe that's just fullness. Either way, well satisfied.
In between, I had to turn down the birthday boy, who had also suggested lunch today. Please note, I had no lunch plans any other day this week. Murphy's law of lunch invitations, perhaps?
Work threw me a monkey wrench, so by the time that was resolved, it was 1:30 and my original plans had been rescheduled. I didn't want to insult the birthday boy with a last minute invitation, so I let Door #3 know that I was free after all. Pick me up and pick the place, he said. Can do, I said.
Never having been to Bouchon for lunch, it seemed like the logical place when he said he wanted someplace we could enjoy a multi-course lunch. We were so late arriving that there was only one other couple lunching so we soon had the place to ourselves.
And then we did what the French espouse: ate our way through multiple courses as the afternoon progressed, until we were satisfied and ready for the weekend. Or a nap. Or whatever.
Friend is a baguette snob, so when he pronounced the warm crusty bread the best baguette he's had in Richmond (it was his first visit to Bouchon), I knew I'd made the right choice. We began with glasses of Muscadet and today's soup special, lobster bisque.
As orange as lobster claws and with a depth of flavor that spoke of time and talent, the bisque was the perfect way to take the chill off. It's been a cold week and while it may have warmed up from 25 to 43 degrees, it's still way too chilly for me.
So in the interest of being seasonal, our next course was bacon-wrapped venison pate with cranberry compote (kind of a sick nod to Rudolph and the whole holiday season), cornichons and hot mustard. My, my but this was outstanding, the kind of thing that requires wine and an unhurried attitude. We had plenty of both.
Friend had the beef tenders with potato gratin next and I opted for one of the specials. It was the Crozet Grayson cassoulet, consisting of crozet (tiny buckwheat pasta squares brought back from Francis' trip to France), onions, speck and Grayson cheese from Meadow Creek Dairy. I may have been a very French lunch, but a little touch of Virginia is always appreciated in these parts.
Rich, satisfying and the kind of homey, comforting dish that everyday people eat, just the pungent aroma of that rich and nutty Grayson melted on top was enough to tell me that I'd made the right choice. Maybe I should have been a French peasant instead of a...what? Whatever it is I am.
Friend's beef was exquisite, perfectly cooked and sauced, and the gratin so well done that he said it'll be his new standard for making a potato gratin at home, but I still liked mine better, even after multiple bites of his deliciousness.
You'd think that by this point, so much food and wine would have had us sprawled on the banquette groaning. Instead, we were having a terrific time being the welcoming committee for the restaurant staff as they came in to work dinner or returned from lunch.
Sipping and greeting, we chatted with Chef Francis (who applauded our course selections), bartender Olivier (doing the heavy lifting, but charming as always) and owner Wendy, recently returned from NYC and quick to note that it was my first lunch at Bouchon (when she asked what I'd eaten, she said to my friend, "She always gets the good stuff").
Despite the weather, this particular friend is constitutionally unable to resist homemade ice cream and Bouchon was offering bourbon ice cream with toasted pumpkin seed on top, so his choice was a given.
I had the chocolate cloustillant, a multi-layered dessert, part crispy bottom and part dense mousse on top; all chocolate all the time, and the last bite savored with the last sip of wine. Two and a half hours gone, but not soon forgotten.
Best of all, I still have the lunch with Door #1 to look forward to next week. And lunch with the birthday boy is always certain to be a good time.
But as epic French Friday lunches go, today's really couldn't have been any more pleasurable. Considering it was a last-minute substitute for what I really wanted to do, I'm feeling pretty fortunate right about now.
Or maybe that's just fullness. Either way, well satisfied.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Bubbles and Cheek
'Tis the season for drinking bubbles, so I was more than happy to accept when friends invited me to join them for the champagne tasting at Barrel Thief tonight. Ten sparklers, four friends and one common goal: drinking with strangers.
Just kidding. I enjoy BT's tastings for the opportunity to taste everything from $16 bottles (the German Gilabert Cava Brut Rosat and as dry as it was fruit-forward; I do so love my pinks)) to $85 bottles (Prevost "La Closerie," one of the most coveted of rose champagnes) and all kinds of bubbles in between.
For all the variations we tasted, it was Roger Coulon Brut that was poured with the comment, "If you look up champagne in the dictionary, this is what it would taste like." Fine bubbles, sweet fruit, long finish, complete satisfaction.
And because champagne tastings require high drama, we were treated to seeing a bottle sabered before being poured into our glasses. The French say, "Champagne! In victory one deserves it; in defeat, one needs it." I say when offered sabered wine, drink up whether you have cause to or not (don't quote me on that).
Once we'd reached the point where no bubbles were left behind, it was time to choose a dining destination, with the goal of staying in the neighborhood. We stopped by The Grill at Patterson and Libbie, but, as one friend noted, "There are kids in there. No thanks." So we headed up the street to Coast instead.
It's been years since I'd been in Coast, but I knew the bartender from other places (and her iPod of mostly Cuban music was excellent) and there were four seats at the bar (once we asked an agreeable couple to move over a stool). So there we were, looking at menus with not a piece of cow or pig on them.
There was chicken, but everything else was coastally-sourced, just as you'd expect: rockfish, grouper, mahi mahi, crab, shrimp, oysters, mussels, scallops. The red meat lover among us may have been a tad disappointed, but the rest of us went fish and didn't look back.
I began with the baby iceberg wedge, typical in that it had creamy bleu cheese and bacon, but unique in that it came with three large expertly battered and freshly fried Vidalia onion rings. Onion rings like the kind that originally made people choose onion rings over fries.
The chorus of regret from the two among us who had not gotten this salad was loud and clear, and completely justified. One friend suggested to the owner that they be added to the menu as a stand-alone dish (Coast! Now with onion rings!).
My dinner was crispy grouper cheeks with pineapple-jicama slaw and red chili mayonnaise. The generous serving of cheeks highlighted how sweet and flavorful this part of the fish is and the chili mayo took it over the top with the contrast of the heat with the tender meat. It was unanimous; the cheeks were exceptional (again, two of us got them and two missed out).
Conversation with this group is irreverent (flavored K-Y jelly), non-sequential ("Can I just finish telling phase two?"), in some cases for me, irrelevant ("There's this TV show...") and inevitably loud. Wine god Bob Talcott came in to have a drink and the poor man was sucked unwittingly into the vortex of our conversation.
After a dessert of chocolate cake with caramelized sauce and blueberries, we went to the nearby home of one of our group for a nightcap. A fire was immediately lit and soon roaring in the fireplace, wine was opened with much difficulty (damn screw top) and we all got settled in.
When you're going to discuss prerequisites for marriage and weekend trysts in NYC, you want to set the right mood. Me, I just kept my mouth shut and took mental notes.
Just kidding. I enjoy BT's tastings for the opportunity to taste everything from $16 bottles (the German Gilabert Cava Brut Rosat and as dry as it was fruit-forward; I do so love my pinks)) to $85 bottles (Prevost "La Closerie," one of the most coveted of rose champagnes) and all kinds of bubbles in between.
For all the variations we tasted, it was Roger Coulon Brut that was poured with the comment, "If you look up champagne in the dictionary, this is what it would taste like." Fine bubbles, sweet fruit, long finish, complete satisfaction.
And because champagne tastings require high drama, we were treated to seeing a bottle sabered before being poured into our glasses. The French say, "Champagne! In victory one deserves it; in defeat, one needs it." I say when offered sabered wine, drink up whether you have cause to or not (don't quote me on that).
Once we'd reached the point where no bubbles were left behind, it was time to choose a dining destination, with the goal of staying in the neighborhood. We stopped by The Grill at Patterson and Libbie, but, as one friend noted, "There are kids in there. No thanks." So we headed up the street to Coast instead.
It's been years since I'd been in Coast, but I knew the bartender from other places (and her iPod of mostly Cuban music was excellent) and there were four seats at the bar (once we asked an agreeable couple to move over a stool). So there we were, looking at menus with not a piece of cow or pig on them.
There was chicken, but everything else was coastally-sourced, just as you'd expect: rockfish, grouper, mahi mahi, crab, shrimp, oysters, mussels, scallops. The red meat lover among us may have been a tad disappointed, but the rest of us went fish and didn't look back.
I began with the baby iceberg wedge, typical in that it had creamy bleu cheese and bacon, but unique in that it came with three large expertly battered and freshly fried Vidalia onion rings. Onion rings like the kind that originally made people choose onion rings over fries.
The chorus of regret from the two among us who had not gotten this salad was loud and clear, and completely justified. One friend suggested to the owner that they be added to the menu as a stand-alone dish (Coast! Now with onion rings!).
My dinner was crispy grouper cheeks with pineapple-jicama slaw and red chili mayonnaise. The generous serving of cheeks highlighted how sweet and flavorful this part of the fish is and the chili mayo took it over the top with the contrast of the heat with the tender meat. It was unanimous; the cheeks were exceptional (again, two of us got them and two missed out).
Conversation with this group is irreverent (flavored K-Y jelly), non-sequential ("Can I just finish telling phase two?"), in some cases for me, irrelevant ("There's this TV show...") and inevitably loud. Wine god Bob Talcott came in to have a drink and the poor man was sucked unwittingly into the vortex of our conversation.
After a dessert of chocolate cake with caramelized sauce and blueberries, we went to the nearby home of one of our group for a nightcap. A fire was immediately lit and soon roaring in the fireplace, wine was opened with much difficulty (damn screw top) and we all got settled in.
When you're going to discuss prerequisites for marriage and weekend trysts in NYC, you want to set the right mood. Me, I just kept my mouth shut and took mental notes.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Don't Eat Me. Let's Mate.
The Gallery 5 after 5 series may have reached a new high tonight with more people, a bigger spread of free food (courtesy of Cous Cous), discounted memberships to Gallery 5 (just so you know, you are looking at the legs of a new member) and, wait for it, a lecture on tarantulas.
Believe it or not, this combination happy hour/lecture series is not just for nerds (although that's certainly why I go).
It's about mixing and mingling, checking out G5's exhibits in case you missed First Friday and listening to one of Richmond's talented DJs playing music (tonight it was Kenneth).
And tonight it was also about scorpions in cages (alive and glowing under a black light) and in frames (dead, but great for Christmas presents).
I kid you not; organizer Prabir bought four and another guy two.
"They're for my nephews," he claimed. Yea, right.
Wade Harrell, president of the American Tarantula Society, gave a great talk about arachnids, complete with full-screen visuals of these not-so deadly creatures.
The title of this post comes from his explanation of mating rituals, if that tells you how unscientific yet fascinating he was.
The strength of his talk was that he spoke like a non-scientist about a fairly scientific topic (my friend the biologist was impressed with this) so as not to lose those of us who aren't in to the whole species/habitat thing.
I'd taken a seat in the second row with no one around me, but that soon changed.
First the head of Culture Works picked my row after his introduction speech.
Next the Frenchman I'd met at the Renoir movie recently, here, came in and sat down next to me.
He was followed shortly by a friend, another Frenchman, necessitating me moving over next to Culture Works.
I'd gone from being alone in my row to completely sandwiched in by men in bulky coats.
But given the weather and the concrete floor, I was more than happy to have all that body heat nearby.
After the talk, the serious socializing began and for the next few hours, it was a lot like a party, with people drinking, eating, making new friends and chatting up the old.
The Frenchman provided some helpful connections to a couple of friends who are soon leaving for nine months in Europe.
Four hours into the happy "hour" it was time for me to excuse myself and go eat dinner.
At that point, I knew I was staying in the 'hood, so the Belvidere at Broad was the logical stop, being so close to home.
Owner David flagged me down as soon as I approached the bar, motioning to his end and saying, "Come on, met me halfway!"
He'd come in to help out the dishwasher (does a heart good to hear that, doesn't it?) and stayed for some Ommegang Adoration out of the cask.
Plenty of others seemed to be there for the same reason.
I quickly decided on the grilled ahi tuna with spicy sriracha aioli on a crusty baguette with mixed greens, tomato, cucumber and red onion, with a side of Asian slaw.
I'd never had this sandwich, although I still recall the one bite I'd had of a friend's many months ago.
Tonight's was every bit as memorable as that bite (tuna rare and aioli just hot enough) and the slaw was the perfect cooling complement to it.
David saw me tearing into the baguette and asked if it was too chewy.
No such thing, I told him.
I like my bread to require some work.
We talked about buying local art (something we both do), how VCU needs to step it up sculpturally (one of my many soapboxes), offering growlers (I'm a big supporter of the idea despite not being a beer drinker) and parties where everyone else is a musician (he'd recently been to one and was raving about it).
Th new art show is photography by John Fralin and the atmospheric shots of underpasses, buildings and landscapes were beautifully composed.
I couldn't get a good look at a couple of them because they were over top of occupied tables and, for some reason, people don't appreciate having someone lean over them while they're eating, even for art's sake.
Luddites.
Dessert was a sundae with double chocolate ganache and a glass of Pinot Noir while discussing Anthony Bourdain with a neighbor and the alternate bartender, Matt.
Having just finished the underwhelming Medium Raw today, I was far less enthusiastic about the man than they were.
