What I don't know if my friends even realize is that it's not the gifts they give that I truly appreciate (although of course I do), it's what their gifts say to me about how they see me that is my favorite part.
A friend gave me two tickets to any production at Barksdale. Upon seeing the two, I made a joke about such optimism (like I'm going to be able to scare up a date for the theater?). "Well, you'd be just as happy seeing two plays by yourself anyway," she said. "So shut up." Nothing I can say to that argument.
From a long-time friend I got a gift certificate to Chop Suey. Since you get to choose the paperback cover that the gift certificate comes on, she'd specifically chosen Dickens' Hard Times, knowing I'd get a kick out of the reference.
After all the conversations we've had about my hard times of the past two years, it felt like an inside joke. Besides, she assured me that 2011 will be much better for me and I believe her. They don't call me Pollyanna for nothing.
As much as I love collecting local art, I couldn't have been more thrilled to receive a piece by a a little known Richmond calligrapher from a friend. I told him that for me, the true pleasure comes with deciding where to hang it. Maybe near the Adam Juresko? Or over the Chris Milk Hulbert? This may take an enjoyable while, deciding where its place of honor will be.
Then there was one of my favorite musicians and conversationalists, who gave me a digital holiday present, an end-of-the-year mix featuring some of his favorite music of 2010 and a brand new song of his. I wasn't surprised at Spoon or The Books (he knows I will always give him crap for going to see The Books without me), but Benoit Pioulard and Marni Stern? Be still my musical heart.
One of my very favorite people in the entire world gave me a book called Bad Girls: The Most Powerful, Shocking, Amazing, Thrilling and Dangerous Women of All Time. As a huge fan of non-fiction, I know it'll be right up my alley. Even better was the inscription:
To my favorite "bad girl" - Keep up the good work! Love you with all my heart!
That's the kind of Christmas gift that makes a girl feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even a bad girl.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Knotty, Not Nice
It must be Christmas Eve because I spent the whole day baking and cooking. The only other day that even comes close in terms of that kind of labor for me is Thanksgiving, but even then there's no baking involved.
And there wouldn't have been baking involved today if I hadn't been so incredibly busy this week, which necessitated me putting it off again and again.
But three kinds of cookies got baked today, so it all worked out fine (except when I had to reach an upper cabinet and grabbed a stool to do so only to crack my head on the open cabinet door on my way up; the knot on my head has been throbbing ever since).
I only mention this because between the cooking and baking, once I got back from my walk, there was no leaving the house until after dinner. Way too much to do before my five guests arrived.
But arrive they did and seemed to enjoy all the food I'd made for our dinner, the preparation of which had consumed my day. I was just glad I don't have to do all this again until next November.
Post-dinner we met friends at the Byrd Theater for their annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life" and a singalong with Bob Gulledge on the Mighty Wurlitzer. I don't want to upset anyone who wasn't there, but you missed the canine chorus to "Jingle Bells," a new addition to Bob's repertoire.
One of my friends who saw the movie for the first time only last year, asked me if I still enjoy it after seeing it every Christmas Eve for the past fifteen years. And I do.
I will always enjoy Jimmy Stewart's superb performance. As I've mentioned here before many times, I'm a huge fan of period details and this film spans 1919 to 1945, so it's full of them. High school students wear tuxes to their graduation party, Italians are referred to as "garlic eaters." and toll collectors wear change holders on their belt, much the way ice cream men once did. It's like a cultural history lesson.
Honestly, I doubt I could ever tire of the sweet story of how one person's life affects so many others. Despite not feeling connected in ways that wish I were now, I know better than to think that everyone would have been better off if I'd never been born.
Based on what I've been told, I know a few people who would have lost their best audience with my absence (entertain me and I can really laugh).
And if nothing else, I hope somebody would have missed my winning smile, can-do attitude and cute tights. Maybe the tights manufacturers?
And there wouldn't have been baking involved today if I hadn't been so incredibly busy this week, which necessitated me putting it off again and again.
But three kinds of cookies got baked today, so it all worked out fine (except when I had to reach an upper cabinet and grabbed a stool to do so only to crack my head on the open cabinet door on my way up; the knot on my head has been throbbing ever since).
I only mention this because between the cooking and baking, once I got back from my walk, there was no leaving the house until after dinner. Way too much to do before my five guests arrived.
But arrive they did and seemed to enjoy all the food I'd made for our dinner, the preparation of which had consumed my day. I was just glad I don't have to do all this again until next November.
Post-dinner we met friends at the Byrd Theater for their annual screening of "It's a Wonderful Life" and a singalong with Bob Gulledge on the Mighty Wurlitzer. I don't want to upset anyone who wasn't there, but you missed the canine chorus to "Jingle Bells," a new addition to Bob's repertoire.
One of my friends who saw the movie for the first time only last year, asked me if I still enjoy it after seeing it every Christmas Eve for the past fifteen years. And I do.
I will always enjoy Jimmy Stewart's superb performance. As I've mentioned here before many times, I'm a huge fan of period details and this film spans 1919 to 1945, so it's full of them. High school students wear tuxes to their graduation party, Italians are referred to as "garlic eaters." and toll collectors wear change holders on their belt, much the way ice cream men once did. It's like a cultural history lesson.
Honestly, I doubt I could ever tire of the sweet story of how one person's life affects so many others. Despite not feeling connected in ways that wish I were now, I know better than to think that everyone would have been better off if I'd never been born.
Based on what I've been told, I know a few people who would have lost their best audience with my absence (entertain me and I can really laugh).
And if nothing else, I hope somebody would have missed my winning smile, can-do attitude and cute tights. Maybe the tights manufacturers?
Christmas Eve Walk on Grace Street
Hard to know what to expect on Grace Street on a day like Christmas Eve.
The only thing I had going for me was that I hadn't gotten up until 11, so I wasn't walking until noonish, so I figured at least a few people would be out and about. Had I walked in the morning, I wouldn't have been so sure that that would have been the case.
And I would have been mistaken, at least at Sally Belle's Kitchen. The sign on the door said, "Open at 11. Numbers handed out prior." Good god, you need numbers to get your Sally Lunn bread and cheese wafers? Who knew?
Well, apparently everyone but me, or at least the long-time Richmonders knew. The place was abuzz with activity as I approached it. People were going in the door empty-handed and harried-looking as fast as others were coming out of the other door, arms laden with white boxes and bags.
I stopped and played doorman for a minute, partly to be helpful and partly to be nosey (imagine!). Everyone was friendly, many of them gratefully wishing me a Merry Christmas and everyone I asked was willing to tell me what they'd come in for.
Lemon chess pie was high on the list. Sally Belle's iconic potato salad got mentioned a lot. The pecan pie was popular. That Sally Lunn bread (which I don't even care for) and those cheese wafers, too. All the things that have made RVA Chrsitmas dinners what they are for decades.
A woman waiting at the bus stop wished me a Merry Christmas and asked if we were going to get the big snow she'd heard about (you know, because I look like a meteorologist). She was excited at the prospect, saying she couldn't remember a white Christmas in her lifetime.
Up near Meadow, a guy wished me a M.C. and asked if I'd been naughty or nice. Not sure where he might want to take that conversation, I just laughed and said that was someone else's decision to make. He chuckled and wished me luck with that.
Nobody was politically correct abut saying "Happy holidays" instead of M.C. until I was a block from home. A smiling man missing his two front teeth approached me and did a sweeping bow, saying "Happy holidays, miss!"
"Same to you," I said. He did a little dance step and looked at me saying, "I got the Christmas SPIRIT!"
That or some mid-morning nog.
The only thing I had going for me was that I hadn't gotten up until 11, so I wasn't walking until noonish, so I figured at least a few people would be out and about. Had I walked in the morning, I wouldn't have been so sure that that would have been the case.
And I would have been mistaken, at least at Sally Belle's Kitchen. The sign on the door said, "Open at 11. Numbers handed out prior." Good god, you need numbers to get your Sally Lunn bread and cheese wafers? Who knew?
Well, apparently everyone but me, or at least the long-time Richmonders knew. The place was abuzz with activity as I approached it. People were going in the door empty-handed and harried-looking as fast as others were coming out of the other door, arms laden with white boxes and bags.
I stopped and played doorman for a minute, partly to be helpful and partly to be nosey (imagine!). Everyone was friendly, many of them gratefully wishing me a Merry Christmas and everyone I asked was willing to tell me what they'd come in for.
Lemon chess pie was high on the list. Sally Belle's iconic potato salad got mentioned a lot. The pecan pie was popular. That Sally Lunn bread (which I don't even care for) and those cheese wafers, too. All the things that have made RVA Chrsitmas dinners what they are for decades.
A woman waiting at the bus stop wished me a Merry Christmas and asked if we were going to get the big snow she'd heard about (you know, because I look like a meteorologist). She was excited at the prospect, saying she couldn't remember a white Christmas in her lifetime.
Up near Meadow, a guy wished me a M.C. and asked if I'd been naughty or nice. Not sure where he might want to take that conversation, I just laughed and said that was someone else's decision to make. He chuckled and wished me luck with that.
Nobody was politically correct abut saying "Happy holidays" instead of M.C. until I was a block from home. A smiling man missing his two front teeth approached me and did a sweeping bow, saying "Happy holidays, miss!"
"Same to you," I said. He did a little dance step and looked at me saying, "I got the Christmas SPIRIT!"
That or some mid-morning nog.
Absinthe is for Birthdays
I got invited to not one, but two birthday dinner celebrations tonight. I ended up going to not two, but one celebration and enjoying the hell out of it.
Since it was to be a surprise, we were told to report to Julep by 7:15, with the birthday girl to arrive at 7:30. The party was being held at Julep's bar, with master mixologist Bobby providing our every need.
What turned out to be great entertainment was when a customer would come in and approach the bar to order a drink and be informed that the bar was a private party only tonight. People don't like being told they can't hang out at the bar, I noticed.
The birthday girl and her party-planning beau arrived and when she entered the room, she immediately saw me at the center of the bar.
The funny part was that my presence raised no suspicion in her mind. Oh, Karen's here, the boyfriend must have invited her to join us, she later told me she assumed.
It took her a minute to look around and spot all the other people whom she had not expected to see and at that point her face took on a look of complete surprise.
She muttered something to her man (which, considering he had told us all that she might kill him for doing this, we presumed to be his estimated time of death) and then the party began.
For our eating pleasure, there was fried calamari and remoulade, lamb chop lollipops, shrimp and grits and pasta Bolognese. Everyone stood around awkwardly, eager to dive in but not willing to be the first.
With no such compunction, I got things rolling by helping myself to a couple of lamb chops as well as everything else.
I took my plate to a seat at the bar between the handsome baker (who thanked me for referring to him that way in an earlier blog post) and the reserved couple who had hired a babysitter for a rare night out.
Not wanting to appear like the biggest eater in the room, I waited until they went back for a second plate (small plates, that is) to refill mine.