Or maybe it was just that after the high of hearing about the mating rituals of scorpions everything else paled in comparison.
Because as pick-up lines go, don't eat me/let's mate is not only brilliant, but crystal clear.
Two qualities this non-scorpion much admires.
Believe it or not, this combination happy hour/lecture series is not just for nerds (although that's certainly why I go).
It's about mixing and mingling, checking out G5's exhibits in case you missed First Friday and listening to one of Richmond's talented DJs playing music (tonight it was Kenneth).
And tonight it was also about scorpions in cages (alive and glowing under a black light) and in frames (dead, but great for Christmas presents).
I kid you not; organizer Prabir bought four and another guy two.
"They're for my nephews," he claimed. Yea, right.
Wade Harrell, president of the American Tarantula Society, gave a great talk about arachnids, complete with full-screen visuals of these not-so deadly creatures.
The title of this post comes from his explanation of mating rituals, if that tells you how unscientific yet fascinating he was.
The strength of his talk was that he spoke like a non-scientist about a fairly scientific topic (my friend the biologist was impressed with this) so as not to lose those of us who aren't in to the whole species/habitat thing.
I'd taken a seat in the second row with no one around me, but that soon changed.
First the head of Culture Works picked my row after his introduction speech.
Next the Frenchman I'd met at the Renoir movie recently, here, came in and sat down next to me.
He was followed shortly by a friend, another Frenchman, necessitating me moving over next to Culture Works.
I'd gone from being alone in my row to completely sandwiched in by men in bulky coats.
But given the weather and the concrete floor, I was more than happy to have all that body heat nearby.
After the talk, the serious socializing began and for the next few hours, it was a lot like a party, with people drinking, eating, making new friends and chatting up the old.
The Frenchman provided some helpful connections to a couple of friends who are soon leaving for nine months in Europe.
Four hours into the happy "hour" it was time for me to excuse myself and go eat dinner.
At that point, I knew I was staying in the 'hood, so the Belvidere at Broad was the logical stop, being so close to home.
Owner David flagged me down as soon as I approached the bar, motioning to his end and saying, "Come on, met me halfway!"
He'd come in to help out the dishwasher (does a heart good to hear that, doesn't it?) and stayed for some Ommegang Adoration out of the cask.
Plenty of others seemed to be there for the same reason.
I quickly decided on the grilled ahi tuna with spicy sriracha aioli on a crusty baguette with mixed greens, tomato, cucumber and red onion, with a side of Asian slaw.
I'd never had this sandwich, although I still recall the one bite I'd had of a friend's many months ago.
Tonight's was every bit as memorable as that bite (tuna rare and aioli just hot enough) and the slaw was the perfect cooling complement to it.
David saw me tearing into the baguette and asked if it was too chewy.
No such thing, I told him.
I like my bread to require some work.
We talked about buying local art (something we both do), how VCU needs to step it up sculpturally (one of my many soapboxes), offering growlers (I'm a big supporter of the idea despite not being a beer drinker) and parties where everyone else is a musician (he'd recently been to one and was raving about it).
Th new art show is photography by John Fralin and the atmospheric shots of underpasses, buildings and landscapes were beautifully composed.
I couldn't get a good look at a couple of them because they were over top of occupied tables and, for some reason, people don't appreciate having someone lean over them while they're eating, even for art's sake.
Luddites.
Dessert was a sundae with double chocolate ganache and a glass of Pinot Noir while discussing Anthony Bourdain with a neighbor and the alternate bartender, Matt.
Having just finished the underwhelming Medium Raw today, I was far less enthusiastic about the man than they were.
Or maybe it was just that after the high of hearing about the mating rituals of scorpions everything else paled in comparison.
Because as pick-up lines go, don't eat me/let's mate is not only brilliant, but crystal clear.
Two qualities this non-scorpion much admires.
Tiffany Tour for One
There's nothing like a man in a red sweater and green corduroy pants to put a person in the Christmas spirit, especially factoring in an extravagantly-decorated Gilded Age mansion.
In further pursuit of seeing another of Virginia's magnificent Tiffany windows, I took the Maymont House Holiday tour this afternoon.
I reported to the basement door of the house, knocked for what seemed like forever and was finally admitted to the inner sanctum.
To my great delight, I was the only one who showed up for the tour at that hour, so mine was to be a personal tour.
"Interrupt me to ask whatever you want," he said, obviously having no idea whom he had taken on.
You know, I think I will, sir.
The funny part was that after paying, I was told to leave the basement and walk around to the front of the house to start my tour.
"We want you to enter as a guest would have," the ticket guy told me.
"As opposed to coming in the back way I did like a lowly servant?" I inquired.
Sheepishly, he said yes.
So around the porte-cochere I went and up through the grand entrance as if I were paying a call on Mrs. Dooley (which, by the way, was done on Wednesdays only from 1 to 5; so I was at least following social protocol with today's visit).
My knowledgeable guide began by warning me that the Victorians believed that if a little holiday decoration was good, a lot was even better.
The first floor rooms were effusively decorated with greenery, poinsettias, red ribbons, golden beading and such.
Add in the mahogany walls, stenciled ceilings, elaborate woodwork and fussy furniture and it was bordering on visual overload.
In the dining room, the table was set for Christmas dinner and the menu was heavy on protein with many elaborate courses.
It began with oysters and moved through Virginia ham, roasted turkey and dressing, duck with mixed lettuces and, a personal favorite, glazed sweetbreads (explained to me by my guide as not really bread at all).
I was struck by the enormity of the table's centrepiece only to be told that large arrangements were used to prevent glancing, much less conversation, across the table.
One spoke with the people on either side, but never to anyone else.
Some might see that as limiting, but it sounds like more of a challenge to me than anything.
Tiffany items were present throughout the house, including several gilded clocks and an elaborate dressing table and chair made of silver and tusks from the narwhal whale.
I found the set both strikingly beautiful and appalling distasteful for seeing part of four whales incorporated into the pieces.
And then there was that 15' Tiffany window, which I was lucky enough to catch at an absolutely perfect moment.
"You're seeing it at its best, with the afternoon sun coming in, " my guide told me, knowing the real reason I'd come on his tour.
Hey, it was just the two of us for an hour, so we'd shared a lot by that point.
He'd already learned that I'd been raised a Catholic (like Major Dooley), so he said he felt comfortable explaining the New Testament imagery in the bottom third of the window (I have to presume he has an alternate tour for non-Christians).
What I hadn't mentioned was that I'm really a heathen, so I still had no idea what he was talking about.
But it was the upper portions in all their Art Nouveau splendor that I found most impressive.
That Art Deco desire to bring the outdoors in was perfectly represented with the twining grape vines and elegant non-representational forms.
I tried to imagine living in a house where I would see such a window every time I came up or down the stairs and couldn't.
Too big, too fussy, just too much.
But for a while this afternoon, it was the loveliest place to be...admiring Tiffany's handiwork in the sunlight with a terrific tour guide in green pants and a red sweater.
I could practically hear angels singing.
Seriously.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
All American Southern Fried Italian
It was me, Jimmy, Billy and Skip against the suits.
And by suits, I mean men and women in earnest corporate dress having polite chit-chat at a post-work gathering (immediately overheard, him to her: "You don't look like the beer type.") because it was expected of them, not because they wanted to.
When I walked into Stronghill Dining, the bar area was full of mingling people, but with a private party vibe. And when I asked the bartender if it was okay to sit at the bar, he said it was. You don't have to tell me twice.
I ordered a glass of wine, noting that the music was a full-on 80s mix (I was told that "women of all ages love it"), but the conversation between the bartender and the three gents to my right was centered on Slayer and Motley Crew (their drug use and music).
There was a brief digression about how difficult it is to listen to Cyndi Lauper or, as had apparently happened recently, Pat Benatar all night, and then they were right back to heroin.
At the Whisky Grill last night, the cook and I had somehow ended up talking about the importance of a cast iron skillet when frying chicken (my grandmother's first rule of chicken-making) and I had been thinking about fried chicken ever since.
There it was on the menu: two pieces of buttermilk-fried chicken with house made sausage gravy. Hallelujah and pass the biscuits.
After perusing the sides, I concluded that the house made applesauce would be the perfect sweet to accompany my salty chicken. The bartender asked me, "Thigh or leg?" which made no sense to me, but I picked thigh.
Meanwhile, the party swirled around me. At one point, a woman walked up to a group of women and announced, "Stop talking business. This is supposed to be fun." Thank god she reminded them is all I can say. It can be hard to stay on track without a memo from the top sometimes.
My fried chicken arrived looking like a Southerner's wet dream, with a crispy thigh and half breast under and over a generous serving of sausage gravy. Having had Stronghill's superb sausage for brunch, I knew I was in for some gravy goodness.
But the bowl of "house made applesauce" bore a striking resemblance to Mott's out of a jar. Eyeing it suspiciously, I tasted it; it tasted like supermarket Mott's. "Is this really housemade?" I asked the bartender with a laugh and a look.
Glancing at it, he said, "Well, I'm sure somebody's mother made it...Yes, it's house made." Yea, yea, I moved on to that delicious thigh (and then breast) and that gravy full of flavorful sausage. As I ate, it occurred to me that it was my first chicken and gravy; better late than never, but also about frickin' time.
The bartender came over and made a great, polite show of asking me, "Aside from not believing that the applesauce is house made, how's your chicken?" Smartass niceties aside, I told him it was stellar. I may even have had gravy on my chin when I said it.
It was then that the guy sitting next to me asked how I was liking the fried chicken and introduced himself and his two business partners. I found out they were regulars at the bar since their (body) shop was a couple of blocks away. Jimmy was the instigator, Billy was the stressed-out one and Skip was the shy one. They knew a lot about cars. I don't.
After licking my plate clean, the bartender asked if I wanted coffee. "No, thanks," I said, so he offered me hot tea. "I don't do hot tea," I told him.
"Crack? How about some crack then?" he suggested, barely looking up, and getting points for quickness. Crack before a concerto? I don't think so.
It was getting on toward 8:00 and I had a show to see, so I asked for my check ("Sorry, you can't leave"), said good-bye to Skip (his friends having departed to go home to the "little women") and made my way down to the Singelton Center.
The VCU Symphonic Orchestra was promising me an American composer fix and I didn't want to be late. Ever since reading Joan Peyser's biography of Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland's two-volume autobiography (with nary a whiff of any sort of sexual life at all...really?), I have been on a mission to hear as much of Bernstein and Copland's music live as I can.
Tonight it was Bernstein's overture to Candide and selections from Copland's Rodeo and The Tender Land. Rodeo I've heard because I've seen the ballet, but the others would be firsts live for me. The other pieces being played, Mozart, Enescu and de Falla, were bonuses.
I'm anything but a pie-eyed patriot, but I find something absolutely stirring about classical American music. It just sounds so...American. Yes, of course, partly it's that incorporation of American folk music into the works, but beyond that, it's just our un-European interpretation of classical music.
And since I know nothing about music, that's merely my way of trying to explain how I could sit there happily with my eyes closed enjoying the music of these two extraordinary 20th century men being played by VCU students. Is this a great town or what?
The only possible thing to do after the performance was find someplace open for dessert and all-American Tarrant's fit the bill, but just barely. They didn't have any actual customers, but they were busy doing all the end-of-the-shift stuff so they had to be there anyway. I was in.
"For you I'd suggest the chocolate cannoli," my friend Danny said and I didn't argue. Owner Ted explained what the cannoli dough was made of (the coffee was a surprise) and then pointed out that putting chocolate on it was desecration and that, "No real Italian would eat such a thing."
As it happens, I'm Irish so that didn't affect me. And when Ted brought it out and offered me whipped cream on top, I took it. Probably just as sacrilegious.
While I scarfed it down, one of the servers shared the story of asking a customer if he wanted a second martini tonight and him replying, "I dare not. This one is way too good." She couldn't get over the use of the word "dare," repeating it in her distinctive NY accent. "I da-uh not!"
I'm pretty much over the dare not stage and reveling in the dares. Again, about time.
And by suits, I mean men and women in earnest corporate dress having polite chit-chat at a post-work gathering (immediately overheard, him to her: "You don't look like the beer type.") because it was expected of them, not because they wanted to.
When I walked into Stronghill Dining, the bar area was full of mingling people, but with a private party vibe. And when I asked the bartender if it was okay to sit at the bar, he said it was. You don't have to tell me twice.
I ordered a glass of wine, noting that the music was a full-on 80s mix (I was told that "women of all ages love it"), but the conversation between the bartender and the three gents to my right was centered on Slayer and Motley Crew (their drug use and music).
There was a brief digression about how difficult it is to listen to Cyndi Lauper or, as had apparently happened recently, Pat Benatar all night, and then they were right back to heroin.
At the Whisky Grill last night, the cook and I had somehow ended up talking about the importance of a cast iron skillet when frying chicken (my grandmother's first rule of chicken-making) and I had been thinking about fried chicken ever since.
There it was on the menu: two pieces of buttermilk-fried chicken with house made sausage gravy. Hallelujah and pass the biscuits.
After perusing the sides, I concluded that the house made applesauce would be the perfect sweet to accompany my salty chicken. The bartender asked me, "Thigh or leg?" which made no sense to me, but I picked thigh.
Meanwhile, the party swirled around me. At one point, a woman walked up to a group of women and announced, "Stop talking business. This is supposed to be fun." Thank god she reminded them is all I can say. It can be hard to stay on track without a memo from the top sometimes.
My fried chicken arrived looking like a Southerner's wet dream, with a crispy thigh and half breast under and over a generous serving of sausage gravy. Having had Stronghill's superb sausage for brunch, I knew I was in for some gravy goodness.
But the bowl of "house made applesauce" bore a striking resemblance to Mott's out of a jar. Eyeing it suspiciously, I tasted it; it tasted like supermarket Mott's. "Is this really housemade?" I asked the bartender with a laugh and a look.
Glancing at it, he said, "Well, I'm sure somebody's mother made it...Yes, it's house made." Yea, yea, I moved on to that delicious thigh (and then breast) and that gravy full of flavorful sausage. As I ate, it occurred to me that it was my first chicken and gravy; better late than never, but also about frickin' time.
The bartender came over and made a great, polite show of asking me, "Aside from not believing that the applesauce is house made, how's your chicken?" Smartass niceties aside, I told him it was stellar. I may even have had gravy on my chin when I said it.
It was then that the guy sitting next to me asked how I was liking the fried chicken and introduced himself and his two business partners. I found out they were regulars at the bar since their (body) shop was a couple of blocks away. Jimmy was the instigator, Billy was the stressed-out one and Skip was the shy one. They knew a lot about cars. I don't.
After licking my plate clean, the bartender asked if I wanted coffee. "No, thanks," I said, so he offered me hot tea. "I don't do hot tea," I told him.
"Crack? How about some crack then?" he suggested, barely looking up, and getting points for quickness. Crack before a concerto? I don't think so.
It was getting on toward 8:00 and I had a show to see, so I asked for my check ("Sorry, you can't leave"), said good-bye to Skip (his friends having departed to go home to the "little women") and made my way down to the Singelton Center.
The VCU Symphonic Orchestra was promising me an American composer fix and I didn't want to be late. Ever since reading Joan Peyser's biography of Leonard Bernstein and Aaron Copland's two-volume autobiography (with nary a whiff of any sort of sexual life at all...really?), I have been on a mission to hear as much of Bernstein and Copland's music live as I can.
Tonight it was Bernstein's overture to Candide and selections from Copland's Rodeo and The Tender Land. Rodeo I've heard because I've seen the ballet, but the others would be firsts live for me. The other pieces being played, Mozart, Enescu and de Falla, were bonuses.
I'm anything but a pie-eyed patriot, but I find something absolutely stirring about classical American music. It just sounds so...American. Yes, of course, partly it's that incorporation of American folk music into the works, but beyond that, it's just our un-European interpretation of classical music.
And since I know nothing about music, that's merely my way of trying to explain how I could sit there happily with my eyes closed enjoying the music of these two extraordinary 20th century men being played by VCU students. Is this a great town or what?
The only possible thing to do after the performance was find someplace open for dessert and all-American Tarrant's fit the bill, but just barely. They didn't have any actual customers, but they were busy doing all the end-of-the-shift stuff so they had to be there anyway. I was in.
"For you I'd suggest the chocolate cannoli," my friend Danny said and I didn't argue. Owner Ted explained what the cannoli dough was made of (the coffee was a surprise) and then pointed out that putting chocolate on it was desecration and that, "No real Italian would eat such a thing."
As it happens, I'm Irish so that didn't affect me. And when Ted brought it out and offered me whipped cream on top, I took it. Probably just as sacrilegious.
While I scarfed it down, one of the servers shared the story of asking a customer if he wanted a second martini tonight and him replying, "I dare not. This one is way too good." She couldn't get over the use of the word "dare," repeating it in her distinctive NY accent. "I da-uh not!"
I'm pretty much over the dare not stage and reveling in the dares. Again, about time.
A Salty Salute: Tequila and Guided by Voices
What I know for sure (to paraphrase a recent Kennedy Center honoree):
a) That a bar that offers 52 tequilas should be on my regular route.
I hadn't been to the Whisky Grill and Smokehouse since the second week it was open and back then, they did not have an entire book detailing the liquors they carried. Now they do.
Sure, some of my favorites were there: Corazon, Don Julio, el Tesoro, as well as plenty new to me: Corrolejo, el Jimodor, Milagro.
Cielo Reposado, described as tasting of "toffee, cheese, dried cherry, brown spices and pineapple custard with a slightly tannic entry and a medium-full body that finishes with a long, okay, mint, cream and spice nuanced fade," delivered.
No chaser required.
It being Monday and all, they were out of the half chicken and the barbecue, so I had brisket (fatty bits included: yum) and beans (hot, hearty and belly-warming) and discussed with my server why drummers come home from being on tour in such great shape, why juice fasts are worth it and what RVA has over LA.
b) That you didn't have to be a music fan in the 90s to appreciate a Guided by Voices tribute, but tonight's show was a huge treat for those of us who were. And on a Monday night, too. The crowd was enthusiastic and clearly full of fans come to hear some of a favorite band's music.
For fans of indie music since there was such a thing, GBV's lo-fi pop was the best-kept secret around.
The amazing part was that there were enough GBV fans among Richmond's current crop of musicians to do a tribute show (enthusiastically and drunkenly, as the invitation stated).
After taking the second best seat in the house, a friend came in and took the best one, directly next to me, so now I had music, a clear view and a musician friend with whom to enjoy the show.
Sadly, there was no Cielo Reposado in the house, but everything else was perfect.
Herschel Stratego and his ukulele made the most interesting commitment; while agreeing to perform, he also admitted that he didn't know of GBV before being asked.
But he did his research, resulting in a brief set that shared fun facts about the band and sampled some of their music. A for effort.
Climbers and Trillions used neither a ukulele nor humor, but more than did justice to several GBV songs, in all their poppy brevity.
Paul Ivey vs. Board of Education, if not GBV fans, had certainly done their homework and delivered a well-done set. Paul looked like he could have been one of GBV's fans from back in the day and he was an excellent interpreter of the sound.
The highlight for me was Snowy Owls' set because, although I'd fallen in love with their shoegaze sound online, I had yet to hear them live and Matt is one of my favorite music buddies (the kind who recommends bands he thinks I'll like and sends me links to check out after we talk).
Their drummer had approached me earlier to introduce himself, saying "I see you at every show I go to" which caused my friend and seatmate to say, "I bet you hear that all the time."
I bet I do and I consider it a compliment of the highest order (so much better than the unoriginal "hey, great legs!").
Once they finished, the crowd around me went wild. "Strong set!" one fan said, nodding in approval. These people were taking their GBV covers very seriously; it was really cute.
Adah's leader Jun had organized the show and they played last.
Their very passionate set included some fierce violin playing on the part of Jun, who ended by turning to his band and saying,
"We rehearsed one more, but I'm too tired." End of set...but understandable after what we'd just witnessed.
The crowd was in no hurry to leave, so people lingered and talked about the show and what might be next.
There's talk of this becoming a series of tribute shows to bands that matter. I heard Pavement thrown around as the likely next honoree, but several people made a strong case for Spoon.
Either way, I'm in.
Another thing I know for sure is c) that when the current generation is re-interpreting older music, I want to hear it (especially when they're doing it drunkenly and enthusiastically).
I might suggest a little indie nap so they don't get so tired next time, though.
a) That a bar that offers 52 tequilas should be on my regular route.
I hadn't been to the Whisky Grill and Smokehouse since the second week it was open and back then, they did not have an entire book detailing the liquors they carried. Now they do.
Sure, some of my favorites were there: Corazon, Don Julio, el Tesoro, as well as plenty new to me: Corrolejo, el Jimodor, Milagro.
Cielo Reposado, described as tasting of "toffee, cheese, dried cherry, brown spices and pineapple custard with a slightly tannic entry and a medium-full body that finishes with a long, okay, mint, cream and spice nuanced fade," delivered.
No chaser required.
It being Monday and all, they were out of the half chicken and the barbecue, so I had brisket (fatty bits included: yum) and beans (hot, hearty and belly-warming) and discussed with my server why drummers come home from being on tour in such great shape, why juice fasts are worth it and what RVA has over LA.
b) That you didn't have to be a music fan in the 90s to appreciate a Guided by Voices tribute, but tonight's show was a huge treat for those of us who were. And on a Monday night, too. The crowd was enthusiastic and clearly full of fans come to hear some of a favorite band's music.
For fans of indie music since there was such a thing, GBV's lo-fi pop was the best-kept secret around.
The amazing part was that there were enough GBV fans among Richmond's current crop of musicians to do a tribute show (enthusiastically and drunkenly, as the invitation stated).
After taking the second best seat in the house, a friend came in and took the best one, directly next to me, so now I had music, a clear view and a musician friend with whom to enjoy the show.
Sadly, there was no Cielo Reposado in the house, but everything else was perfect.
Herschel Stratego and his ukulele made the most interesting commitment; while agreeing to perform, he also admitted that he didn't know of GBV before being asked.
But he did his research, resulting in a brief set that shared fun facts about the band and sampled some of their music. A for effort.
Climbers and Trillions used neither a ukulele nor humor, but more than did justice to several GBV songs, in all their poppy brevity.
Paul Ivey vs. Board of Education, if not GBV fans, had certainly done their homework and delivered a well-done set. Paul looked like he could have been one of GBV's fans from back in the day and he was an excellent interpreter of the sound.
The highlight for me was Snowy Owls' set because, although I'd fallen in love with their shoegaze sound online, I had yet to hear them live and Matt is one of my favorite music buddies (the kind who recommends bands he thinks I'll like and sends me links to check out after we talk).
Their drummer had approached me earlier to introduce himself, saying "I see you at every show I go to" which caused my friend and seatmate to say, "I bet you hear that all the time."
I bet I do and I consider it a compliment of the highest order (so much better than the unoriginal "hey, great legs!").
Once they finished, the crowd around me went wild. "Strong set!" one fan said, nodding in approval. These people were taking their GBV covers very seriously; it was really cute.
Adah's leader Jun had organized the show and they played last.
Their very passionate set included some fierce violin playing on the part of Jun, who ended by turning to his band and saying,
"We rehearsed one more, but I'm too tired." End of set...but understandable after what we'd just witnessed.
The crowd was in no hurry to leave, so people lingered and talked about the show and what might be next.
There's talk of this becoming a series of tribute shows to bands that matter. I heard Pavement thrown around as the likely next honoree, but several people made a strong case for Spoon.
Either way, I'm in.
Another thing I know for sure is c) that when the current generation is re-interpreting older music, I want to hear it (especially when they're doing it drunkenly and enthusiastically).
I might suggest a little indie nap so they don't get so tired next time, though.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Admiring the Wind from Above
Like mailmen, neither snow nor rain nor heat usually keep me from my daily walk, but today's 20+ mile-per-hour wind was seriously discouraging, to say the least. I kept putting it off and finally mid-afternoon realized that if I didn't go soon, I wasn't going.
So I went, but walked east instead of my usual west. As I was waiting at the corner of Seventh and Marshall, a guy looked at me and nodded. Not entirely sure what he meant, I said, "This wind couldn't be much worse!"
Pulling aside his scarf, he grinned and pointed to nearby City Hall. "Sure it could," he said. ""Bet it's a whole lot worse up there."
So don't you just know I had to march myself up there to find out? I took the elevator to the Observation Deck, along with a couple of city employees who must have wanted to escape their offices pretty badly because they didn't have coats on.
And it was incredibly cold and windy up there and I'm saying that as someone who was dressed for the weather. But it was beautiful, too; every rooftop flag was at full attention, plumes of smoke made horizontal white lines across the sky and the river looked one step removed from a sheet of ice.
The gift of it was that when I got back down to the street, the wind felt as gentle as a summer breeze in comparison. And as the handsome Martin taught me a few years back, perception is reality.
It was a lovely walk home. I don't know why it took me so long to get going in the first place.
So I went, but walked east instead of my usual west. As I was waiting at the corner of Seventh and Marshall, a guy looked at me and nodded. Not entirely sure what he meant, I said, "This wind couldn't be much worse!"
Pulling aside his scarf, he grinned and pointed to nearby City Hall. "Sure it could," he said. ""Bet it's a whole lot worse up there."
So don't you just know I had to march myself up there to find out? I took the elevator to the Observation Deck, along with a couple of city employees who must have wanted to escape their offices pretty badly because they didn't have coats on.
And it was incredibly cold and windy up there and I'm saying that as someone who was dressed for the weather. But it was beautiful, too; every rooftop flag was at full attention, plumes of smoke made horizontal white lines across the sky and the river looked one step removed from a sheet of ice.
The gift of it was that when I got back down to the street, the wind felt as gentle as a summer breeze in comparison. And as the handsome Martin taught me a few years back, perception is reality.
It was a lovely walk home. I don't know why it took me so long to get going in the first place.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Seduce Away
Walking into Avalon, Jason the bartender looked at me and in his usual smarmy tone said, "Well, well, well." I was looking for a group of birthday party celebrants but they were nowhere in sight, not that I told him that.