However, I did not wait for them to go back a third time before doing my own plate Part Trois. The lamb chops were out of this world and I sucked many a bone (okay, five) in my enjoyment of them.
The party guests included as many non-American born people as native born, making for multiple accents, perspectives and life experiences.
When my host offered me a taste of his cocktail, I took a sip and then offered it to another guest, a charming man with a smile that could win awards. Handing it to him, I jokingly asked if he was worried about cooties since he would be the third person to put his mouth on it.
"I'm from a third world country," he said. "I'm immune to cooties." Handsome and clever; too bad he was married.
His wife, who was originally from Ohio, and I had a most interesting discussion about how when you move to the south, if you're smart, it also requires learning about the south. Or it does if you want to better understand your new home.
Much the way I go to lectures and make field trips to historic sites, she and her husband make a point to get out and about in the Commonwealth, taking driving tours to battlefields and visiting historic locations, to better understand its history and legacy. I think that makes them good come-heres.
The birthday cake was courtesy of the handsome baker's shop, India Pastry House. This was my third time having baked goodies from his place and it's hard to even describe how wonderfully different they are than typical American baked goods.
Tonight's butterscotch cake had the lightest crumb with a delicate and not overly sweet frosting that was so light and exquisitely flavored that, upon finishing mine, I asked for a second slice.
One guest even had a third. The birthday girl had a slice, then had a plate of pasta and then another slice of cake. Clearly this cake was not easy to walk away from.
Bobby was an integral part of the party, telling stories and ribbing guests ("Way to bring down a party," he told me sarcastically after I shared a death story).
He told his roommate that he was going to give her his cats for Christmas. Apparently she already does a fair amount of their upkeep, so she asked, "How will that change anything?"
"I won't have to love them anymore," Bobby quipped. "Come to think of it, that happened a long time ago." Cat lovers at the party were not amused. I was.
My host insisted I tell the group the gall bladder story, here, which I hadn't realized was a favorite of his. Its charm seems to be in hearing about someone so oblivious so late in life.
And speaking of oblivious, absinthe seems to be on everyone's lips lately. I heard a great absinthe story at lunch Wednesday and it came up last night with my new friend at Secco. Tonight, several people were drinking absinthe cocktails (69%!), so I got to taste a few.
Mixed properly and exactly, as Bobby's drinks were, the seductive taste of absinthe conjured up stories of absinthe bars in Paris, hallucinogenic nights lost to it and the risks of overdoing it.
I shared the story I'd heard the other day, which ends with an absinthe-drunk woman bleeding, laughing and needing four stitches.
It wasn't that I didn't want to make it to the second party. I was just having too much fun to notice that it was time to go.
Since it was to be a surprise, we were told to report to Julep by 7:15, with the birthday girl to arrive at 7:30. The party was being held at Julep's bar, with master mixologist Bobby providing our every need.
What turned out to be great entertainment was when a customer would come in and approach the bar to order a drink and be informed that the bar was a private party only tonight. People don't like being told they can't hang out at the bar, I noticed.
The birthday girl and her party-planning beau arrived and when she entered the room, she immediately saw me at the center of the bar.
The funny part was that my presence raised no suspicion in her mind. Oh, Karen's here, the boyfriend must have invited her to join us, she later told me she assumed.
It took her a minute to look around and spot all the other people whom she had not expected to see and at that point her face took on a look of complete surprise.
She muttered something to her man (which, considering he had told us all that she might kill him for doing this, we presumed to be his estimated time of death) and then the party began.
For our eating pleasure, there was fried calamari and remoulade, lamb chop lollipops, shrimp and grits and pasta Bolognese. Everyone stood around awkwardly, eager to dive in but not willing to be the first.
With no such compunction, I got things rolling by helping myself to a couple of lamb chops as well as everything else.
I took my plate to a seat at the bar between the handsome baker (who thanked me for referring to him that way in an earlier blog post) and the reserved couple who had hired a babysitter for a rare night out.
Not wanting to appear like the biggest eater in the room, I waited until they went back for a second plate (small plates, that is) to refill mine.
However, I did not wait for them to go back a third time before doing my own plate Part Trois. The lamb chops were out of this world and I sucked many a bone (okay, five) in my enjoyment of them.
The party guests included as many non-American born people as native born, making for multiple accents, perspectives and life experiences.
When my host offered me a taste of his cocktail, I took a sip and then offered it to another guest, a charming man with a smile that could win awards. Handing it to him, I jokingly asked if he was worried about cooties since he would be the third person to put his mouth on it.
"I'm from a third world country," he said. "I'm immune to cooties." Handsome and clever; too bad he was married.
His wife, who was originally from Ohio, and I had a most interesting discussion about how when you move to the south, if you're smart, it also requires learning about the south. Or it does if you want to better understand your new home.
Much the way I go to lectures and make field trips to historic sites, she and her husband make a point to get out and about in the Commonwealth, taking driving tours to battlefields and visiting historic locations, to better understand its history and legacy. I think that makes them good come-heres.
The birthday cake was courtesy of the handsome baker's shop, India Pastry House. This was my third time having baked goodies from his place and it's hard to even describe how wonderfully different they are than typical American baked goods.
Tonight's butterscotch cake had the lightest crumb with a delicate and not overly sweet frosting that was so light and exquisitely flavored that, upon finishing mine, I asked for a second slice.
One guest even had a third. The birthday girl had a slice, then had a plate of pasta and then another slice of cake. Clearly this cake was not easy to walk away from.
Bobby was an integral part of the party, telling stories and ribbing guests ("Way to bring down a party," he told me sarcastically after I shared a death story).
He told his roommate that he was going to give her his cats for Christmas. Apparently she already does a fair amount of their upkeep, so she asked, "How will that change anything?"
"I won't have to love them anymore," Bobby quipped. "Come to think of it, that happened a long time ago." Cat lovers at the party were not amused. I was.
My host insisted I tell the group the gall bladder story, here, which I hadn't realized was a favorite of his. Its charm seems to be in hearing about someone so oblivious so late in life.
And speaking of oblivious, absinthe seems to be on everyone's lips lately. I heard a great absinthe story at lunch Wednesday and it came up last night with my new friend at Secco. Tonight, several people were drinking absinthe cocktails (69%!), so I got to taste a few.
Mixed properly and exactly, as Bobby's drinks were, the seductive taste of absinthe conjured up stories of absinthe bars in Paris, hallucinogenic nights lost to it and the risks of overdoing it.
I shared the story I'd heard the other day, which ends with an absinthe-drunk woman bleeding, laughing and needing four stitches.
It wasn't that I didn't want to make it to the second party. I was just having too much fun to notice that it was time to go.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
There, There, Tell Me All About It
Feeling somewhat better now, thank you.
Despite the wind that was blowing so hard that I actually felt sharp things hitting my face as I walked, I hoofed it over to Garnett's to meet a girlfriend for a catch-up/feel-better session and lunch. The food was negotiable, the talking was not.
We were both surprised at how busy Garnett's was; a table barely emptied before a new party was sitting down at it. When I walked in the counter was full up and five minutes later completely empty. I scored a couple of stools before that changed again.
I won't repeat what I said when my friend came up and asked me how I was, but let's just say we dove right into it. I ordered a Cobb salad, told her what was up in my world (like she didn't already know) and she gave me her take on things.
A server I know came in and sat next to me and we laughed about a mutual friend who has a new girlfriend. He was recently boasting about having finished his Christmas shopping for her.
Turns out he bought the exact same thing for her that he bought for his last two girlfriends: a cardigan, a record and a piece of jewelry. The women can change, but the present list remains carved in stone apparently. Definitely laugh-worthy.
Jenny, my talented baker friend, and her husband came in in between baking jobs and we chatted about the hustle-bustle that's everywhere right now. I could have kissed her when she touched my shoulder and said, "You look so pretty today." Kind words, just what I needed to hear.
Another friend and her wine rep husband were next, taking a respite from having just been over on Midlothian Turnpike, which they described as a zoo. They'd tried Black Sheep (long waiting list), Harrison Street Cafe (already closed for the holidays) and then decided on Garnett's.
Until recently, they lived a few blocks from Garnett's, so it was like coming home for them. I usually only run into them at wine events, so it was an unexpected pleasure to see them and talk today.
I met one of the guys from One Ring Zero, who was down from NYC visiting his sister. I'd heard lots of good thing about him from my girlfriend and he turned out to be a most interesting guy. He had the mistaken notion that I was an acocuntant (!) so I clarified my skill set for him.
My Cobb salad had set a sort of salad trend, with the couple at the end of the bar getting the same and the girl next to me having the spinach salad. She commented that no sandwiches were allowed at the lunch counter today, which I think points to the fact that the salads at Garnett's are as good as the sandwiches. And for that triumph, credit goes to Mac the Magnificent.
And speaking of, I felt a hand running down the back of my jumper and turned to see the great Mac himself, coming by to save the day. As of next week, he'll be back at Garnett's full time, which means we'll have way more time to talk again. I love Mac's laid-back take on life (not to mention his culinary skills) and he's always giving me advice on men. Mostly to avoid them, but still.
Before leaving, my girlfriend did a wrap-up of our discussion (no Power Point, but close), making sure I took into consideration what I was dealing with. Yes, oh wise one, I get it.
Walking home, the sunny sidewalks had been replaced with shady ones, but I actually felt a little better about things. Not to be corny, but it kind of felt like I'd been embraced by caring friends, which I had, both literally and figuratively.
Onward and upward.
Despite the wind that was blowing so hard that I actually felt sharp things hitting my face as I walked, I hoofed it over to Garnett's to meet a girlfriend for a catch-up/feel-better session and lunch. The food was negotiable, the talking was not.
We were both surprised at how busy Garnett's was; a table barely emptied before a new party was sitting down at it. When I walked in the counter was full up and five minutes later completely empty. I scored a couple of stools before that changed again.
I won't repeat what I said when my friend came up and asked me how I was, but let's just say we dove right into it. I ordered a Cobb salad, told her what was up in my world (like she didn't already know) and she gave me her take on things.
A server I know came in and sat next to me and we laughed about a mutual friend who has a new girlfriend. He was recently boasting about having finished his Christmas shopping for her.
Turns out he bought the exact same thing for her that he bought for his last two girlfriends: a cardigan, a record and a piece of jewelry. The women can change, but the present list remains carved in stone apparently. Definitely laugh-worthy.
Jenny, my talented baker friend, and her husband came in in between baking jobs and we chatted about the hustle-bustle that's everywhere right now. I could have kissed her when she touched my shoulder and said, "You look so pretty today." Kind words, just what I needed to hear.
Another friend and her wine rep husband were next, taking a respite from having just been over on Midlothian Turnpike, which they described as a zoo. They'd tried Black Sheep (long waiting list), Harrison Street Cafe (already closed for the holidays) and then decided on Garnett's.
Until recently, they lived a few blocks from Garnett's, so it was like coming home for them. I usually only run into them at wine events, so it was an unexpected pleasure to see them and talk today.