Taking a seat, I spotted a good friend already at the bar. "Meeting someone?" he asked and then answered his own question, "Of course you are." I explained the celebratory nature of my visit to him and he expressed insincere-sounding concern for me being stood up.
With no sign of the birthday girl in sight and somewhere to be at 7:30, it seemed wisest to order a glass of wine and find my own entertainment.
They pickings were slim, though; Jason shared his latest melodrama (dropouts! rich aunts! wood chopping!) and the couple next to me vacillated over whether the family bed situation is good for youngsters...and they were talking about their poodle. I ordered a sandwich and prayed for strength.
Fortunately, about that time my friend decided to move himself and his cocktail down next to me and save me from eavesdropping for entertainment. My grilled cheese was a nice combination of Mozzarella, pesto, onion and tomato on focaccia and as I munched, friend began talking about building me the stereo system of a lifetime.
It began with an innocent enough question: what did I listen to CDs on? I told him, but apparently my answer was inadequate, which surely meant that my system was inadequate. He began explaining, yet again, the elaborate but sonically perfect system he has been dying to build for me.
Frankly, I think he's just looking for an excuse to start digging around on e-Bay for the obscure parts he needs to piece together a system he knows full well he doesn't need, but wants to build anyway.
I tried begging off (I don't really need it, after all), but finally caved to his enthusiasm. Yes, I need this, I really do, was what he wanted to hear and as a good friend, I gave it to him.
And then had to leave without ever having celebrated anyone's birthday. Hey, I tried.
Firehouse Theater was doing Scott Organ's "Phoenix" as part of its Readers' Theater series and I didn't want to miss it. Organ is a former Chester resident turned Brooklynite and this two-person play was featuring one of my very favorite Richmond actors, Scott Wichmann.
The deceptively simple story was about a couple who'd had one date and then met up four weeks later to discuss it. The dialog was quick, witty and realistic. Wichmann and Laine Satterfield totally sold themselves as insecure, complex and very real people who made the audience care about them.
No surprise, Wichmann had the audience howling within about fifteen seconds of the lights coming up; both his delivery and facial expressions are comedic expression at their finest. But Organ's dialog gets a lot of the credit, too.
"As far as drinks with strangers go, that was my most enjoyable yet," perfectly exemplified the understated post-modern humor throughout the staged reading. The characters, with their commitment issues battling the innate desire to be together, seemed taken from anyone's life.
There was an interesting part of the dialog about the future (hint: batteries will be so much better and there will still be no proof of god), but most noteworthy was that men of the future will be much better at relationships and seduction ("If you see it, it ain't seduction"), surely good news to the female portion of the audience.
Afterwards, at the talk-back with the playwright, the audience expressed much interest in seeing the play produced. Issues of language (the f bomb) and topic (abortion) were much talked about, but the consensus seemed to be that it was a perfect future Firehouse project.
As for hearing more about men becoming better at seduction, I'm all ears. Show me, do.
Taking a seat, I spotted a good friend already at the bar. "Meeting someone?" he asked and then answered his own question, "Of course you are." I explained the celebratory nature of my visit to him and he expressed insincere-sounding concern for me being stood up.
With no sign of the birthday girl in sight and somewhere to be at 7:30, it seemed wisest to order a glass of wine and find my own entertainment.
They pickings were slim, though; Jason shared his latest melodrama (dropouts! rich aunts! wood chopping!) and the couple next to me vacillated over whether the family bed situation is good for youngsters...and they were talking about their poodle. I ordered a sandwich and prayed for strength.
Fortunately, about that time my friend decided to move himself and his cocktail down next to me and save me from eavesdropping for entertainment. My grilled cheese was a nice combination of Mozzarella, pesto, onion and tomato on focaccia and as I munched, friend began talking about building me the stereo system of a lifetime.
It began with an innocent enough question: what did I listen to CDs on? I told him, but apparently my answer was inadequate, which surely meant that my system was inadequate. He began explaining, yet again, the elaborate but sonically perfect system he has been dying to build for me.
Frankly, I think he's just looking for an excuse to start digging around on e-Bay for the obscure parts he needs to piece together a system he knows full well he doesn't need, but wants to build anyway.
I tried begging off (I don't really need it, after all), but finally caved to his enthusiasm. Yes, I need this, I really do, was what he wanted to hear and as a good friend, I gave it to him.
And then had to leave without ever having celebrated anyone's birthday. Hey, I tried.
Firehouse Theater was doing Scott Organ's "Phoenix" as part of its Readers' Theater series and I didn't want to miss it. Organ is a former Chester resident turned Brooklynite and this two-person play was featuring one of my very favorite Richmond actors, Scott Wichmann.
The deceptively simple story was about a couple who'd had one date and then met up four weeks later to discuss it. The dialog was quick, witty and realistic. Wichmann and Laine Satterfield totally sold themselves as insecure, complex and very real people who made the audience care about them.
No surprise, Wichmann had the audience howling within about fifteen seconds of the lights coming up; both his delivery and facial expressions are comedic expression at their finest. But Organ's dialog gets a lot of the credit, too.
"As far as drinks with strangers go, that was my most enjoyable yet," perfectly exemplified the understated post-modern humor throughout the staged reading. The characters, with their commitment issues battling the innate desire to be together, seemed taken from anyone's life.
There was an interesting part of the dialog about the future (hint: batteries will be so much better and there will still be no proof of god), but most noteworthy was that men of the future will be much better at relationships and seduction ("If you see it, it ain't seduction"), surely good news to the female portion of the audience.
Afterwards, at the talk-back with the playwright, the audience expressed much interest in seeing the play produced. Issues of language (the f bomb) and topic (abortion) were much talked about, but the consensus seemed to be that it was a perfect future Firehouse project.
As for hearing more about men becoming better at seduction, I'm all ears. Show me, do.
Snow Over New Orleans Jazz
Sometimes I can start out with one couple date and end up with another entirely and my evening is all the better for the variety of company. It's good to know I have couple friends willing to tag team each other so I can have sparkling company the whole night through.
This weekend of singular pleasures continued with tonight's Meschiya Lake & the Little Big Horn's show at Balliceaux. Since the last time I heard New Orleans parlor-style jazz was probably in New Orleans (or even at that screening of Pretty Baby at VMFA), I happily joined the throngs for an evening of jazz standards and original material by the former busker with the big sound behind her.
From a classic like "My Man" to a song Lake referred to as "a dancing song and also a drinking song...our two favorite things," ML & tLBH managed to infuse Balliceaux with a New Orleans crowd-pleasing energy that never let up. Her voice was sultry, brassy and completely engaging, full-on entertaining.
And the crowd was a unique one, pulling from disparate groups of music lovers. I arrived early enough to find a good place to lean on the wall and see the stage, sure that this would be a performance I wanted to see as much as hear.
Within moments, one of the barbacks came over and said he had to place a bar stool right where I was standing, but that I could sit on it if I wanted to. It seemed like a good way to prevent being knocked into, so I took him up on his offer.
And it did work well except that my knees were right in the thoroughfare and more than a few times, I was spun on my stool by a large person dashing by.
One guy, upon noticing his friend squeeze by me, came over and asked, "Did he just rub his buttocks against your legs?" Not one to miss a chance to point my own finger, I asked, "Yes, but aren't you the one who came up behind him and rubbed yourself against his buttocks?" something I had noted earlier and wondered about.
"Good eye," the guy said, slinking back into the crowd.
Periodically one of the bartenders would make his way through the crowd carrying drinks aloft and saying "bar staff" loudly to get people to move out of his way. Before long I heard one guy making his way through the mob announcing "customer," if that tells you anything about the comedic talents of the crowd.
My favorite part of the crowd was my couple date who provided some company with whom I could get chatty. They too had been to the Christmas parade today as well as the opera last weekend, so we compared notes on our shared experiences (I did not get cold at the first or nod off at the latter, so there were some differences).
But space was tight and they had to stand practically on top of each other and before I knew it, well, they had places to go. Ah, love.
It's hard to describe the surreal pleasure of listening to a brass band and jazz singer while watching snow fall through a nearby window. Despite feeling transported to New Orleans, the precipitation outside made for a beautiful (if unexpected) visual to accompany the sound and remind me where I really was.
During the band's break, I stretched my legs by going to the front bar where I immediately ran into a favorite couple who'd come in for a drink after finding Julep closed. All of a sudden, we were taking a table and getting drinks so we could catch up with each other. It was truly an unexpected pleasure.
Knowing my fondness for sweetbreads, they told me about the succulent ones they'd had tonight at Bouchon. We discussed the superiority of Bistro 27's Wagu burger. Sous-vide and who's doing it here was another hot topic. All the while, Led Zeppelin blared from the speakers, keeping me somewhere in the surreal zone.
They shared the most hilarious story of a guy we know on a quest for a leftover turkey sandwich on Thanksgiving night...which ended tragically with the offer of a lap dance (said friend got neither the sandwich nor the dance. Pity, really). Truth really is stranger than fiction.
Mentioning having recently been to the opera ignited a debate between the happy couple. The two of them bantered and finally wagered about a point of contention; he was sure he was right and so was she. I witnessed the bet, stakes were determined and they shook on it. Ah, love.
There are so many pleasures to couple dating and with any luck, I'm learning something while I'm at it.
But if not, it's an awfully entertaining way to spend an evening.
This weekend of singular pleasures continued with tonight's Meschiya Lake & the Little Big Horn's show at Balliceaux. Since the last time I heard New Orleans parlor-style jazz was probably in New Orleans (or even at that screening of Pretty Baby at VMFA), I happily joined the throngs for an evening of jazz standards and original material by the former busker with the big sound behind her.
From a classic like "My Man" to a song Lake referred to as "a dancing song and also a drinking song...our two favorite things," ML & tLBH managed to infuse Balliceaux with a New Orleans crowd-pleasing energy that never let up. Her voice was sultry, brassy and completely engaging, full-on entertaining.
And the crowd was a unique one, pulling from disparate groups of music lovers. I arrived early enough to find a good place to lean on the wall and see the stage, sure that this would be a performance I wanted to see as much as hear.
Within moments, one of the barbacks came over and said he had to place a bar stool right where I was standing, but that I could sit on it if I wanted to. It seemed like a good way to prevent being knocked into, so I took him up on his offer.
And it did work well except that my knees were right in the thoroughfare and more than a few times, I was spun on my stool by a large person dashing by.
One guy, upon noticing his friend squeeze by me, came over and asked, "Did he just rub his buttocks against your legs?" Not one to miss a chance to point my own finger, I asked, "Yes, but aren't you the one who came up behind him and rubbed yourself against his buttocks?" something I had noted earlier and wondered about.
"Good eye," the guy said, slinking back into the crowd.
Periodically one of the bartenders would make his way through the crowd carrying drinks aloft and saying "bar staff" loudly to get people to move out of his way. Before long I heard one guy making his way through the mob announcing "customer," if that tells you anything about the comedic talents of the crowd.
My favorite part of the crowd was my couple date who provided some company with whom I could get chatty. They too had been to the Christmas parade today as well as the opera last weekend, so we compared notes on our shared experiences (I did not get cold at the first or nod off at the latter, so there were some differences).
But space was tight and they had to stand practically on top of each other and before I knew it, well, they had places to go. Ah, love.
It's hard to describe the surreal pleasure of listening to a brass band and jazz singer while watching snow fall through a nearby window. Despite feeling transported to New Orleans, the precipitation outside made for a beautiful (if unexpected) visual to accompany the sound and remind me where I really was.
During the band's break, I stretched my legs by going to the front bar where I immediately ran into a favorite couple who'd come in for a drink after finding Julep closed. All of a sudden, we were taking a table and getting drinks so we could catch up with each other. It was truly an unexpected pleasure.
Knowing my fondness for sweetbreads, they told me about the succulent ones they'd had tonight at Bouchon. We discussed the superiority of Bistro 27's Wagu burger. Sous-vide and who's doing it here was another hot topic. All the while, Led Zeppelin blared from the speakers, keeping me somewhere in the surreal zone.
They shared the most hilarious story of a guy we know on a quest for a leftover turkey sandwich on Thanksgiving night...which ended tragically with the offer of a lap dance (said friend got neither the sandwich nor the dance. Pity, really). Truth really is stranger than fiction.
Mentioning having recently been to the opera ignited a debate between the happy couple. The two of them bantered and finally wagered about a point of contention; he was sure he was right and so was she. I witnessed the bet, stakes were determined and they shook on it. Ah, love.
There are so many pleasures to couple dating and with any luck, I'm learning something while I'm at it.
But if not, it's an awfully entertaining way to spend an evening.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
What's In It for Me?
It's funny how the prediction of snow makes different people react different ways. It's meaningless to me, because I know it's not going to change my plans of going out. Others, not so much.
I got a message from a friend around 1ish asking what I was up to for the afternoon and since I hadn't quite formulated a plan (having only been up for a couple hours), I drew a blank.
She, on the other hand, was already looking forward to a cozy evening at home with her boy and wanted to go score some mitten-making yarn before the first flake fell. Wow. Not the first thought I'd have if I were going to stay in with a guy.
Unbelievable as it sounds, she was inviting me to go to a yarn store with her. As you might guess, I don't frequent yarn stores...or craft stores or anything along those lines. Why would I? I don't do anything crafty. She sensed my hesitation and mentioned that the yarn store was underneath Pearl's Cupcakes. Okay, at least now I was paying attention.
Still, a cupcake is a small diversion when a friend is planning to browse yarn and talk to other knitters while I listen to my hair grow, so I said yes as long as we began this fun-filled adventure with brunch. Wisely, she agreed.
Presuming that the post-parade crowd had cleared the area by now, we decided on 821 Cafe for eating. The place was pretty packed, but it wasn't too long before two stools opened up for us after a girl came in to buy a piece of art for her boyfriend and then relinquished her stool (he'd admired it at breakfast earlier so she'd come back to score it before it sold).
The show of intricately-drawn bird images by artist el Camino was the subject of discussion by many in the room as person after person pointed out their favorite (the cardinal! the owl!), probably tempted by the reasonable $40 price tag.
Brunch was an everything bagel with sun-dried tomato cream cheese, capers, sliced tomatoes (suspiciously red and flavorful ones at that) and red onion. Friend mentioned that a bagel is the equivalent of five slices of bread and I asked her what her point was. Staff of life, right?
And then we were off to the Avenues, an infrequent destination for a non-shopping type like me, via Grove Avenue. Surprisingly for a Saturday afternoon, the hordes of joggers, stroller pushers and other assorted people who usually take over that street rather than use the sidewalk were absent.
Of some note was the guy riding a unicycle and walking his German Shepherd on the sidewalk, as unusual an example of multi-tasking as I've seen lately. He'd never be able to do that with a sniffer like a beagle, let me assure you from years of experience.
Walking into Pearl's, I gravitated to the counter to see what flavors were available today before being dragged downstairs to the subterranean yarn shop where I had no business being. I tried to feign interest but my mind was upstairs. After what seemed like hours of "yarn...blah, blah...yarn...blah" friend chose, paid and I was free at last.
That Pearl Gone Cocoa cupcake (chocolate cake with white icing and a mound of coconut) that had reduced me to tears on my last visit was tempting, but it is December now and there was an eggnog cupcake just asking to be experienced.
We'll call that my way of dealing with the prediction of snow.
I got a message from a friend around 1ish asking what I was up to for the afternoon and since I hadn't quite formulated a plan (having only been up for a couple hours), I drew a blank.
She, on the other hand, was already looking forward to a cozy evening at home with her boy and wanted to go score some mitten-making yarn before the first flake fell. Wow. Not the first thought I'd have if I were going to stay in with a guy.
Unbelievable as it sounds, she was inviting me to go to a yarn store with her. As you might guess, I don't frequent yarn stores...or craft stores or anything along those lines. Why would I? I don't do anything crafty. She sensed my hesitation and mentioned that the yarn store was underneath Pearl's Cupcakes. Okay, at least now I was paying attention.
Still, a cupcake is a small diversion when a friend is planning to browse yarn and talk to other knitters while I listen to my hair grow, so I said yes as long as we began this fun-filled adventure with brunch. Wisely, she agreed.
Presuming that the post-parade crowd had cleared the area by now, we decided on 821 Cafe for eating. The place was pretty packed, but it wasn't too long before two stools opened up for us after a girl came in to buy a piece of art for her boyfriend and then relinquished her stool (he'd admired it at breakfast earlier so she'd come back to score it before it sold).
The show of intricately-drawn bird images by artist el Camino was the subject of discussion by many in the room as person after person pointed out their favorite (the cardinal! the owl!), probably tempted by the reasonable $40 price tag.
Brunch was an everything bagel with sun-dried tomato cream cheese, capers, sliced tomatoes (suspiciously red and flavorful ones at that) and red onion. Friend mentioned that a bagel is the equivalent of five slices of bread and I asked her what her point was. Staff of life, right?
And then we were off to the Avenues, an infrequent destination for a non-shopping type like me, via Grove Avenue. Surprisingly for a Saturday afternoon, the hordes of joggers, stroller pushers and other assorted people who usually take over that street rather than use the sidewalk were absent.
Of some note was the guy riding a unicycle and walking his German Shepherd on the sidewalk, as unusual an example of multi-tasking as I've seen lately. He'd never be able to do that with a sniffer like a beagle, let me assure you from years of experience.
Walking into Pearl's, I gravitated to the counter to see what flavors were available today before being dragged downstairs to the subterranean yarn shop where I had no business being. I tried to feign interest but my mind was upstairs. After what seemed like hours of "yarn...blah, blah...yarn...blah" friend chose, paid and I was free at last.
That Pearl Gone Cocoa cupcake (chocolate cake with white icing and a mound of coconut) that had reduced me to tears on my last visit was tempting, but it is December now and there was an eggnog cupcake just asking to be experienced.
We'll call that my way of dealing with the prediction of snow.
Letting the Parade Pass Me By
The true meaning of Christmas parades must have changed while I wasn't looking and nobody told me. Given that naivete, there was no way I could have been prepared for joining the festivities on my morning walk along the parade route.
Truth be told, I wouldn't have even remembered that the Christmas parade was today except that when I went to open my living room shades, Clay Street was abuzz with cars of people unloading.
In fact, directly out in front of my house was a bus of fatigue-clad military guys, one of whom was directing traffic around the bus. Ah, yes, happy holidays and welcome to the (khaki) parade.
So when I set out for my daily constitutional, I knew it would be with a jingle-bell view. But who wouldn't get a kick out of seeing parade marshals the Harlem Globetrotters coming down Broad Street?
I'm even enough of a traditionalist that I marvel at watching baton twirlers throwing their batons impossibly high in the air and then somehow catching them mid-step.
I can appreciate a good marching band (or ten), admiring their high stepping musicality and snappy uniforms. The giant balloons don't impress quite like the ones I remember from the Macy's parade, but we're no NYC, either (the reindeer with the smooshed-in face was particularly unfortunate).
But when did Christmas become all about fitness? I was flummoxed to see the Navy Seal Personal Training group as part of the parade. Their float featured recruits "riding" bikes and waving their toned arms, as if to say, "Come sweat with us at 4 a.m.!" Um, no thanks.
Since when did the Triathlon Training Team put on the red and green and shoehorn themselves into the parade? And if anyone's answering questions, what's Christmasy about Dominion Chevrolet driving new vehicles with giant "Red Tag Event Sale" stickers in the parade? Is that supposed to be a gift suggestion?
Flagrant sales tactics aside, the funniest part of the health contingent joining the Christmas parade is the concession group that accompanies it.
Between here and the DMV, I could have bought cotton candy (okay, that's probably parade food), chili-dogs, Krispy Kreme donuts by the dozen and even a marked down grilled cheese (was $3, now $2!). No child left behind, though: every tot had a soda in hand.
And speaking of children, it seemed like the parade brought out the worst parenting imaginable. One Dad walking his little person through the crowd of adults slammed the kid into a chair and then yelled at the confused kid for not watching where he was going.
Another parent trying to effectively discipline pointed at St. Nick's approaching float and screamed, "There's Santa, so you'd better watch it, boy!" Some day we will license people to become parents, like we license dog owners.
After reaching the end of the parade route, I turned around and walked back with the end of it. The vendors had formed the final group and were loudly trying to hawk their leftovers to the crowd busy packing up. "Candy apples, cheap!"
A lone man carried a banner aloft: "Life is short. Eternity is not. R U ready?"
I feel sure I am, as long as eternity isn't like an endless Christmas parade of fit Seals and car salesmen.
Truth be told, I wouldn't have even remembered that the Christmas parade was today except that when I went to open my living room shades, Clay Street was abuzz with cars of people unloading.
In fact, directly out in front of my house was a bus of fatigue-clad military guys, one of whom was directing traffic around the bus. Ah, yes, happy holidays and welcome to the (khaki) parade.
So when I set out for my daily constitutional, I knew it would be with a jingle-bell view. But who wouldn't get a kick out of seeing parade marshals the Harlem Globetrotters coming down Broad Street?
I'm even enough of a traditionalist that I marvel at watching baton twirlers throwing their batons impossibly high in the air and then somehow catching them mid-step.
I can appreciate a good marching band (or ten), admiring their high stepping musicality and snappy uniforms. The giant balloons don't impress quite like the ones I remember from the Macy's parade, but we're no NYC, either (the reindeer with the smooshed-in face was particularly unfortunate).
But when did Christmas become all about fitness? I was flummoxed to see the Navy Seal Personal Training group as part of the parade. Their float featured recruits "riding" bikes and waving their toned arms, as if to say, "Come sweat with us at 4 a.m.!" Um, no thanks.
Since when did the Triathlon Training Team put on the red and green and shoehorn themselves into the parade? And if anyone's answering questions, what's Christmasy about Dominion Chevrolet driving new vehicles with giant "Red Tag Event Sale" stickers in the parade? Is that supposed to be a gift suggestion?
Flagrant sales tactics aside, the funniest part of the health contingent joining the Christmas parade is the concession group that accompanies it.
Between here and the DMV, I could have bought cotton candy (okay, that's probably parade food), chili-dogs, Krispy Kreme donuts by the dozen and even a marked down grilled cheese (was $3, now $2!). No child left behind, though: every tot had a soda in hand.
And speaking of children, it seemed like the parade brought out the worst parenting imaginable. One Dad walking his little person through the crowd of adults slammed the kid into a chair and then yelled at the confused kid for not watching where he was going.
Another parent trying to effectively discipline pointed at St. Nick's approaching float and screamed, "There's Santa, so you'd better watch it, boy!" Some day we will license people to become parents, like we license dog owners.
After reaching the end of the parade route, I turned around and walked back with the end of it. The vendors had formed the final group and were loudly trying to hawk their leftovers to the crowd busy packing up. "Candy apples, cheap!"
A lone man carried a banner aloft: "Life is short. Eternity is not. R U ready?"
I feel sure I am, as long as eternity isn't like an endless Christmas parade of fit Seals and car salesmen.
"You're Everywhere Good"
Noah sold out, Kate shone in feathers, and album art stole the show.
Danny unloaded, Chris' Saturn Returned and Ashley showed me how to screen print.
It may have been the first really cold First Friday art walk in a while, but what's a little chill on a night where there was so much affordable art (think gifting) to see and I ran into so many people I know?
Besides, I knew better than to wear the Vienna tights, so I'm responsible for going for compliments over warmth.
At 1708 Gallery's "Small Wonder" show, there were scaled-down works by so many familiar names: a lyrical Tom Chenoweth metal sculpture, a Grace Teeples combine, a Chuck Scalin tablet.
I wasn't the least surprised to arrive at three small skull pieces, all marked sold.
Without a moment's hesitation, I knew they must have been Noah Scalin's (and indeed they had been).
Over at ADA Gallery were four large pieces by Chris Mahonski, all suitably priced for the holidays at $1,000-$10,000.
Price tag aside, I was taken by his "Saturn Return," a walnut veneer tower stacked with every National Geographic magazine since January 1970.
I could crouch down and see the 70s magazines, but the 21st-century ones were completely lost to my vertically-challenged self.
While admiring it, a guy walked up behind me and leaned over me to say, "That would be great in your living room."
Since I turned around to see a guy who has never seen my living room, I have to assume he was flirting with me (I'll get this yet).
We began talking about the old-school value of National Geographic teaching kids about naked bodies and sex (you know, your typical conversation with a stranger) and how unfortunate it is that today's kids have to rely on Internet porn rather than glossy photographs of natives for ogling.
Peter Fowler's show "Illuminations" at Ghostprint Gallery was a series of Impressionistic pastels updated by the use of gold and silver-leaf paint.
Several of these had also been sold, too, so obviously it was a good night for an artist to be hanging in RVA.
Over at Metro Space Gallery, Kate Horne's show of animal drawings, paintings and sculptural heads was perfectly punctuated by her large dog napping in the center of the gallery floor.
Kate, ever the showman, was splendid in her native American headdress; as we stood talking, two guys walked in and one saluted her with, '"Great headdress!"
Kate only smiled demurely back.
Talking to Mark, the owner of next door's Metro Sound and Music store, I found out that he's opening a satellite location in Carytown this weekend.
Seems he's been looking for a second location for twenty years and the perfect one just opened up over in our shopping mecca.
It'll be on the same block as Guitar Works, so music lovers will have a destination for all things music now.
Mark carries so many vintage instruments that the shop will appeal to music fans as much as true musicians.
Who wouldn't want to admire 100-year old instruments, some signed by the maker? I'm already planning a field trip.
Gallery 5 was as crowded as I've ever seen it; part of the reason was the DJ collective Cherry Bomb was hosting an exhibit of album cover art.
A host of local talent, both musical and artistic, had been asked to submit a cover for sale to benefit Art 180.
Singer Julie Karr had crocheted hers, photographers PJ Sykes and Melissa Koch naturally submitted photos, and DJ Sara Gossett's was an intricate 60s-looking drawing reminiscent of one of her vintage dresses.