I met one of the guys from One Ring Zero, who was down from NYC visiting his sister. I'd heard lots of good thing about him from my girlfriend and he turned out to be a most interesting guy. He had the mistaken notion that I was an acocuntant (!) so I clarified my skill set for him.
My Cobb salad had set a sort of salad trend, with the couple at the end of the bar getting the same and the girl next to me having the spinach salad. She commented that no sandwiches were allowed at the lunch counter today, which I think points to the fact that the salads at Garnett's are as good as the sandwiches. And for that triumph, credit goes to Mac the Magnificent.
And speaking of, I felt a hand running down the back of my jumper and turned to see the great Mac himself, coming by to save the day. As of next week, he'll be back at Garnett's full time, which means we'll have way more time to talk again. I love Mac's laid-back take on life (not to mention his culinary skills) and he's always giving me advice on men. Mostly to avoid them, but still.
Before leaving, my girlfriend did a wrap-up of our discussion (no Power Point, but close), making sure I took into consideration what I was dealing with. Yes, oh wise one, I get it.
Walking home, the sunny sidewalks had been replaced with shady ones, but I actually felt a little better about things. Not to be corny, but it kind of felt like I'd been embraced by caring friends, which I had, both literally and figuratively.
Onward and upward.
"Let Me Show Off My Stuff"
If ever I needed four glasses of wine plus a generous tasting, it was today/tonight. I was in full surrender mode.
My evening got off to a practical start with some Christmas shopping in Carytown. Packages in hand, I went to Secco, where there was only one bar stool unoccupied.
I asked the guy in the adjacent stool if it was taken and he said that it wasn't; he also initiated a conversation immediately, always a fine start to an evening.
The coincidence was that when he introduced himself, I recognized him; I had done video work for him at Media General maybe three years ago. Once I reminded him, he remembered me (or so he said).
He, too, was no longer in the grip of MG, having moved on from MG. We could compare notes about the oppressive atmosphere of recent years there and revel in being away from the depressing pallor that hangs over that place as it slowly dies.
I looked at the wine list and decided on the 2006 Benotto Monferrato Rosso "Nebieulo," causing him to say, "A woman after my own heart." I took this to mean that he was also a Nebbiolo fan, a fact confirmed by both him and our server. Okay, so he was also a Secco regular. I was learning a lot about him quickly.
After the arduous (and detested) Christmas shopping, all I wanted was food, so I ordered the mixed field greens, Caromont chevre and pistachios with lemon-thyme vinaigrette, to be followed with the oxtail ragu, potato gnocchi and house-preserved lemon, all the while keeping up with the discussion of taking a c0mpany private, the importance of early-morning posting and the pleasures of morning bike rides.
My publishing friend seemed much more personable tonight than I remembered him from staff meetings, but that may have been due to his change in marital status since the last time I spoke with him. Availability does bring out the best in people, no?
My mother would have been appalled, but since he had already eaten, I dug right in to my salad (especially savoring the chevre and pistachios) as I answered questions and posed a few of my own. There was only one question he was unwilling to answer; it was one, he said, he intended to answer the next time I saw him. Well played, I thought.
I was impressed with the oxtail/gnocchi dish (and when was the last time I was lucky enough to have oxtail twice in two days?) for its comfort food feel and pillowy gnocchi.
Meanwhile, the two of us talked about our favorite restaurants, a topic which inevitably leads my conversational partners to observe, "Boy, you do know every place." No, not every place, but certainly most of the city places.
He was surprised with my familiarity with Fredericksburg and Charlottesville restaurants (and it turned out that we'd both gone to shows in C-ville alone recently, whatever that means). Come on, what else do I have to do besides eat?
My new friend showed off his new Mac (he got points for the Hopper screen saver) and I showed him my blog. He disputed my self-described nerd status and noted that he had already observed the quality of my legs when I'd gone to the bathroom. Maybe some things are better in person.
The lovely Sara was kind enough to change the music to my mix (hello Spoon, welcome Interpol); it's always a pleasure for me to hear the music I've chosen.
He countered with insisting I taste his favorite white wine at Secco, the 2007 Cistercens "Coenobium" Vino da Tavolai Bianco, as unusual a white as I've had. A smokey element and layers of complexity made this the best nun-made wine I've tasted in many a moon.
And then back to the Nebbiolo. A DJ friend joined us for a discussion of illiteracy, short attention spans and the future of publishing. He also showed me pictures of his beagle, knowing my affinity for them, and then showed me some amazing photographs from the 19th century.
I tasted the aerated chocolate dessert and, as promised, it was a mouthful of chocolate that disappeared in my mouth. No long-term commitment there.
Right now, momentary pleasure seems good enough. I can't believe I'm writing that. but then I'm not really myself today.
My evening got off to a practical start with some Christmas shopping in Carytown. Packages in hand, I went to Secco, where there was only one bar stool unoccupied.
I asked the guy in the adjacent stool if it was taken and he said that it wasn't; he also initiated a conversation immediately, always a fine start to an evening.
The coincidence was that when he introduced himself, I recognized him; I had done video work for him at Media General maybe three years ago. Once I reminded him, he remembered me (or so he said).
He, too, was no longer in the grip of MG, having moved on from MG. We could compare notes about the oppressive atmosphere of recent years there and revel in being away from the depressing pallor that hangs over that place as it slowly dies.
I looked at the wine list and decided on the 2006 Benotto Monferrato Rosso "Nebieulo," causing him to say, "A woman after my own heart." I took this to mean that he was also a Nebbiolo fan, a fact confirmed by both him and our server. Okay, so he was also a Secco regular. I was learning a lot about him quickly.
After the arduous (and detested) Christmas shopping, all I wanted was food, so I ordered the mixed field greens, Caromont chevre and pistachios with lemon-thyme vinaigrette, to be followed with the oxtail ragu, potato gnocchi and house-preserved lemon, all the while keeping up with the discussion of taking a c0mpany private, the importance of early-morning posting and the pleasures of morning bike rides.
My publishing friend seemed much more personable tonight than I remembered him from staff meetings, but that may have been due to his change in marital status since the last time I spoke with him. Availability does bring out the best in people, no?
My mother would have been appalled, but since he had already eaten, I dug right in to my salad (especially savoring the chevre and pistachios) as I answered questions and posed a few of my own. There was only one question he was unwilling to answer; it was one, he said, he intended to answer the next time I saw him. Well played, I thought.
I was impressed with the oxtail/gnocchi dish (and when was the last time I was lucky enough to have oxtail twice in two days?) for its comfort food feel and pillowy gnocchi.
Meanwhile, the two of us talked about our favorite restaurants, a topic which inevitably leads my conversational partners to observe, "Boy, you do know every place." No, not every place, but certainly most of the city places.
He was surprised with my familiarity with Fredericksburg and Charlottesville restaurants (and it turned out that we'd both gone to shows in C-ville alone recently, whatever that means). Come on, what else do I have to do besides eat?
My new friend showed off his new Mac (he got points for the Hopper screen saver) and I showed him my blog. He disputed my self-described nerd status and noted that he had already observed the quality of my legs when I'd gone to the bathroom. Maybe some things are better in person.
The lovely Sara was kind enough to change the music to my mix (hello Spoon, welcome Interpol); it's always a pleasure for me to hear the music I've chosen.
He countered with insisting I taste his favorite white wine at Secco, the 2007 Cistercens "Coenobium" Vino da Tavolai Bianco, as unusual a white as I've had. A smokey element and layers of complexity made this the best nun-made wine I've tasted in many a moon.
And then back to the Nebbiolo. A DJ friend joined us for a discussion of illiteracy, short attention spans and the future of publishing. He also showed me pictures of his beagle, knowing my affinity for them, and then showed me some amazing photographs from the 19th century.
I tasted the aerated chocolate dessert and, as promised, it was a mouthful of chocolate that disappeared in my mouth. No long-term commitment there.
Right now, momentary pleasure seems good enough. I can't believe I'm writing that. but then I'm not really myself today.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Donate and Get a Free Tattoo
We're inviting you and a few others of the region's most read bloggers to ask for your consultation on an initiative that CultureWorks is launching in January. ~John Bryan
And that's how I ended up at Positive Vibe Cafe for lunch today. I'd met CultureWorks president John Bryan at one of the Gallery 5 after 5 events and thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with him. I knew we were kindred souls at the tarantula lecture when we both wrote down, "Don't eat me. Let's mate" at the same moment.
When I got the invitation, I admit I was curious, too, about what this cultural initiative might be. And I always look forward to meeting new people, so that was appealing. Free lunch didn't hurt either. I RSVP'd at once.
It turned out to be a most satisfying get-together. Lunch was a buffet of fire-roasted tomato bisque and a selection of vegetarian wraps and assorted Christmas cookies. The bisque, covered in grated cheese, had a lovely texture and fresh tomato taste, warming me up in no time (unfortunately, my cold hand had already shaken all the hands in the room).
With no real idea what was inside the selection of wraps, I grabbed the gooiest, cheesiest looking one which turned out to be full of avocado, tomato, pesto mayo and cheese. It was a most excellent choice, despite its contents being a complete surprise.
After lunch and while the cookies were being passed, John began explaining their truly brilliant idea. For a donation of $150 or more to CultureWorks in 2011, the donor will receive a free tattoo. Oh, yes, and a lapel pin, but that's been done before. But a tattoo? That's a hell of a donation souvenir.
Being CultureWorks, they had done their research on tattooing, one of the very oldest art forms, and chosen the oldest possible design they were able to find. It comes from one of the many tattoos discovered on a 60,000-year old body that was unearthed. It's small, a tad bigger than a quarter and simple. But it's a tattoo.
The campaign will kick off with ten well-known but un-inked Richmonders receiving the tattoo. And not just any locals, but hopefully some of the most unlikely people imaginable. Notable, but ink virgins.
And they're taking suggestions from the public about who should be in that top ten. We brainstormed more than a few ideas: suggestions of Mayor Dwight Jones, Pam Reynolds, Trani, and any Ukrop all got enthusiastic support.
Both CultureWorks president John Bryan and board chair Brooks Smith will get the tattoo (both were ink-free today). Bryan said, "And I'm getting it done in a place where people other than my wife can see it." Smith promised the same. Now that's cultural devotion.
The idea is that people will get the tattoos as a way of saying that they're committed to the importance of a vibrant cultural scene in Richmond. Committing to the tattoo is an analogy for committing to RVA's cultural growth. I have to say, I'm terribly impressed with the idea.
As the nation's third most inked city, finding willing donors who want to be inked in the name of culture will certainly be easier than, say, it would be in conservative Washington. I can almost seeing it become a badge of honor amongst the culturally devoted. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Ink for the arts! Richmond just keeps getting better and better.
And that's how I ended up at Positive Vibe Cafe for lunch today. I'd met CultureWorks president John Bryan at one of the Gallery 5 after 5 events and thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with him. I knew we were kindred souls at the tarantula lecture when we both wrote down, "Don't eat me. Let's mate" at the same moment.
When I got the invitation, I admit I was curious, too, about what this cultural initiative might be. And I always look forward to meeting new people, so that was appealing. Free lunch didn't hurt either. I RSVP'd at once.
It turned out to be a most satisfying get-together. Lunch was a buffet of fire-roasted tomato bisque and a selection of vegetarian wraps and assorted Christmas cookies. The bisque, covered in grated cheese, had a lovely texture and fresh tomato taste, warming me up in no time (unfortunately, my cold hand had already shaken all the hands in the room).
With no real idea what was inside the selection of wraps, I grabbed the gooiest, cheesiest looking one which turned out to be full of avocado, tomato, pesto mayo and cheese. It was a most excellent choice, despite its contents being a complete surprise.
After lunch and while the cookies were being passed, John began explaining their truly brilliant idea. For a donation of $150 or more to CultureWorks in 2011, the donor will receive a free tattoo. Oh, yes, and a lapel pin, but that's been done before. But a tattoo? That's a hell of a donation souvenir.
Being CultureWorks, they had done their research on tattooing, one of the very oldest art forms, and chosen the oldest possible design they were able to find. It comes from one of the many tattoos discovered on a 60,000-year old body that was unearthed. It's small, a tad bigger than a quarter and simple. But it's a tattoo.
The campaign will kick off with ten well-known but un-inked Richmonders receiving the tattoo. And not just any locals, but hopefully some of the most unlikely people imaginable. Notable, but ink virgins.
And they're taking suggestions from the public about who should be in that top ten. We brainstormed more than a few ideas: suggestions of Mayor Dwight Jones, Pam Reynolds, Trani, and any Ukrop all got enthusiastic support.
Both CultureWorks president John Bryan and board chair Brooks Smith will get the tattoo (both were ink-free today). Bryan said, "And I'm getting it done in a place where people other than my wife can see it." Smith promised the same. Now that's cultural devotion.
The idea is that people will get the tattoos as a way of saying that they're committed to the importance of a vibrant cultural scene in Richmond. Committing to the tattoo is an analogy for committing to RVA's cultural growth. I have to say, I'm terribly impressed with the idea.
As the nation's third most inked city, finding willing donors who want to be inked in the name of culture will certainly be easier than, say, it would be in conservative Washington. I can almost seeing it become a badge of honor amongst the culturally devoted. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Ink for the arts! Richmond just keeps getting better and better.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Dizzy, but No Sardines
Here's the thing about the holiday season: the music dries up but the food and parties are endless.
Sunday, which wasn't that long ago, was the last time I heard live music, but there's no more on my horizon until at least this coming Sunday. I'll manage, with the help of get-togethers with friends and parties to fill the non-musical time, but I'll miss it. I may even go into withdrawal.
Tonight got started at Six Burner with a long-time friend and wine, plenty of wine. I had loads of news and she had some new developments in her relationship, so we had plenty to catch up on.
As we chatted, the restaurant did the December fill-up, including a couple of guys coming in for the Chef's tasting menu and lots of gift certificates going out the door. Lots.
After the abundant lunch I'd had at Amuse earlier, I had no right to eat again on December 21st, but managed to anyhow. We wanted to order the grilled sardines with gremalato, but they were out of them. Sad faces all around.
Instead we got the pork belly with fresh navy beans and spicy jerk sauce and, once again, the snail risotto with garlic, parsley and Parmesan (we both love that risotto).
As a proud eater, I'm ashamed to say that I could only eat a couple of bites of each before hitting the wall (but not before noticing how perfectly cooked the beans were and how decadent that risotto still is).
I rationalized my inability by thinking that at least I was leaving more for my friend, but I felt like a food failure. The Cotes de Ventoux Grenache/Syrah, however, was going down just fine.
Our server wanted to discuss the new Cinebistro with us despite neither of us having been there (nor had he), but she rarely goes to the movies and I rarely cross the river. He said he especially liked the idea of being able to lounge on a couch. I'm still not going to Stony Point.
We talked about going to big parties where there's such a din that the best you can do is smile when the speaker smiles and raise your eyebrows when they do because you can't hear a thing.
She did this recently at a party and her significant other stood on the other side of the speaker and mouthed the words, "Fuck you" to her in an attempt to inappropriately crack her up.
Or, as The National so eloquently put it (and stole my heart when they did):
I want to hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you
Crack you up
I'm inclined to think that trying to crack someone up makes for true love.
From there, I went to Sprout for a Winter Solstice holiday party, which was in full swing when I arrived. Long tables were covered in Virginia food I wanted to eat but was too full to try. It kind of broke my food-loving heart. Local ham, pumpkin, tofu and a whole lot more were being gobbled up as I went to the bar for a beverage.
Bordeaux in hand, I began making the rounds of the party, always an enjoyable way to meet new people. I met Suzi of Farm to Family, who said they'd sold their last Christmas tree today...to Laurie and Jamie, Sprout's owners. We talked about how intoxicating a fresh tree makes your house smell (I'm loving it every time I come home now).
I met a former Philly girl who had heard I was a writer/blogger and we had a great conversation about the WPA, public fruit trees, Southern food and the pleasures of Richmond.
We were joined by an occasional moonshiner (causing her to say, "I love the South!"), who told us about his 'shine exploits and closet storage of Mason jars.
At one point the volume of the music seemed to drop and I asked a stylish server why. His quick response, "It's just a low rent party. Low rent!" was hilarious and spoke to the fact that when he's not waiting tables, he's an excellent DJ, mainly of 60s and 70s music.
But tonight it was owner Jamie who played DJ and with plenty of volume and vintage cherry-picking of music. He's got such a great record collection and I always end up hearing something I haven't heard in eons ("Dizzy" by Tommy Roe?). I may have been too full for food, but when do I ever get my fill of music?
It may not have been live, but it certainly came close to scratching that itch. The musical itch, not the other one.
Sunday, which wasn't that long ago, was the last time I heard live music, but there's no more on my horizon until at least this coming Sunday. I'll manage, with the help of get-togethers with friends and parties to fill the non-musical time, but I'll miss it. I may even go into withdrawal.
Tonight got started at Six Burner with a long-time friend and wine, plenty of wine. I had loads of news and she had some new developments in her relationship, so we had plenty to catch up on.
As we chatted, the restaurant did the December fill-up, including a couple of guys coming in for the Chef's tasting menu and lots of gift certificates going out the door. Lots.
After the abundant lunch I'd had at Amuse earlier, I had no right to eat again on December 21st, but managed to anyhow. We wanted to order the grilled sardines with gremalato, but they were out of them. Sad faces all around.
Instead we got the pork belly with fresh navy beans and spicy jerk sauce and, once again, the snail risotto with garlic, parsley and Parmesan (we both love that risotto).
As a proud eater, I'm ashamed to say that I could only eat a couple of bites of each before hitting the wall (but not before noticing how perfectly cooked the beans were and how decadent that risotto still is).
I rationalized my inability by thinking that at least I was leaving more for my friend, but I felt like a food failure. The Cotes de Ventoux Grenache/Syrah, however, was going down just fine.
Our server wanted to discuss the new Cinebistro with us despite neither of us having been there (nor had he), but she rarely goes to the movies and I rarely cross the river. He said he especially liked the idea of being able to lounge on a couch. I'm still not going to Stony Point.
We talked about going to big parties where there's such a din that the best you can do is smile when the speaker smiles and raise your eyebrows when they do because you can't hear a thing.
She did this recently at a party and her significant other stood on the other side of the speaker and mouthed the words, "Fuck you" to her in an attempt to inappropriately crack her up.
Or, as The National so eloquently put it (and stole my heart when they did):
I want to hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you
Crack you up
I'm inclined to think that trying to crack someone up makes for true love.
From there, I went to Sprout for a Winter Solstice holiday party, which was in full swing when I arrived. Long tables were covered in Virginia food I wanted to eat but was too full to try. It kind of broke my food-loving heart. Local ham, pumpkin, tofu and a whole lot more were being gobbled up as I went to the bar for a beverage.
Bordeaux in hand, I began making the rounds of the party, always an enjoyable way to meet new people. I met Suzi of Farm to Family, who said they'd sold their last Christmas tree today...to Laurie and Jamie, Sprout's owners. We talked about how intoxicating a fresh tree makes your house smell (I'm loving it every time I come home now).
I met a former Philly girl who had heard I was a writer/blogger and we had a great conversation about the WPA, public fruit trees, Southern food and the pleasures of Richmond.
We were joined by an occasional moonshiner (causing her to say, "I love the South!"), who told us about his 'shine exploits and closet storage of Mason jars.
At one point the volume of the music seemed to drop and I asked a stylish server why. His quick response, "It's just a low rent party. Low rent!" was hilarious and spoke to the fact that when he's not waiting tables, he's an excellent DJ, mainly of 60s and 70s music.
But tonight it was owner Jamie who played DJ and with plenty of volume and vintage cherry-picking of music. He's got such a great record collection and I always end up hearing something I haven't heard in eons ("Dizzy" by Tommy Roe?). I may have been too full for food, but when do I ever get my fill of music?
It may not have been live, but it certainly came close to scratching that itch. The musical itch, not the other one.
The Gift of Lunch at Amuse
I neither need nor expect gifts, but when given the perfect one, it's hard not to revel in it.
That was the case today when I met a favorite couple for lunch at Amuse and gallery strolling afterwards. To my great surprise, the luncheon was a gift to me in honor of the holidays (which they care nothing about and don't celebrate). And what a gift for an eater!
First, when my my thoughtful friend made the reservation, he had asked for a table away from the fray, so everyone else (median age: white hair plus) was on the far side of the dining room and we were situated at a table near the bar with a lovely view of the grounds. The reflecting pool was half frozen and we saw a woman take a spill on the ice; our vantage point was ideal for an observer type like me.
My present contained everything I could want in a gift of lunch. First there was a bottle of Sette Ventiquattro (also known as 24/7 never-ending pleasure), a Prosecco-style Italian sparkler full of fruit and froth and ideal for toasting one another. Amuse's always-excellent herb bread arrived and we were off and running. The three of us can eat like champs.
Our first course consisted of duck pate with onions, cornichons and micro-greens on perfectly seasoned crostini and lacquered quail with ginger-pineapple pickle. Both beautifully plated, the duck pate sang with the addition of onion and the smokey citrus taste of the quail was unlike any quail I've had. If the meal had ended right there, it would have been memorable.
But instead, we continued with the three most interesting entree options: Oxtail chili with cornbread croutons and cucumber/chive sour cream, mint and oregano-braised lamb, pappardelle, rapini and stewed tomatoes and, finally, jumbo lump crabcake with bacon and white sweet potato hash and apple horseradish slaw.
It was when our entrees arrived that we began playing pass the plates. I started with the chili and it was winter-time wonderful. Perfectly cooked beans, tons of oxtail, croutons to die for which perfectly complemented the chili and a generous glob of sour cream, with a taste reminiscent of tzatziki. If we hadn't planned to trade plates, I might have kept this one for myself.