One DJ's submissions was an Elvis Costello cover with every date she's ever played that record notated on the front; it was part album/part journal and I loved the history it revealed.
It was DJ Talia who came over to compliment me on being everywhere, saying she and her beau know they've walked into the right place when they see me (and, believe me, they're far hipper than me).
After a much too long wait in the restroom line, I finally asked the guy in front of me if he'd checked the door to make sure someone was actually in there.
"I don't think that's a bathroom,"he explained.
"Wrong," I informed him. "I've peed in here a hundred times" and waltzed into the bathroom he'd been standing outside of for 15 minutes.
Do I have to teach these kids everything?
Leaving the madness of G5 with a Captain Slappy's bacon-wrapped dog firmly in hand (Chef Charley had three, so I didn't feel too bad), I walked to get my car and head to the other art walk on Main Street. Studio 23 was having a printmaking demonstration in addition to opening a new show by Stuart Dumois.
Although I'm a huge fan of prints, I'd never seen them made and after my recent visit to their mix tape exhibit, Ashley had suggested coming back tonight.
I watched as she screened dozens of holiday cards (you'll know if you get one from me because the Season's Greetings are growing out of the reindeer's antlers) and told me about the recent donations to the collective's impressive array of equipment.
Dumois' art was graphic and bright, whether portraiture or a scene of regurgitation.
My favorite eye-catching piece was the female figure curled up on a blue background, with the words, "Boo hoo hoo" underneath her.
Boo hoo indeed.
And then it was time to move on from visual art to performance art in the form of Crispin Hellion Glover, presented by the James River Film Society.
Waiting in vain for a friend to arrive, I saw a cross section of Richmond arriving: DJs, book sellers, researchers, parade organizers, musicians, wine reps, restaurant people, artists, filmmakers and Glover fanatics.
In other words, lots of people I knew.
With no fanfare, Glover came out and began his narrated slide show, essentially him reading bits of some of the books he's written.
But he is Crispin Glover, so his books are, shall we say, odd.
"Studies in Rat-Catching for the Use of Schools," "Backward Swing: A Lesson to be Learned," and "Round My House" were aided by his dramatic retelling and expressive hand gestures pointing to the pages and illustrations of these books.
After that portion of the show, a member of the audience yelled out, "Hey, can we get rid of those two dudes down in front?" referring to the two idiots who had clapped fanatically at the wrong moments, laughed inappropriately and just generally made a nuisance of themselves throughout the entire first half.
The guys yelled out that they were fans, but their obnoxiousness in trying to put themselves into the center of attention was wearing on much of the audience's nerves.
The two had been just behind me in line waiting to get in and as the line began to move, a nearby couple had said, "Let's sit anywhere but near those two." It was true.
Glover intended to show his second film next but by mistake showed his first, "What Is It?" instead.
Made using actors with Down's Syndrome to portray people who did not have the condition, it was made expressly for the purpose of making the audience uncomfortable.
Glover called it a "reactive piece."
Afterwards, he apologized for showing the wrong film and asked that the trailer for his second movie, "It is Fine. Everything is Fine" be shown, followed by a question and answer period, a misnomer for a protracted discussion with a man who loves words.
To be clear, a question and answer period with Crispin Hellion Glover is a long-term proposition.
He is the kind of actor/filmmaker/mind with volumes to say on almost every subject.
He spent a good amount of time on how his resentment of corporate film making led him to attempt a film that would address cultural taboos and complexities.
He railed about the dumbing down of movies and the reluctance of the Hollywood machine to feed the audiences anything but pablum.
His insistence on not condescending to his audience or dictating their interpretation took up a good part of Glover's time on stage.
Interestingly, he said he takes the most flak about the abuse of snails in the first movie, not for using actors with Down's syndrome or even including a racist KKK song in it.
Of course, audiences for this man's movies are not the typical audience by a long stretch, either.
Glover continued to take questions for hours and the audience slowly began to trickle out although the devoted remained in place, rapt.
I don't want to say it was late when I left, but NYD's dance party was winding down and Secco was dark.
But then again, how often does the Hellion show up in RVA on a Friday night?
Danny unloaded, Chris' Saturn Returned and Ashley showed me how to screen print.
It may have been the first really cold First Friday art walk in a while, but what's a little chill on a night where there was so much affordable art (think gifting) to see and I ran into so many people I know?
Besides, I knew better than to wear the Vienna tights, so I'm responsible for going for compliments over warmth.
At 1708 Gallery's "Small Wonder" show, there were scaled-down works by so many familiar names: a lyrical Tom Chenoweth metal sculpture, a Grace Teeples combine, a Chuck Scalin tablet.
I wasn't the least surprised to arrive at three small skull pieces, all marked sold.
Without a moment's hesitation, I knew they must have been Noah Scalin's (and indeed they had been).
Over at ADA Gallery were four large pieces by Chris Mahonski, all suitably priced for the holidays at $1,000-$10,000.
Price tag aside, I was taken by his "Saturn Return," a walnut veneer tower stacked with every National Geographic magazine since January 1970.
I could crouch down and see the 70s magazines, but the 21st-century ones were completely lost to my vertically-challenged self.
While admiring it, a guy walked up behind me and leaned over me to say, "That would be great in your living room."
Since I turned around to see a guy who has never seen my living room, I have to assume he was flirting with me (I'll get this yet).
We began talking about the old-school value of National Geographic teaching kids about naked bodies and sex (you know, your typical conversation with a stranger) and how unfortunate it is that today's kids have to rely on Internet porn rather than glossy photographs of natives for ogling.
Peter Fowler's show "Illuminations" at Ghostprint Gallery was a series of Impressionistic pastels updated by the use of gold and silver-leaf paint.
Several of these had also been sold, too, so obviously it was a good night for an artist to be hanging in RVA.
Over at Metro Space Gallery, Kate Horne's show of animal drawings, paintings and sculptural heads was perfectly punctuated by her large dog napping in the center of the gallery floor.
Kate, ever the showman, was splendid in her native American headdress; as we stood talking, two guys walked in and one saluted her with, '"Great headdress!"
Kate only smiled demurely back.
Talking to Mark, the owner of next door's Metro Sound and Music store, I found out that he's opening a satellite location in Carytown this weekend.
Seems he's been looking for a second location for twenty years and the perfect one just opened up over in our shopping mecca.
It'll be on the same block as Guitar Works, so music lovers will have a destination for all things music now.
Mark carries so many vintage instruments that the shop will appeal to music fans as much as true musicians.
Who wouldn't want to admire 100-year old instruments, some signed by the maker? I'm already planning a field trip.
Gallery 5 was as crowded as I've ever seen it; part of the reason was the DJ collective Cherry Bomb was hosting an exhibit of album cover art.
A host of local talent, both musical and artistic, had been asked to submit a cover for sale to benefit Art 180.
Singer Julie Karr had crocheted hers, photographers PJ Sykes and Melissa Koch naturally submitted photos, and DJ Sara Gossett's was an intricate 60s-looking drawing reminiscent of one of her vintage dresses.
One DJ's submissions was an Elvis Costello cover with every date she's ever played that record notated on the front; it was part album/part journal and I loved the history it revealed.
It was DJ Talia who came over to compliment me on being everywhere, saying she and her beau know they've walked into the right place when they see me (and, believe me, they're far hipper than me).
After a much too long wait in the restroom line, I finally asked the guy in front of me if he'd checked the door to make sure someone was actually in there.
"I don't think that's a bathroom,"he explained.
"Wrong," I informed him. "I've peed in here a hundred times" and waltzed into the bathroom he'd been standing outside of for 15 minutes.
Do I have to teach these kids everything?
Leaving the madness of G5 with a Captain Slappy's bacon-wrapped dog firmly in hand (Chef Charley had three, so I didn't feel too bad), I walked to get my car and head to the other art walk on Main Street. Studio 23 was having a printmaking demonstration in addition to opening a new show by Stuart Dumois.
Although I'm a huge fan of prints, I'd never seen them made and after my recent visit to their mix tape exhibit, Ashley had suggested coming back tonight.
I watched as she screened dozens of holiday cards (you'll know if you get one from me because the Season's Greetings are growing out of the reindeer's antlers) and told me about the recent donations to the collective's impressive array of equipment.
Dumois' art was graphic and bright, whether portraiture or a scene of regurgitation.
My favorite eye-catching piece was the female figure curled up on a blue background, with the words, "Boo hoo hoo" underneath her.
Boo hoo indeed.
And then it was time to move on from visual art to performance art in the form of Crispin Hellion Glover, presented by the James River Film Society.
Waiting in vain for a friend to arrive, I saw a cross section of Richmond arriving: DJs, book sellers, researchers, parade organizers, musicians, wine reps, restaurant people, artists, filmmakers and Glover fanatics.
In other words, lots of people I knew.
With no fanfare, Glover came out and began his narrated slide show, essentially him reading bits of some of the books he's written.
But he is Crispin Glover, so his books are, shall we say, odd.
"Studies in Rat-Catching for the Use of Schools," "Backward Swing: A Lesson to be Learned," and "Round My House" were aided by his dramatic retelling and expressive hand gestures pointing to the pages and illustrations of these books.
After that portion of the show, a member of the audience yelled out, "Hey, can we get rid of those two dudes down in front?" referring to the two idiots who had clapped fanatically at the wrong moments, laughed inappropriately and just generally made a nuisance of themselves throughout the entire first half.
The guys yelled out that they were fans, but their obnoxiousness in trying to put themselves into the center of attention was wearing on much of the audience's nerves.
The two had been just behind me in line waiting to get in and as the line began to move, a nearby couple had said, "Let's sit anywhere but near those two." It was true.
Glover intended to show his second film next but by mistake showed his first, "What Is It?" instead.
Made using actors with Down's Syndrome to portray people who did not have the condition, it was made expressly for the purpose of making the audience uncomfortable.
Glover called it a "reactive piece."
Afterwards, he apologized for showing the wrong film and asked that the trailer for his second movie, "It is Fine. Everything is Fine" be shown, followed by a question and answer period, a misnomer for a protracted discussion with a man who loves words.
To be clear, a question and answer period with Crispin Hellion Glover is a long-term proposition.
He is the kind of actor/filmmaker/mind with volumes to say on almost every subject.
He spent a good amount of time on how his resentment of corporate film making led him to attempt a film that would address cultural taboos and complexities.
He railed about the dumbing down of movies and the reluctance of the Hollywood machine to feed the audiences anything but pablum.
His insistence on not condescending to his audience or dictating their interpretation took up a good part of Glover's time on stage.
Interestingly, he said he takes the most flak about the abuse of snails in the first movie, not for using actors with Down's syndrome or even including a racist KKK song in it.
Of course, audiences for this man's movies are not the typical audience by a long stretch, either.
Glover continued to take questions for hours and the audience slowly began to trickle out although the devoted remained in place, rapt.
I don't want to say it was late when I left, but NYD's dance party was winding down and Secco was dark.
But then again, how often does the Hellion show up in RVA on a Friday night?
Friday, December 3, 2010
Nosey, But Heart-Healthy
Who doesn't like a peek where you're not supposed to go? Well, perhaps well-behaved types, but I must not be one of them.
Tonight the Virginia Center for Architecture was hosting a holiday open house, significant because the second floor of the Branch House (where the VCA is housed) was going to be open to the public. And this public wanted a room (or ten) with a view.
Now I've been to the VCA many times and I've even taken the tour of the Branch House, but I'd never seen anything but the main floor where the exhibitions are held. I was chomping at the bit to see what was behind the curtain.
Like so many Richmonders, I find the Branch House fascinating. The concept of building a 63-room house with eleven levels for living in for only four months of the year (simply for the social season, darling, September through January) speaks to a level of wealth beyond my comprehension.
The Branches had an extensive collection of Italian tapestries and antiques (no doubt from living in their Florence house) and the individual rooms were designed to accommodate specific collections. At least that's how they justified it.
I loved the warmth of the wood-paneled music room, which was also used as a gentlemen's smoking parlor. At the time, it was hung with wall tapestries to hide the liquor cabinets built into the walls (it being Prohibition and all), despite the plethora of speakeasies on Monument Avenue (who knew?).
A photograph in the room showed a harp situated in a corner near the window, ready for musical evenings with the leaded windows open. How very civilized.
Mrs. Branch's bedroom was enormous with extensive decorative motifs in cream and blue; it held Addams period antiques. There were no closets in her room because they were on the third floor (taking up nearly a third of that floor, so she must have been quite the snappy dresser), but there was a butler's pantry just next door for the preparation of Mrs. B's breakfast.
Also up there were the servants' quarters as well as the rooms for the grandchildren (why see them or hear them if you don't have to?).
Our guide mentioned that Mrs. B never laid eyes on any of this because she never went higher than the second floor (no need to clearly), which says volumes.
I was beyond surprised to be shown the outlet for the central vacuum cleaning system, a feature I would not have guessed would have been in existence in 1919. With enough money ($160,000 in 1916 dollars) though, I suppose anything was possible.
Probably the most striking feature of the second floor was the living room ceiling, made from a combination of molds, carvings and stencils, white and vaulted.