Until I tasted the crab cake, hash and slaw combo, which took the ubiquitous crab cake and elevated it to a whole new level because of those unique sides. The hash had as much bacon as potato, so you know I loved it and the hint of horseradish did wonderful things for the sweet tartness of the apples. Okay, so maybe I should keep this plate.
But then the lamb arrived and the ribbons of pappardelle wowed me, as did the sheer amount of perfectly cooked lamb. Okay maybe this one was the keeper. This was like a gift where you keep finding more and more things in the box.
And then we did another round of plate sharing until we had finished everything. And even after much discussion, we couldn't declare a winner because all three were so outstanding. Since it was my friends' first visit to Amuse, they were full of superlatives; having been there on many occasions, I knew enough to expect an extraordinary meal.
Despite all the food consumed, none of us hesitated on ordering dessert (you see why I love this couple?), although we did compromise by only getting two instead of three. For seasonal reasons, we got the gingerbread with pumpkin ice cream and pecan sauce and for tradition's sake, the flourless hazelnut chocolate torte. Both came with abundant amounts of freshly whipped cream.
I come from a family of chocoholics who frosts their gingerbread with chocolate ganache (I know, right?), but this combination of pumpkin ice cream and pecan sauce was every bit as good. And, as my friend pointed out, the chocolate torte was loaded with hazelnut pieces, making for an unexpectedly nutty texture. Both were keepers, so to speak, since we devoured them.
There are a lot of things I could be gifted with and love, but a superb meal with good friends is certainly one of my favorites. It may not have come gift-wrapped, but the pleasure of sharing great food with great conversationalists more than makes up for that.
Even if they don't really celebrate the holiday for which they were gifting me. Thank you, my friends.
That was the case today when I met a favorite couple for lunch at Amuse and gallery strolling afterwards. To my great surprise, the luncheon was a gift to me in honor of the holidays (which they care nothing about and don't celebrate). And what a gift for an eater!
First, when my my thoughtful friend made the reservation, he had asked for a table away from the fray, so everyone else (median age: white hair plus) was on the far side of the dining room and we were situated at a table near the bar with a lovely view of the grounds. The reflecting pool was half frozen and we saw a woman take a spill on the ice; our vantage point was ideal for an observer type like me.
My present contained everything I could want in a gift of lunch. First there was a bottle of Sette Ventiquattro (also known as 24/7 never-ending pleasure), a Prosecco-style Italian sparkler full of fruit and froth and ideal for toasting one another. Amuse's always-excellent herb bread arrived and we were off and running. The three of us can eat like champs.
Our first course consisted of duck pate with onions, cornichons and micro-greens on perfectly seasoned crostini and lacquered quail with ginger-pineapple pickle. Both beautifully plated, the duck pate sang with the addition of onion and the smokey citrus taste of the quail was unlike any quail I've had. If the meal had ended right there, it would have been memorable.
But instead, we continued with the three most interesting entree options: Oxtail chili with cornbread croutons and cucumber/chive sour cream, mint and oregano-braised lamb, pappardelle, rapini and stewed tomatoes and, finally, jumbo lump crabcake with bacon and white sweet potato hash and apple horseradish slaw.
It was when our entrees arrived that we began playing pass the plates. I started with the chili and it was winter-time wonderful. Perfectly cooked beans, tons of oxtail, croutons to die for which perfectly complemented the chili and a generous glob of sour cream, with a taste reminiscent of tzatziki. If we hadn't planned to trade plates, I might have kept this one for myself.
Until I tasted the crab cake, hash and slaw combo, which took the ubiquitous crab cake and elevated it to a whole new level because of those unique sides. The hash had as much bacon as potato, so you know I loved it and the hint of horseradish did wonderful things for the sweet tartness of the apples. Okay, so maybe I should keep this plate.
But then the lamb arrived and the ribbons of pappardelle wowed me, as did the sheer amount of perfectly cooked lamb. Okay maybe this one was the keeper. This was like a gift where you keep finding more and more things in the box.
And then we did another round of plate sharing until we had finished everything. And even after much discussion, we couldn't declare a winner because all three were so outstanding. Since it was my friends' first visit to Amuse, they were full of superlatives; having been there on many occasions, I knew enough to expect an extraordinary meal.
Despite all the food consumed, none of us hesitated on ordering dessert (you see why I love this couple?), although we did compromise by only getting two instead of three. For seasonal reasons, we got the gingerbread with pumpkin ice cream and pecan sauce and for tradition's sake, the flourless hazelnut chocolate torte. Both came with abundant amounts of freshly whipped cream.
I come from a family of chocoholics who frosts their gingerbread with chocolate ganache (I know, right?), but this combination of pumpkin ice cream and pecan sauce was every bit as good. And, as my friend pointed out, the chocolate torte was loaded with hazelnut pieces, making for an unexpectedly nutty texture. Both were keepers, so to speak, since we devoured them.
There are a lot of things I could be gifted with and love, but a superb meal with good friends is certainly one of my favorites. It may not have come gift-wrapped, but the pleasure of sharing great food with great conversationalists more than makes up for that.
Even if they don't really celebrate the holiday for which they were gifting me. Thank you, my friends.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Unlocking the Secret at Rowland
It was that kind of day.
Uncharacteristically early wake-up call (8 a.m.). Meeting in Northern Neck (83 miles each way) to discuss writing and consulting work. Lunch with the parental units and hours spent wrapping presents for them while listening to unusually loud Christmas music. Drive home into blinding sunset followed by darkness.
I had barely set foot in my apartment when the phone rang and a friend suggested dinner at Rowland's. I could have kissed her - if I hadn't had to shower and get ready to be somewhere in an hour. It wasn't just that I was ready for a meal out; it was that I needed a major exhale.
My day had been alternating stretches in the car (where, for the first time in years, I revisited my love for the BoDeans. Is there a more poignant love song than "Forever On My Mind" or a better kick-ass road song than "Dreams"? Not today there wasn't) with non-stop conversation, both business and family. I was ready for something different.
I love that the holidays guarantee a full restaurant house on a Monday night. I walked into a bustling Rowlands where the Pandora music was perfectly suited to my taste (Yea, Yea, Yeas, Passion Pit, MGMT) meaning I had to know what the starting point band was (The Knife). My friend was there, the wine already ordered and opened and waiting for me. Already I felt better.
The spring roll of the evening was carnitas and while that doesn't exactly make sense to me, we ordered them anyway. The filling of braised pork, onion, cilantro and cumin was further enhanced with a spicy tomatillo sauce that had my friend requesting more (she even got another order to take with her).
Next up I had the shrimp Creole with scallion polenta, the perfect base for the mouth-watering combination of tomatoes, onions, peppers and hot sauce. Call me a heretic, but I prefer my Shrimp Creole over polenta rather than rice, but then I'm of neither French nor Spanish heritage, so what do I know?
For a millisecond I considered dessert, but decided wine would do me more good. Meanwhile, my friend was telling me about the progress of her fairly new relationship. In an effort to ensure (to the best of her ability) a long-term relationship, she has started asking long-time couples what the secret to their successful partnerships is.
Time and time again, she said, they have told her that the secret is not going to bed angry, something she doesn't quite understand. "What if you're tired? What if you want to wait till morning to discuss it? Why do you have to resolve it before bed?"
Unsure, I took these as rhetorical questions since clearly I have no idea about such things. She doesn't either, having been single for the last two years right along with me. In fact, her point was that going to bed angry would be of no concern to her simply out of gratitude.
"I'd be so happy just to have someone to go to bed mad with," she said by way of explanation.
I have to say, I'm with her on that. Besides, it takes a lot to get me mad, so it might be better if I looked for another secret to a successful relationship.
My long-time happily married Dad told me it was lots of sex. I think I'll go with that instead.
Uncharacteristically early wake-up call (8 a.m.). Meeting in Northern Neck (83 miles each way) to discuss writing and consulting work. Lunch with the parental units and hours spent wrapping presents for them while listening to unusually loud Christmas music. Drive home into blinding sunset followed by darkness.
I had barely set foot in my apartment when the phone rang and a friend suggested dinner at Rowland's. I could have kissed her - if I hadn't had to shower and get ready to be somewhere in an hour. It wasn't just that I was ready for a meal out; it was that I needed a major exhale.
My day had been alternating stretches in the car (where, for the first time in years, I revisited my love for the BoDeans. Is there a more poignant love song than "Forever On My Mind" or a better kick-ass road song than "Dreams"? Not today there wasn't) with non-stop conversation, both business and family. I was ready for something different.
I love that the holidays guarantee a full restaurant house on a Monday night. I walked into a bustling Rowlands where the Pandora music was perfectly suited to my taste (Yea, Yea, Yeas, Passion Pit, MGMT) meaning I had to know what the starting point band was (The Knife). My friend was there, the wine already ordered and opened and waiting for me. Already I felt better.
The spring roll of the evening was carnitas and while that doesn't exactly make sense to me, we ordered them anyway. The filling of braised pork, onion, cilantro and cumin was further enhanced with a spicy tomatillo sauce that had my friend requesting more (she even got another order to take with her).
Next up I had the shrimp Creole with scallion polenta, the perfect base for the mouth-watering combination of tomatoes, onions, peppers and hot sauce. Call me a heretic, but I prefer my Shrimp Creole over polenta rather than rice, but then I'm of neither French nor Spanish heritage, so what do I know?
For a millisecond I considered dessert, but decided wine would do me more good. Meanwhile, my friend was telling me about the progress of her fairly new relationship. In an effort to ensure (to the best of her ability) a long-term relationship, she has started asking long-time couples what the secret to their successful partnerships is.
Time and time again, she said, they have told her that the secret is not going to bed angry, something she doesn't quite understand. "What if you're tired? What if you want to wait till morning to discuss it? Why do you have to resolve it before bed?"
Unsure, I took these as rhetorical questions since clearly I have no idea about such things. She doesn't either, having been single for the last two years right along with me. In fact, her point was that going to bed angry would be of no concern to her simply out of gratitude.
"I'd be so happy just to have someone to go to bed mad with," she said by way of explanation.
I have to say, I'm with her on that. Besides, it takes a lot to get me mad, so it might be better if I looked for another secret to a successful relationship.
My long-time happily married Dad told me it was lots of sex. I think I'll go with that instead.
I'm Not EatingRichmond's Type
It's not them, it's me. I just don't fit in.
You'd think if I was going to be unceremoniously removed from EatingRichmond.com, it would be because I'm not a food blogger. But no, it was my prolificacy that made me a problem.
I kid you not.
I haven't found a solution for keeping your blog on the EatingRichmond aggregator. My web guy is copied on this message. I really think your restaurant visits are addictive reads for Richmond's dining obsessed (including me). So I want to keep it on the site somewhere. If only there was a way for EatingRichmond to subscribe to a weekly digest of I Could Go On and On. Maybe a frequent poster spot is the answer (you don't really have any peers in that category at this point). In the meantime, I've taken your blog off of EatingRichmond until we can figure something out.
Luckily I only get about a hundred readers a day from eatingRichmond, so it's far from the primary way people come to me. But I'd be the first to admit that quite a few of my most regular readers and most frequent commenters discovered me there amongst the true food bloggers.
As Jason told me last March when he was trying to persuade me to put my blog on the site, "All u have to risk is more readers."
Well, that and the heartbreak of being dumped.
Not fitting in seems to be my forte'.
You'd think if I was going to be unceremoniously removed from EatingRichmond.com, it would be because I'm not a food blogger. But no, it was my prolificacy that made me a problem.
I kid you not.
I haven't found a solution for keeping your blog on the EatingRichmond aggregator. My web guy is copied on this message. I really think your restaurant visits are addictive reads for Richmond's dining obsessed (including me). So I want to keep it on the site somewhere. If only there was a way for EatingRichmond to subscribe to a weekly digest of I Could Go On and On. Maybe a frequent poster spot is the answer (you don't really have any peers in that category at this point). In the meantime, I've taken your blog off of EatingRichmond until we can figure something out.
Luckily I only get about a hundred readers a day from eatingRichmond, so it's far from the primary way people come to me. But I'd be the first to admit that quite a few of my most regular readers and most frequent commenters discovered me there amongst the true food bloggers.
As Jason told me last March when he was trying to persuade me to put my blog on the site, "All u have to risk is more readers."
Well, that and the heartbreak of being dumped.
Not fitting in seems to be my forte'.
Imagining the Bass Line
After such a traditional and wholesome Christmas show this afternoon, wouldn't you just know I'd have to swing completely in the other direction tonight? Come on, you did, right?
Firehouse Theater was presenting Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge as a staged reading and the ten-buck ticket price included an adult beverage. The house was nearly full.
The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than canceled out any sweet, wholesome Christmas vibes I had absorbed earlier today.
The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters).
The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future is written for a black women and at one point Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1842." Ouch.
Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her sanctimonious husband and his delightfully overboard accent.
In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.
But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery in a novel twist that landed the two of them in, when else, 1977.
After a skewering of Christmas like that, I couldn't resist a little offbeat Christmas music to close out the evening. Commercial Taphouse was hosting Glows in the Dark, RVA's premiere free jazz practitioners, doing their Christmas show.
I generally feel like I have no business in the Taphouse (except to eat ribs) given my lack of appreciation for suds and such. But their beer menu has such wonderfully clever beer descriptions that I make a habit of reading it anyway. And then I always order tequila, which I did again tonight.
Next to me was a beer geek who, as part of a beer collective (how did I not know there were such things?), spends his Sundays, not watching football, but brewing and geeking out about beer. When I asked, he did admit they they occasionally detour into talk of "our ladies and stuff." I thought that was adorable.
He was full of great stories about the mishaps of brewing; today's had to do with the propane tank and sloshing it around. "I saw fire fall," he said, obviously still incredulous. Really? Can't say I've ever seen fire fall myself, but then I don't spend my Sundays in a garage.
I still have fond memories of Glows in the Dark's Halloween show two years ago when they did all music from John Carpenter movies, so there was no way I was missing their Christmas show, especially when I'd heard rumours of music from the Charlie Brown Christmas special.
Scott Burton started off by telling the audience, "We're down a bass player. He's really sick. So you'll have to fill in the bass parts with your mind." A musician friend nearby assured me this was quite doable, but I'm sure Scott also made some modifications in his guitar playing to compensate.
They began with an original non-Christmas piece and then launched into a superb rendition of "Little Drummer Boy," which they topped with Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy" from A Charlie Brown Christmas. "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" was next and the crowd was just eating it up.
Christmas music never sounded so good as when played by trombone, saxophone, guitar and drums with the bass line in the crowd's head.
At least that's the way it felt tonight.
Firehouse Theater was presenting Mrs. Bob Cratchit's Wild Christmas Binge as a staged reading and the ten-buck ticket price included an adult beverage. The house was nearly full.
The story, a takeoff on A Christmas Carol was so politically incorrect, so irreverent and so funny that I felt it more than canceled out any sweet, wholesome Christmas vibes I had absorbed earlier today.
The performance had plenty of wicked asides as well as commentary about the play itself (the young Jacob Marley asking, "Why don't I have any lines?" after a long discourse by other characters).
The Ghost of Christmases Past, Present and Future is written for a black women and at one point Scrooge tells her, "I don't think there even were any Negro people in 1842." Ouch.
Mrs. Bob Cratchit turned out to be a miserable woman who hated her life and was always leaving to get drunk and jump off of London Bridge. She belittled her children mercilessly, ignored their requests for food and barely tolerated her sanctimonious husband and his delightfully overboard accent.
In a play full of references to other times, she bemoaned the absence of feminism. "I wish it were 1977 so I'd be admired for my unpleasantness," she wailed. No feminist stereotype there.
But eventually Clarence, the angel from It's A Wonderful Life, came along to help out the ghost and solve both Scrooge's attitude problem as well as Mrs. Cratchit's misery in a novel twist that landed the two of them in, when else, 1977.
After a skewering of Christmas like that, I couldn't resist a little offbeat Christmas music to close out the evening. Commercial Taphouse was hosting Glows in the Dark, RVA's premiere free jazz practitioners, doing their Christmas show.
I generally feel like I have no business in the Taphouse (except to eat ribs) given my lack of appreciation for suds and such. But their beer menu has such wonderfully clever beer descriptions that I make a habit of reading it anyway. And then I always order tequila, which I did again tonight.
Next to me was a beer geek who, as part of a beer collective (how did I not know there were such things?), spends his Sundays, not watching football, but brewing and geeking out about beer. When I asked, he did admit they they occasionally detour into talk of "our ladies and stuff." I thought that was adorable.
He was full of great stories about the mishaps of brewing; today's had to do with the propane tank and sloshing it around. "I saw fire fall," he said, obviously still incredulous. Really? Can't say I've ever seen fire fall myself, but then I don't spend my Sundays in a garage.
I still have fond memories of Glows in the Dark's Halloween show two years ago when they did all music from John Carpenter movies, so there was no way I was missing their Christmas show, especially when I'd heard rumours of music from the Charlie Brown Christmas special.
Scott Burton started off by telling the audience, "We're down a bass player. He's really sick. So you'll have to fill in the bass parts with your mind." A musician friend nearby assured me this was quite doable, but I'm sure Scott also made some modifications in his guitar playing to compensate.
They began with an original non-Christmas piece and then launched into a superb rendition of "Little Drummer Boy," which they topped with Vince Guaraldi's "Linus and Lucy" from A Charlie Brown Christmas. "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing" was next and the crowd was just eating it up.
Christmas music never sounded so good as when played by trombone, saxophone, guitar and drums with the bass line in the crowd's head.
At least that's the way it felt tonight.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
I'm Dreaming of Enough Bathrooms
Bob: Have you ever figured out women?
Phil: They're smarter than we are and they have longer hair.
A friend wanted to take me to see "White Christmas" today at the Empire Theater and it was impossible for me to pass up a chance to see someone I knew, a former actor-turned-restaurateur-turned-actor, do musical theater.
Of course I'm talking abut Barry Pruitt, the original owner of Davis and Main and the recent seller of White Dog. My best memories of White Dog are of late evenings with Barry belting out Sinatra and show tunes to whomever was at the bar, so I'd be the first to acknowledge that he had a great voice.
Barry was playing the General Waverly character and acquitted himself admirably in a production full of big dance numbers, frequent costume changes and classic Irving Berlin songs.
At the big Christmas Eve finale when it finally starts snowing at the inn, the audience got to share the experience as fake snow was blown out over us during the singalong to "White Christmas." Truth be told, I was a fake snow virgin before today; it falls prettily enough, but it doesn't amount to much.
During the singalong, I kept my singing to myself (my grandmother used to tell me that I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, so I know better than to inflict my singing on others), but the older woman next to me had a beautiful voice and was belting it out.
As a theater lover, I was happy to see that the show was all but sold out, happy except at intermission when the bathroom lines were so long that I knew I had no chance of using them. Giving up on bodily functions, I opted for a piece of coconut cake instead, courtesy of Rostov's Coffee.
The white-haired gentleman who sold it to me advised me to eat quickly and then leaned in and said, "Really you have four to five minutes once they call you back in." No doubt that would be so that the bathroom goers had a fighting chance of seeing the opening number of the second act.
Inadequate bathrooms aside, the production was very sweet, even if it bore very little resemblance to the classic holiday movie of the same name. Fortunately, when they didn't use the original snappy 50s dialog, they made up something almost as clever.
Betty: Let's just say that Bob wasn't the man I thought he was.
Judy: What man ever is?
Some lines are timeless...and always get a big laugh.
Phil: They're smarter than we are and they have longer hair.
A friend wanted to take me to see "White Christmas" today at the Empire Theater and it was impossible for me to pass up a chance to see someone I knew, a former actor-turned-restaurateur-turned-actor, do musical theater.
Of course I'm talking abut Barry Pruitt, the original owner of Davis and Main and the recent seller of White Dog. My best memories of White Dog are of late evenings with Barry belting out Sinatra and show tunes to whomever was at the bar, so I'd be the first to acknowledge that he had a great voice.
Barry was playing the General Waverly character and acquitted himself admirably in a production full of big dance numbers, frequent costume changes and classic Irving Berlin songs.
At the big Christmas Eve finale when it finally starts snowing at the inn, the audience got to share the experience as fake snow was blown out over us during the singalong to "White Christmas." Truth be told, I was a fake snow virgin before today; it falls prettily enough, but it doesn't amount to much.
During the singalong, I kept my singing to myself (my grandmother used to tell me that I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, so I know better than to inflict my singing on others), but the older woman next to me had a beautiful voice and was belting it out.
As a theater lover, I was happy to see that the show was all but sold out, happy except at intermission when the bathroom lines were so long that I knew I had no chance of using them. Giving up on bodily functions, I opted for a piece of coconut cake instead, courtesy of Rostov's Coffee.
The white-haired gentleman who sold it to me advised me to eat quickly and then leaned in and said, "Really you have four to five minutes once they call you back in." No doubt that would be so that the bathroom goers had a fighting chance of seeing the opening number of the second act.
Inadequate bathrooms aside, the production was very sweet, even if it bore very little resemblance to the classic holiday movie of the same name. Fortunately, when they didn't use the original snappy 50s dialog, they made up something almost as clever.
Betty: Let's just say that Bob wasn't the man I thought he was.
Judy: What man ever is?
Some lines are timeless...and always get a big laugh.
Staying for the Talk
I know it's a good night when I'm willing to forgo music for good conversation, which is exactly what happened tonight.