It was a study in contrasts, however, with the molds chosen from a sample book but the artisans brought over from Europe to do the intricate work.
Upon walking upstairs, I had been joined by another would-be snoop who, much like me, said his primary purpose in coming out tonight had been to see the elusive second floor.
We were partners in crime, opening doors (many with large brass rings rather than doorknobs) and cabinets to satisfy our curiosity together. It was illuminating hearing the guide's information and it was just as cool to check out all the unexplained stuff on our stealth tour.
The reception downstairs had live music, food, drink and socializing, but after the high of playing sleuth in an historic house, not much could compare, so I enjoyed some time in the museum shop and then headed out.
Now that the safety/beautification project has been completed at Shepherd and Cary, I ventured back to Secco for dinner. As usual, it was mobbed, but with just one empty bar stool mid-bar, I was all set.
The sudden shift to December weather made red wine a requirement so I put myself in mind of the south of Spain with the 2009 Verasol Monastrell (also with Cabernet and Syrah) and was not disappointed.
My frozen bones must have been evident on arrival because my server (new Dad Lincoln) asked if my hands were cold and when I nodded yes, returned with a glass of hot water "Don't drink it. wrap your hands around it," he instructed. It's the little things.
Wanting to extend the warmth even further, I ordered a bowl of the ribollita with cranberry beans and farro.
It was a hearty Tuscan vegetable soup and, as owner Julia pointed out, dangerously close to vegan if not for the abundance of grated Parmesan on top of all that beautiful kale. A big hunk of soaked bread awaited me at the bottom of the bowl; now I was warm.
My second course was dealer's choice meat and cheese: Langa la tur (Italian sheep, goat and cow milk cheese), Sottoconcre (Italian semi-soft with ash-dusted rind) and Jamon Iberico (that tastiest of Spanish acorn-fed ham). Dealer's choice works for me because otherwise, I'll just ask for the stinkiest cheese on the list and never try anything subtle. Force it on me and I'll love it.
It was during this course that I started chatting up my neighbor, a woman who had recently closed her retail shop to go back into the corporate world. When asked if she read, she shook her head no. "But 2011 is the year I get my life back," she proclaimed, raising a glass.
Given that she said the only thing she's had time to do for the past few years was watch "Glee" and sleep, I'd say she was overdue for a change. I don't recall the last time someone told me that becoming a corporate drone was their goal, but I sincerely wished her all the best.
I got sucked into a discussion of relationships and dating with a couple of nearby females, with occasional input from our male server. I found myself mostly listening, being newly returned to this world, but curious about their recent experiences nonetheless.
One asked why she knew so many smart and amazing women unable to find good guys. That was an answer I was curious to hear, but no one seemed to have one. I've been gone a while, but maybe there are just too many single women?
I didn't need dessert, but since I was raised in a family where dessert was a nightly occurrence, I feel safe in saying it's just a genetic pre-disposition that makes me order it when I'm full, which I was. And that was even after the preserves with the cheese had sated my sweet tooth. No two ways about it, I am weak.
Well warmed by then, I decided to get the olive oil gelato with rosemary sorbet to finish things off. The mouthfeel of the gelato was just this side of obscene with its rich, dense flavor and texture. Don't judge; I was just following a Mediterranean diet rich in olive oil's heart- healthy fat. Yea, right.
After all, I wouldn't want to offer up anything but a healthy heart...assuming there are some spare men out there looking for one.
Tonight the Virginia Center for Architecture was hosting a holiday open house, significant because the second floor of the Branch House (where the VCA is housed) was going to be open to the public. And this public wanted a room (or ten) with a view.
Now I've been to the VCA many times and I've even taken the tour of the Branch House, but I'd never seen anything but the main floor where the exhibitions are held. I was chomping at the bit to see what was behind the curtain.
Like so many Richmonders, I find the Branch House fascinating. The concept of building a 63-room house with eleven levels for living in for only four months of the year (simply for the social season, darling, September through January) speaks to a level of wealth beyond my comprehension.
The Branches had an extensive collection of Italian tapestries and antiques (no doubt from living in their Florence house) and the individual rooms were designed to accommodate specific collections. At least that's how they justified it.
I loved the warmth of the wood-paneled music room, which was also used as a gentlemen's smoking parlor. At the time, it was hung with wall tapestries to hide the liquor cabinets built into the walls (it being Prohibition and all), despite the plethora of speakeasies on Monument Avenue (who knew?).
A photograph in the room showed a harp situated in a corner near the window, ready for musical evenings with the leaded windows open. How very civilized.
Mrs. Branch's bedroom was enormous with extensive decorative motifs in cream and blue; it held Addams period antiques. There were no closets in her room because they were on the third floor (taking up nearly a third of that floor, so she must have been quite the snappy dresser), but there was a butler's pantry just next door for the preparation of Mrs. B's breakfast.
Also up there were the servants' quarters as well as the rooms for the grandchildren (why see them or hear them if you don't have to?).
Our guide mentioned that Mrs. B never laid eyes on any of this because she never went higher than the second floor (no need to clearly), which says volumes.
I was beyond surprised to be shown the outlet for the central vacuum cleaning system, a feature I would not have guessed would have been in existence in 1919. With enough money ($160,000 in 1916 dollars) though, I suppose anything was possible.
Probably the most striking feature of the second floor was the living room ceiling, made from a combination of molds, carvings and stencils, white and vaulted.
It was a study in contrasts, however, with the molds chosen from a sample book but the artisans brought over from Europe to do the intricate work.
Upon walking upstairs, I had been joined by another would-be snoop who, much like me, said his primary purpose in coming out tonight had been to see the elusive second floor.
We were partners in crime, opening doors (many with large brass rings rather than doorknobs) and cabinets to satisfy our curiosity together. It was illuminating hearing the guide's information and it was just as cool to check out all the unexplained stuff on our stealth tour.
The reception downstairs had live music, food, drink and socializing, but after the high of playing sleuth in an historic house, not much could compare, so I enjoyed some time in the museum shop and then headed out.
Now that the safety/beautification project has been completed at Shepherd and Cary, I ventured back to Secco for dinner. As usual, it was mobbed, but with just one empty bar stool mid-bar, I was all set.
The sudden shift to December weather made red wine a requirement so I put myself in mind of the south of Spain with the 2009 Verasol Monastrell (also with Cabernet and Syrah) and was not disappointed.
My frozen bones must have been evident on arrival because my server (new Dad Lincoln) asked if my hands were cold and when I nodded yes, returned with a glass of hot water "Don't drink it. wrap your hands around it," he instructed. It's the little things.
Wanting to extend the warmth even further, I ordered a bowl of the ribollita with cranberry beans and farro.
It was a hearty Tuscan vegetable soup and, as owner Julia pointed out, dangerously close to vegan if not for the abundance of grated Parmesan on top of all that beautiful kale. A big hunk of soaked bread awaited me at the bottom of the bowl; now I was warm.
My second course was dealer's choice meat and cheese: Langa la tur (Italian sheep, goat and cow milk cheese), Sottoconcre (Italian semi-soft with ash-dusted rind) and Jamon Iberico (that tastiest of Spanish acorn-fed ham). Dealer's choice works for me because otherwise, I'll just ask for the stinkiest cheese on the list and never try anything subtle. Force it on me and I'll love it.
It was during this course that I started chatting up my neighbor, a woman who had recently closed her retail shop to go back into the corporate world. When asked if she read, she shook her head no. "But 2011 is the year I get my life back," she proclaimed, raising a glass.
Given that she said the only thing she's had time to do for the past few years was watch "Glee" and sleep, I'd say she was overdue for a change. I don't recall the last time someone told me that becoming a corporate drone was their goal, but I sincerely wished her all the best.
I got sucked into a discussion of relationships and dating with a couple of nearby females, with occasional input from our male server. I found myself mostly listening, being newly returned to this world, but curious about their recent experiences nonetheless.
One asked why she knew so many smart and amazing women unable to find good guys. That was an answer I was curious to hear, but no one seemed to have one. I've been gone a while, but maybe there are just too many single women?
I didn't need dessert, but since I was raised in a family where dessert was a nightly occurrence, I feel safe in saying it's just a genetic pre-disposition that makes me order it when I'm full, which I was. And that was even after the preserves with the cheese had sated my sweet tooth. No two ways about it, I am weak.
Well warmed by then, I decided to get the olive oil gelato with rosemary sorbet to finish things off. The mouthfeel of the gelato was just this side of obscene with its rich, dense flavor and texture. Don't judge; I was just following a Mediterranean diet rich in olive oil's heart- healthy fat. Yea, right.
After all, I wouldn't want to offer up anything but a healthy heart...assuming there are some spare men out there looking for one.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Mais C'est la Vie pour Maintenant
I would have thoroughly enjoyed the James River Film Society's French Film for Lunch series today even if a handsome Frenchman hadn't come up and introduced himself. But it was certainly a lovely addition to my noontime adventure.
Today's screening was the last week of the series and it was a double feature: Jean Vigo's Zero for Conduct (1933) and Jean Renoir's A Day in the Country (1936). As mentioned in the pre-screening lecture, both films were notable as much for their superb cinematographers as for their seminal French directors.
And for true film buffs, there was the pleasure of both being shown on 16 mm celluloid, so the satisfying clacking of the projector was always there, just under the dialog and music, reminding us that this is the film experience as it was intended to be.
Zero for Conduct was notable for having spawned any number of schoolkids-gone-crazy movies that have followed, including Rock and Roll High School and Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Pillow fights, anarchy in the classroom and rebellion at recess were all the set-ups for the final scene where the kids disrupt Alumni Day. Kids and chaos, always a crowd-pleaser.
Easily one of the most beautiful black and white films I've ever laid eyes on, A Day in the Country, based on the experiences of the Impressionists was a sweet little story of Parisians escaping the city for a day of "wildness," like rowing, swinging and a picnic lunch of fresh fried fish and Bordeaux.
Frankly, it still sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon. And maybe it's just me, but being romanced on the banks of the Seine on a sultry summer day will probably always have its appeal.
When I went to leave the library auditorium afterwards, a charming member of the audience walked up to me and asked, "Parlez-vous Francaise?" Surprised, I told him no with my best all-American smile.
Seems he recognized me from other screenings and presumed I was French speaking; surely I disappointed him by admitting that I was merely a film lover, although he didn't show it. He asked if I was a regular at the French Film Festival, which of course I am, and told me that for him, "It's cheaper than a trip back home."
The French Film Festival will undoubtedly take on a whole new level of enjoyment this time for having a Frenchman with whom to watch and discuss the films.
I may even brush up a little on my French before February. It's been a while, but it couldn't hurt, now could it?
Today's screening was the last week of the series and it was a double feature: Jean Vigo's Zero for Conduct (1933) and Jean Renoir's A Day in the Country (1936). As mentioned in the pre-screening lecture, both films were notable as much for their superb cinematographers as for their seminal French directors.
And for true film buffs, there was the pleasure of both being shown on 16 mm celluloid, so the satisfying clacking of the projector was always there, just under the dialog and music, reminding us that this is the film experience as it was intended to be.
Zero for Conduct was notable for having spawned any number of schoolkids-gone-crazy movies that have followed, including Rock and Roll High School and Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Pillow fights, anarchy in the classroom and rebellion at recess were all the set-ups for the final scene where the kids disrupt Alumni Day. Kids and chaos, always a crowd-pleaser.
Easily one of the most beautiful black and white films I've ever laid eyes on, A Day in the Country, based on the experiences of the Impressionists was a sweet little story of Parisians escaping the city for a day of "wildness," like rowing, swinging and a picnic lunch of fresh fried fish and Bordeaux.
Frankly, it still sounds like a great way to spend an afternoon. And maybe it's just me, but being romanced on the banks of the Seine on a sultry summer day will probably always have its appeal.
When I went to leave the library auditorium afterwards, a charming member of the audience walked up to me and asked, "Parlez-vous Francaise?" Surprised, I told him no with my best all-American smile.
Seems he recognized me from other screenings and presumed I was French speaking; surely I disappointed him by admitting that I was merely a film lover, although he didn't show it. He asked if I was a regular at the French Film Festival, which of course I am, and told me that for him, "It's cheaper than a trip back home."
The French Film Festival will undoubtedly take on a whole new level of enjoyment this time for having a Frenchman with whom to watch and discuss the films.
I may even brush up a little on my French before February. It's been a while, but it couldn't hurt, now could it?
Cheer Up, Emo Kid
Despite the sheer number of music shows I go to, it took putting myself out there on Facebook to end up sharing music with a long-time friend of eight-plus years. Now we're both wondering why we waited so long.
It began simply enough; I had two tickets for Dashboard Confessional at the National tonight and there was only one of me. So I threw it out to my limited (by choice) FB friends, asking if anyone wanted to get emo with me tonight. Jokes shortly abounded.
And, lo and behold, one of my favorite (and usually busiest) friends took no time jumping on it. After years of talking music, swapping music and even him making mixtapes for me, we were finally going to experience a band we both really liked together. Tonight even.
His schedule prevented him from seeing all three openers, which was too bad for him because all three played strong sets.