After a busy afternoon stalking the wild Christmas tree with a guy friend willing to do the heavy lifting for nothing more than sharing a bottle of wine with me afterwards, I was ready for dinner out and some music.
I made Bistro 27 my destination because I hadn't seen those guys in a while and I'm never disappointed when I go there. I arrived around 8:30 to a ridiculously busy dining room and it didn't let up for another hour. Sitting down at my usual stool (at an empty bar), I was immediately greeted by all the guys who make my visits so enjoyable.
Chef Carlos came over for his requisite kiss, Dave made a smart-assed remark, Ron was friendly and flippant, Billy was his usual polite self, Richard gave me a half bow and Frederico smiled and gave me his shy greeting. Even Wilbur waved from the kitchen. I felt properly welcomed.
Just to get things started, I ordered a glass of Tempranillo while I looked at the menu. A regular came in to sit at the bar and when Carlos said hello, the guy let him know that he had a kiss on his face. "That's her," Carlos explained, gesturing at me and grinning. I have a reputation for leaving lipstick marks on men (among other things).
Because they were mobbed, it took Ron a good while to take my order (although in the meantime, he gave me my first taste of hot buttered rum), which suited me fine because I had time to do some crowd-watching and eavesdropping. The couple at a table near me were explaining to their sever why Florida didn't suit them.
"It's all newlyweds and nearly deads," she told him. "Except Key West." I'm sure my recently-transplanted-to-Key West friends will be glad to hear that, being members of neither of those two groups.
I finally decided on the flash-fried sweetbreads over local oyster mushroom ragout and polenta, topped with a port wine reduction, because it sounded like the kind of comfort food dish I was craving on this cold evening.
Carlos brought the generously-sized portion to me himself and the smell was enough to assure me that I'd chosen the right thing. Rich and earthy, the dish satisfied on every level. I have a restaurant friend who insists that Carlos' polenta is the best in town and she'd get no argument from me.
Along about that time, Carlos came over and insisted I try the Alexander Valley Lowry Hill Cabernet Sauvignon; and why not? I trust his taste, I had a plate full of sweetbreads to eat and I like big reds. Pour on!
One of the guys was telling me that his girlfriend has generously offered to support him so he can pursue his artistic dreams. "I got a sugar mama!" he bragged, causing me to ask where I might find a sugar daddy so I could do the same. His response, which I won't share, involved elements of my past, but was very funny for how quickly he came up with it.
At one point, Ron looked at me and asked,"Is there music?" not an unusual question for me to be asked. I thought he was asking about shows tonight, but what he really meant was could I hear the restaurant's music, which I could not and told him so.
He scurried off to make an adjustment, making for a huge improvement in the ambiance once I could hear what was being played (Marvin Gaye, Johnny Hartman & John Coltrane, even, gasp, vintage Hall & Oates). Must have music.
My next issue was whether or not I wanted dessert, so Ron brought me a menu,over which I could ponder. My next pour was the bold and beautiful Lodali Nebbiolo D'Alba, easily my favorite of the night (and I stayed with it) and undoubtedly part of the reason that I never made it to Balliceaux.
After close to an hour with the dessert menu (and even having to share it with the lipstick spotter), I finally ordered just as the kitchen was closing up shop. It worked out well because one by one the staff sat down at the bar with me to drink and chat as we watched some of the local cross dressers parade down Broad Street on their way to better things.
Carlos got the conversation started with reminisces of living in DC in the 80s, allowing the two of us who had also been there then to share memories of neighborhoods, bars and the mood of the city back then, very different from how it is now.
We three shared some of our favorite Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle stories, only to discover we had been moving through a lot of the same places at the same time. And oh, the rent prices back then! Those were the days.
As is often the case when you're talking to a half dozen guys, there were some tangents about girls who can't get enough sex, guys who date them and the surprising things you can see when an elevator door unexpectedly opens.
Like I said, I meant to go to Balliceaux for music, but every time I thought I could walk away from this group and their wild conversation, I was sucked back in. How does that happen?
To quote Fred Astaire in Holiday Inn, "The lady must have been willing."
She was that.
After a busy afternoon stalking the wild Christmas tree with a guy friend willing to do the heavy lifting for nothing more than sharing a bottle of wine with me afterwards, I was ready for dinner out and some music.
I made Bistro 27 my destination because I hadn't seen those guys in a while and I'm never disappointed when I go there. I arrived around 8:30 to a ridiculously busy dining room and it didn't let up for another hour. Sitting down at my usual stool (at an empty bar), I was immediately greeted by all the guys who make my visits so enjoyable.
Chef Carlos came over for his requisite kiss, Dave made a smart-assed remark, Ron was friendly and flippant, Billy was his usual polite self, Richard gave me a half bow and Frederico smiled and gave me his shy greeting. Even Wilbur waved from the kitchen. I felt properly welcomed.
Just to get things started, I ordered a glass of Tempranillo while I looked at the menu. A regular came in to sit at the bar and when Carlos said hello, the guy let him know that he had a kiss on his face. "That's her," Carlos explained, gesturing at me and grinning. I have a reputation for leaving lipstick marks on men (among other things).
Because they were mobbed, it took Ron a good while to take my order (although in the meantime, he gave me my first taste of hot buttered rum), which suited me fine because I had time to do some crowd-watching and eavesdropping. The couple at a table near me were explaining to their sever why Florida didn't suit them.
"It's all newlyweds and nearly deads," she told him. "Except Key West." I'm sure my recently-transplanted-to-Key West friends will be glad to hear that, being members of neither of those two groups.
I finally decided on the flash-fried sweetbreads over local oyster mushroom ragout and polenta, topped with a port wine reduction, because it sounded like the kind of comfort food dish I was craving on this cold evening.
Carlos brought the generously-sized portion to me himself and the smell was enough to assure me that I'd chosen the right thing. Rich and earthy, the dish satisfied on every level. I have a restaurant friend who insists that Carlos' polenta is the best in town and she'd get no argument from me.
Along about that time, Carlos came over and insisted I try the Alexander Valley Lowry Hill Cabernet Sauvignon; and why not? I trust his taste, I had a plate full of sweetbreads to eat and I like big reds. Pour on!
One of the guys was telling me that his girlfriend has generously offered to support him so he can pursue his artistic dreams. "I got a sugar mama!" he bragged, causing me to ask where I might find a sugar daddy so I could do the same. His response, which I won't share, involved elements of my past, but was very funny for how quickly he came up with it.
At one point, Ron looked at me and asked,"Is there music?" not an unusual question for me to be asked. I thought he was asking about shows tonight, but what he really meant was could I hear the restaurant's music, which I could not and told him so.
He scurried off to make an adjustment, making for a huge improvement in the ambiance once I could hear what was being played (Marvin Gaye, Johnny Hartman & John Coltrane, even, gasp, vintage Hall & Oates). Must have music.
My next issue was whether or not I wanted dessert, so Ron brought me a menu,over which I could ponder. My next pour was the bold and beautiful Lodali Nebbiolo D'Alba, easily my favorite of the night (and I stayed with it) and undoubtedly part of the reason that I never made it to Balliceaux.
After close to an hour with the dessert menu (and even having to share it with the lipstick spotter), I finally ordered just as the kitchen was closing up shop. It worked out well because one by one the staff sat down at the bar with me to drink and chat as we watched some of the local cross dressers parade down Broad Street on their way to better things.
Carlos got the conversation started with reminisces of living in DC in the 80s, allowing the two of us who had also been there then to share memories of neighborhoods, bars and the mood of the city back then, very different from how it is now.
We three shared some of our favorite Adams Morgan and Dupont Circle stories, only to discover we had been moving through a lot of the same places at the same time. And oh, the rent prices back then! Those were the days.
As is often the case when you're talking to a half dozen guys, there were some tangents about girls who can't get enough sex, guys who date them and the surprising things you can see when an elevator door unexpectedly opens.
Like I said, I meant to go to Balliceaux for music, but every time I thought I could walk away from this group and their wild conversation, I was sucked back in. How does that happen?
To quote Fred Astaire in Holiday Inn, "The lady must have been willing."
She was that.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Have a Shot and Pass the Cookies
Holiday Inn
Open tonight
Don't ask, just go and God bless America!
It's a week away from Christmas, so it's kind of tough to get away from it at this point.
Not that I was trying to by going to the VMFA to see "Holiday Inn," the 1942 Bing Crosby/Fred Astaire movie that debuted the Christmas classic "White Christmas." Sure, I'd seen it before, but I hadn't heard WCVE's jazz DJ Peter Solomon talk about Irving Berlin and his music, which sounded pretty interesting to me.
And it was surprising to learn that Berlin couldn't read music and could only play the black keys of the piano (always playing in F#), which would explain his having a secretary write down the music he conceived of...for his entire career and he lived to be 101.
Two hours of Bing singing and Fred dancing would be enough, but when you add in the snappy 40s dialogue, it's a little slice of heaven for a wordy bird like me. A perfect example is the scene where the manager is ordering last-minute flowers from the flower shop girl for the demanding diva.
Her: What would you like?
Him: Orchids, the finest you've got.
her: Corsage?
Him: No, no. A dozen loose, looking like they don't care.
That line makes perfect sense to me; I only wish I'd thought of it first (and maybe that someone would want to send me carefree-looking flowers).
I decided against staying for the post-film discussion, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed it, but I had a cookie exchange party to go to out in the sticks. Well, the sticks to me anyway; it was over near Tan-A, way out of my comfort zone. And then I got lost and had to call for directions (from a pay phone, no less), making me even later.
But it didn't really matter because there were still plenty of cookies and people left when I arrived, including my smitten couple friend who'd come to make eyes at each other while staring at the fake fire on the TV screen.
This is my second year for this party and once again there was an embarrassment of cookies laid out. Whoopie pies, pistachio/craisin, chocolate with caramel and salt, red velvet crackles, Mexican wedding cookies, shortbread, snickerdoodles and at least a dozen other kinds were spread around the kitchen and living room.
My hosts were serving cider and eggnog, so naturally I went with the more decadent nog, nicely spiked. One guest, who had been unaware that the nog was already fortified, had been helpfully serving it and adding booze at that point. Needless to say, those who got the "double shots" were feeling the effects in no time.
Because my hosts blog and tweet, there were a fair number of the same at the party. One guest told me he followed me on Twitter and I had to correct him (you may read my blog, but I'm not a 140-character kind of girl). A coffee fanatic, he was also incredulous that I don't do coffee or tea. But what pushed him over the edge was my lack of a cell phone.
He could not comprehend how I live without one. "I'm touching mine even as we talk," he said by way of explanation, his hand deep in his pocket. "How DO you communicate?" I don't know, but somehow I manage, I told him. Later he made a big deal about my tights, though, so I forgave him the rest.
It was great fun being with a different crowd than the one I usually hang out with. The merits of the McRib were debated, bad penis jokes were delivered and closet organization skills were surveyed. There was a shirt-folding demonstration. I particularly enjoyed the discussion of laying out sushi on a naked human body rather than a plate at a soiree (coming soon to a party near you).