DC's guitarist John Lefler did a terrific set of power pop and dedicated one song to his dad, a scientist who'd tried hard, but had ended up raising three musician sons anyway. He also kindly invited those interested to join him in the jacuzzi upstairs (many of us would have taken him up on it had he been serious) .
Cory Branan was next and his whisky-soaked voice, often off- mic, complemented his violent guitar playing. He explained one song about his longest relationship as "the one with alcohol, and not this piss-colored shit, either," holding up a beer. I can't imagine how his guitar holds up to the way he beats it, but it all worked.
Next up, Philly's Good Old War played the prettiest Americana/folk I could have hoped to hear on this freezing night (even utilizing my beloved twelve-string guitar). Each song featured the kind of three-part harmonies and emotive songwriting that had me convinced two songs in that I needed their CD to go home with me.
For the achingly beautiful "My Own Sinking Ship," the audience was instructed to find someone and slow dance to the upcoming love song, "with accordion." My friend still not yet arrived, I was hesitant to grab a stranger, but the song definitely called out for some major body contact.
From "That's Some Dream": I know everyone would want me to say that I'm not afraid to be alone. I'm gonna live, I'm alright. I'm gonna die, it's alright. I'm okay."
And not long after my friend arrived, giddy and with camera in hand (he's a talented photographer), as eager for an evening of shared emo as I was. And then a solo Chris Carrabba took the stage and that glorious pained voice came out.
From the opening notes of "Screaming Infidelities," we were singing along ("Your hair, it's everywhere"), friend and I, and most of the rest of the crowd. Ten years in, Carrabba has a huge stage presence, his confidence exuding from every pore. The rawness of youth has given way to the passion of adulthood and it's just as impressive, if not more so.
My friend took pictures, showing some to me as he did so and at other times, too lost in singing along to be bothered shooting. He seemed amazed every time he realized that he recognized yet another song, or instinctively began singing along.
Clearly he isn't getting out to enough shows. Clearly we need to share more live music. But for tonight, we got to enjoy the best possible experience, making a superb show somehow even better for the stellar company.
Since we weren't ready to let it go, we ended up at that bordello of a diner, Third Street, for burgers, fries and onion rings. It gave us a chance to really talk, look at photographs, dissect Twitter and discuss the slow death of cultural literacy (Wooster sauce? Heaven help us all).
If I thought it would always work out so satisfyingly, I'd start throwing out my social calendar to the winds of Facebook every single night.
Time to stop waiting so long for everything.
It began simply enough; I had two tickets for Dashboard Confessional at the National tonight and there was only one of me. So I threw it out to my limited (by choice) FB friends, asking if anyone wanted to get emo with me tonight. Jokes shortly abounded.
And, lo and behold, one of my favorite (and usually busiest) friends took no time jumping on it. After years of talking music, swapping music and even him making mixtapes for me, we were finally going to experience a band we both really liked together. Tonight even.
His schedule prevented him from seeing all three openers, which was too bad for him because all three played strong sets.
DC's guitarist John Lefler did a terrific set of power pop and dedicated one song to his dad, a scientist who'd tried hard, but had ended up raising three musician sons anyway. He also kindly invited those interested to join him in the jacuzzi upstairs (many of us would have taken him up on it had he been serious) .
Cory Branan was next and his whisky-soaked voice, often off- mic, complemented his violent guitar playing. He explained one song about his longest relationship as "the one with alcohol, and not this piss-colored shit, either," holding up a beer. I can't imagine how his guitar holds up to the way he beats it, but it all worked.
Next up, Philly's Good Old War played the prettiest Americana/folk I could have hoped to hear on this freezing night (even utilizing my beloved twelve-string guitar). Each song featured the kind of three-part harmonies and emotive songwriting that had me convinced two songs in that I needed their CD to go home with me.
For the achingly beautiful "My Own Sinking Ship," the audience was instructed to find someone and slow dance to the upcoming love song, "with accordion." My friend still not yet arrived, I was hesitant to grab a stranger, but the song definitely called out for some major body contact.
From "That's Some Dream": I know everyone would want me to say that I'm not afraid to be alone. I'm gonna live, I'm alright. I'm gonna die, it's alright. I'm okay."
And not long after my friend arrived, giddy and with camera in hand (he's a talented photographer), as eager for an evening of shared emo as I was. And then a solo Chris Carrabba took the stage and that glorious pained voice came out.
From the opening notes of "Screaming Infidelities," we were singing along ("Your hair, it's everywhere"), friend and I, and most of the rest of the crowd. Ten years in, Carrabba has a huge stage presence, his confidence exuding from every pore. The rawness of youth has given way to the passion of adulthood and it's just as impressive, if not more so.
My friend took pictures, showing some to me as he did so and at other times, too lost in singing along to be bothered shooting. He seemed amazed every time he realized that he recognized yet another song, or instinctively began singing along.
Clearly he isn't getting out to enough shows. Clearly we need to share more live music. But for tonight, we got to enjoy the best possible experience, making a superb show somehow even better for the stellar company.
Since we weren't ready to let it go, we ended up at that bordello of a diner, Third Street, for burgers, fries and onion rings. It gave us a chance to really talk, look at photographs, dissect Twitter and discuss the slow death of cultural literacy (Wooster sauce? Heaven help us all).
If I thought it would always work out so satisfyingly, I'd start throwing out my social calendar to the winds of Facebook every single night.
Time to stop waiting so long for everything.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Yes, I Do Windows
There are art nerds and then there are hopeless art nerds and my photographer friend and I definitely qualify as the latter.
After we finished seeing the Tiffany exhibit at the VMFA back in June here, we (like probably a bazillion other visitors to that show) picked up a sheet mentioning that Virginia was full of Tiffany windows available for public viewing.
But unlike those who tossed that sheet or forgot all about it, we were determined to start the process of seeing them all, beginning with Blandford Church in Petersburg.
So on this beautiful rain-washed and windswept day, we took a leisurely drive down Route 1 past the trailer parks and tiendas to see what Tiffany had wrought in the name of Civil War memorial windows.
Our intention had been to eat at the Dixie Diner, but once again they were closed ("You just never know when they're going to be open," we were told), so we headed to nearby Longstreet's Deli and a sunny window table.
Today's special was a half club sandwich, cup of soup (Italian wedding, chicken/sausage gumbo or French onion) and fripps ("They're our house-made fried potato chips, but they're addicting," our server warned us).
And although I enjoy a good club sandwich, I rarely order one because it ends up being too much.
So a half sounded great (as did cheese-covered soup since the temperature had dropped 17 degrees since I'd walked this morning).
And, for the record, the thick sliced fripps were delicious, with far more potato taste than a typical house made chip
We ate and watched the clouds tearing across the sky as if they had somewhere to be, like Nebraska.
It was almost like an artsy time-lapse shot in a movie to indicate the passage of time, except that not much time was passing.
Arriving at Blandford, we were met by the Ladies Memorial Association decorating committee, two welcoming women working on the Visitors' Center Christmas tree.
When they learned that we were there because of the VMFA exhibit, we became the star visitors.
Apparently they had hoped to get a lot of residual guests as a result of the VMFA show but that hasn't really been the case.
Pity, really, because Blandford's windows made for as soul-satisfying an afternoon as did the museum show, with the bonus of being in a 1735 church with a glorious wooden vaulted ceiling.
Our tour guide, a charming women who's been doing it for five years and willingly gave her age as 76, provided more than facts and encouraged the closest possible viewing points so as not to miss a nuance of the works of art.
When the Ladies' Memorial Association began the project to restore the abandoned church as a memorial chapel in 1901, they conceived a plan where each of the Confederate States would provide funds for a window in memory of that state's Confederate dead.
For each window of the planned size for the chapel, Tiffany was charging $1800 at the time.
For this project, he dropped his price to $300 per window with a $35 packing/shipping/installation fee. It boggles the mind today.
Additionally, the faces, hands and feet of the saints depicted in each of the windows were hand-painted by artisans for the most realistic detail possible. In many cases, tiny painted rounds of glass were added at the last moment to add a three-dimensional element to the image.
We were astounded to learn that these magnificent windows had gone uncovered until the 1980s when Plexiglas was put on the outside of them.
Seventy years of Tiffany masterpieces undisturbed, not stolen, not shot out, with no rocks thrown through. Surely that's some sort of cosmic gift.
Up close with today's brilliant sunshine streaming through Tiffany's Opaline and gem-like colored-windows was even better than the VMFA exhibit in some ways.
The proximity, the natural light and the cohesiveness of the windows' themes were breath-taking.
The only state that hadn't managed to raise funds for a window was Kentucky, so Tiffany had created a small window with a cross on it in honor of the state's dead and charged the ladies only $100 for it.
Neutral states Maryland and Arkansas had smaller windows as well.
Walking out through first the Colonial cemetery and then the Civil War cemetery was like being in a rolling sea of gravestones.
After the war, when the Union made no provision to bury the Confederate dead, the L.M.A. spent twenty years burying 30,000 men's bodies in the hilly back of the church.
We were both surprised to learn that although Blandford is no longer an active parish, you can still be married there and buried in the cemetery ("You can end it either way here," one of us quipped).
Driving back out, I asked my friend if he wanted to be buried because I know I intend to be cremated.
"And scattered where?" he asked.
I think I'll leave that to the scatterer, presuming that he'll know me well enough to know my mind.
After we finished seeing the Tiffany exhibit at the VMFA back in June here, we (like probably a bazillion other visitors to that show) picked up a sheet mentioning that Virginia was full of Tiffany windows available for public viewing.
But unlike those who tossed that sheet or forgot all about it, we were determined to start the process of seeing them all, beginning with Blandford Church in Petersburg.
So on this beautiful rain-washed and windswept day, we took a leisurely drive down Route 1 past the trailer parks and tiendas to see what Tiffany had wrought in the name of Civil War memorial windows.
Our intention had been to eat at the Dixie Diner, but once again they were closed ("You just never know when they're going to be open," we were told), so we headed to nearby Longstreet's Deli and a sunny window table.
Today's special was a half club sandwich, cup of soup (Italian wedding, chicken/sausage gumbo or French onion) and fripps ("They're our house-made fried potato chips, but they're addicting," our server warned us).
And although I enjoy a good club sandwich, I rarely order one because it ends up being too much.
So a half sounded great (as did cheese-covered soup since the temperature had dropped 17 degrees since I'd walked this morning).
And, for the record, the thick sliced fripps were delicious, with far more potato taste than a typical house made chip
We ate and watched the clouds tearing across the sky as if they had somewhere to be, like Nebraska.
It was almost like an artsy time-lapse shot in a movie to indicate the passage of time, except that not much time was passing.
Arriving at Blandford, we were met by the Ladies Memorial Association decorating committee, two welcoming women working on the Visitors' Center Christmas tree.
When they learned that we were there because of the VMFA exhibit, we became the star visitors.
Apparently they had hoped to get a lot of residual guests as a result of the VMFA show but that hasn't really been the case.
Pity, really, because Blandford's windows made for as soul-satisfying an afternoon as did the museum show, with the bonus of being in a 1735 church with a glorious wooden vaulted ceiling.
Our tour guide, a charming women who's been doing it for five years and willingly gave her age as 76, provided more than facts and encouraged the closest possible viewing points so as not to miss a nuance of the works of art.
When the Ladies' Memorial Association began the project to restore the abandoned church as a memorial chapel in 1901, they conceived a plan where each of the Confederate States would provide funds for a window in memory of that state's Confederate dead.
For each window of the planned size for the chapel, Tiffany was charging $1800 at the time.
For this project, he dropped his price to $300 per window with a $35 packing/shipping/installation fee. It boggles the mind today.
Additionally, the faces, hands and feet of the saints depicted in each of the windows were hand-painted by artisans for the most realistic detail possible. In many cases, tiny painted rounds of glass were added at the last moment to add a three-dimensional element to the image.
We were astounded to learn that these magnificent windows had gone uncovered until the 1980s when Plexiglas was put on the outside of them.
Seventy years of Tiffany masterpieces undisturbed, not stolen, not shot out, with no rocks thrown through. Surely that's some sort of cosmic gift.
Up close with today's brilliant sunshine streaming through Tiffany's Opaline and gem-like colored-windows was even better than the VMFA exhibit in some ways.
The proximity, the natural light and the cohesiveness of the windows' themes were breath-taking.
The only state that hadn't managed to raise funds for a window was Kentucky, so Tiffany had created a small window with a cross on it in honor of the state's dead and charged the ladies only $100 for it.
Neutral states Maryland and Arkansas had smaller windows as well.
Walking out through first the Colonial cemetery and then the Civil War cemetery was like being in a rolling sea of gravestones.
After the war, when the Union made no provision to bury the Confederate dead, the L.M.A. spent twenty years burying 30,000 men's bodies in the hilly back of the church.
We were both surprised to learn that although Blandford is no longer an active parish, you can still be married there and buried in the cemetery ("You can end it either way here," one of us quipped).
Driving back out, I asked my friend if he wanted to be buried because I know I intend to be cremated.
"And scattered where?" he asked.
I think I'll leave that to the scatterer, presuming that he'll know me well enough to know my mind.
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