At one point, a guest brought in gifts of airline bottles of Jose Cuervo, which the recipients decided to do as body shots (something I'm proud to say I've never done). Unfortunately, the host had no limes (although he did have sea salt flakes), but the group made do with Real Lemon juice, you know, the kind in the plastic pseudo-lemon squirter bottle.
So, yes, they licked the expensive salt flakes off their hands, shot their cheap tequila and then squirted lemon juice down their throats ("It doesn't help," one girl exclaimed afterwards). It was mildly disturbing to one who truly appreciates good tequila (which this was not) and, on the other hand, it was some of the best entertainment of the evening. Especially with a Southpark carol playing in the background.
In fact, the party could have been written up much the way Holiday Inn was in the "newspaper blurb " from the movie that began this post.
A & K's Annual Cookie Exchange
Happening tonight
Don't ask, just go and Chef bless America
Open tonight
Don't ask, just go and God bless America!
It's a week away from Christmas, so it's kind of tough to get away from it at this point.
Not that I was trying to by going to the VMFA to see "Holiday Inn," the 1942 Bing Crosby/Fred Astaire movie that debuted the Christmas classic "White Christmas." Sure, I'd seen it before, but I hadn't heard WCVE's jazz DJ Peter Solomon talk about Irving Berlin and his music, which sounded pretty interesting to me.
And it was surprising to learn that Berlin couldn't read music and could only play the black keys of the piano (always playing in F#), which would explain his having a secretary write down the music he conceived of...for his entire career and he lived to be 101.
Two hours of Bing singing and Fred dancing would be enough, but when you add in the snappy 40s dialogue, it's a little slice of heaven for a wordy bird like me. A perfect example is the scene where the manager is ordering last-minute flowers from the flower shop girl for the demanding diva.
Her: What would you like?
Him: Orchids, the finest you've got.
her: Corsage?
Him: No, no. A dozen loose, looking like they don't care.
That line makes perfect sense to me; I only wish I'd thought of it first (and maybe that someone would want to send me carefree-looking flowers).
I decided against staying for the post-film discussion, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed it, but I had a cookie exchange party to go to out in the sticks. Well, the sticks to me anyway; it was over near Tan-A, way out of my comfort zone. And then I got lost and had to call for directions (from a pay phone, no less), making me even later.
But it didn't really matter because there were still plenty of cookies and people left when I arrived, including my smitten couple friend who'd come to make eyes at each other while staring at the fake fire on the TV screen.
This is my second year for this party and once again there was an embarrassment of cookies laid out. Whoopie pies, pistachio/craisin, chocolate with caramel and salt, red velvet crackles, Mexican wedding cookies, shortbread, snickerdoodles and at least a dozen other kinds were spread around the kitchen and living room.
My hosts were serving cider and eggnog, so naturally I went with the more decadent nog, nicely spiked. One guest, who had been unaware that the nog was already fortified, had been helpfully serving it and adding booze at that point. Needless to say, those who got the "double shots" were feeling the effects in no time.
Because my hosts blog and tweet, there were a fair number of the same at the party. One guest told me he followed me on Twitter and I had to correct him (you may read my blog, but I'm not a 140-character kind of girl). A coffee fanatic, he was also incredulous that I don't do coffee or tea. But what pushed him over the edge was my lack of a cell phone.
He could not comprehend how I live without one. "I'm touching mine even as we talk," he said by way of explanation, his hand deep in his pocket. "How DO you communicate?" I don't know, but somehow I manage, I told him. Later he made a big deal about my tights, though, so I forgave him the rest.
It was great fun being with a different crowd than the one I usually hang out with. The merits of the McRib were debated, bad penis jokes were delivered and closet organization skills were surveyed. There was a shirt-folding demonstration. I particularly enjoyed the discussion of laying out sushi on a naked human body rather than a plate at a soiree (coming soon to a party near you).
At one point, a guest brought in gifts of airline bottles of Jose Cuervo, which the recipients decided to do as body shots (something I'm proud to say I've never done). Unfortunately, the host had no limes (although he did have sea salt flakes), but the group made do with Real Lemon juice, you know, the kind in the plastic pseudo-lemon squirter bottle.
So, yes, they licked the expensive salt flakes off their hands, shot their cheap tequila and then squirted lemon juice down their throats ("It doesn't help," one girl exclaimed afterwards). It was mildly disturbing to one who truly appreciates good tequila (which this was not) and, on the other hand, it was some of the best entertainment of the evening. Especially with a Southpark carol playing in the background.
In fact, the party could have been written up much the way Holiday Inn was in the "newspaper blurb " from the movie that began this post.
A & K's Annual Cookie Exchange
Happening tonight
Don't ask, just go and Chef bless America
Friday, December 17, 2010
Fruit is Rusting on the Vine
A friend who, like me, prefers to communicate in writing, finally asked what phone number he could call me at. I gave it to him, clarifying that it was my only number.
Friend: I know that's your only number, Ms. Smarty pants. It never hurts to ask though. You could be at a different location. Could've run into a tall, dark and handsome man last night...the possibilities are endless you know.
Me: All the good ones are taken, haven't you heard?
Friend: I still hate to tell you the right one is tough to find. And you don't strike me as a simple, one-dimensional, compromising type of woman.
Me: So I'm going to be partner-less for the rest of my life, aren't I? (You can consider that a rhetorical question if you like)
Friend: Would be much easier for you to find this person in NY, CA, DC or Europe. In Richmond, you will have to adjust your criteria. I might have 77 things on my perfect woman spreadsheet, but you have at least 10-15 things on your list. Just sayin'.
And, yes, he really does have a spreadsheet (I consider it one of his many charms) and a girlfriend who meets more of the 77 criteria than anyone else he's ever met. They're one of my favorite couple dates since they're great conversationalists and eat out as much as I do (and like me, eat anything).
It hadn't even occurred to me that I had criteria, except that I do want a talker...and someone who likes to go out as much as I do...and loves to eat and drink...and they have to read...and be a good kisser...
So I'm not the spreadsheet type, but maybe I do have a few criteria in mind, meaning I will have a hard time whenever I do start dating.
Friend: Yes I was being kind with the 10-15 things :)
I am not making a spreadsheet. Presumably I will know if I ever meet the right person. And hopefully that will be when, not if.
I certainly hope I don't have to leave Richmond. Yet anyway.
Friend: I know that's your only number, Ms. Smarty pants. It never hurts to ask though. You could be at a different location. Could've run into a tall, dark and handsome man last night...the possibilities are endless you know.
Me: All the good ones are taken, haven't you heard?
Friend: I still hate to tell you the right one is tough to find. And you don't strike me as a simple, one-dimensional, compromising type of woman.
Me: So I'm going to be partner-less for the rest of my life, aren't I? (You can consider that a rhetorical question if you like)
Friend: Would be much easier for you to find this person in NY, CA, DC or Europe. In Richmond, you will have to adjust your criteria. I might have 77 things on my perfect woman spreadsheet, but you have at least 10-15 things on your list. Just sayin'.
And, yes, he really does have a spreadsheet (I consider it one of his many charms) and a girlfriend who meets more of the 77 criteria than anyone else he's ever met. They're one of my favorite couple dates since they're great conversationalists and eat out as much as I do (and like me, eat anything).
It hadn't even occurred to me that I had criteria, except that I do want a talker...and someone who likes to go out as much as I do...and loves to eat and drink...and they have to read...and be a good kisser...
So I'm not the spreadsheet type, but maybe I do have a few criteria in mind, meaning I will have a hard time whenever I do start dating.
Friend: Yes I was being kind with the 10-15 things :)
I am not making a spreadsheet. Presumably I will know if I ever meet the right person. And hopefully that will be when, not if.
I certainly hope I don't have to leave Richmond. Yet anyway.
J-Ward Represent
Jackson Ward knows how to throw a party, let me tell you.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Tonight was our annual Christmas soiree at Club 534 and, having attended last year (and being J-Ward Girl), I knew enough to be there again to eat, meet neighbors and enjoy the distinctive DJ stylings.
A writing assignment made me later than I intended to be, so the party was in full swing when I arrived. Friends had saved me a spot at their table, also where another couple was sitting.
Coincidentally, he was a guy I see at shows all over town but I had no idea he was from the Ward, and we'd never met. That was corrected, followed by him complimenting me on my tights. The night was off to a good start.
I had to play catch-up, though, so I began by going to get food. They'd already run out of crab cakes, but I loaded my plate with carved turkey, bean cakes and salsa, veggies, meatballs and cheeses. My association dues at work.
When I went to the bar to get a drink, the bartender told me she wanted my pink scarf. A woman standing next to me said, "If you could see her legs, you'd want her tights." The bartender craned her neck to check me out.
Without missing a beat, she said, "If I had a bottle of vodka, I'd get those tights from her." Yes, well, I'm not exactly sure what that meant, but it was probably just as well that she didn't have that bottle with her, whichever way that was going to go.
My favorite part of these parties is after dinner when the DJ cranks the music and the dancing starts. J-Ward is full of rhythm and practically everyone there was a terrific dancer. From little kids who knew all the steps to the gray-haired crowd who danced song after song, these people were all about the dance floor.
And every year my neighbor Larry, an enthusiastic and excellent dancer, insists that I dance with him and every year I remind him that I'm a white girl and not worthy.
It's almost a Christmas ritual for us. This year he actually reached under my armpits to lift me out of my chair as he insisted. That's a man who loves to dance.
When it was time for me to leave for my next destination, the dancing was still in full swing and Luther Vandross' "Never Too Much" came on, delaying my departure while I listened to a song I hadn't heard in a million years, but which I recognized from the first note. That's some classic r & b, in my humble opinion.
Stop number two was Six Burner for music. The show, originally scheduled for 10:00, had been pushed up to 8:00 because of the snow. When I arrived, Josh told me it had been moved back to its original time.
Luckily I had good company to keep me occupied until whatever time the music might start, including tonight's performer David Brookings ("Haven't we met before?") and his Dad.
Brookings was apparently an active part of Richmond's music scene about ten years ago and many of the other musicians who were part of that scene showed up tonight, making for a reunion of sorts. He had long ago moved to Memphis where he gave tours of Sun Studios until he was recruited to move to San Jose and work for iTunes. So this was a homecoming show.
Bartender Josh had long ago given me one of Brookings' CDs (he has five, two of which are out of print), so I knew to expect sunny, poppy songs with some excellent guitar work. He introduced one song by saying, "There are only two songs I get minor royalty payments from and this is not one of them."
Josh looked at me and responded, "That's some random shit." Indeed it was and Josh should know; he produced some of David's albums.
One of his best intros was, "If someone held a gun to my head and said 'Play the best song you wrote that doesn't suck' this is the song I would play." High praise, I thought, as he launched into yet another catchy little number.
Prabir and part of the Goldrush (Matt and Treesa) had come in to join the crowd and Prabir always adds a certain wild card element to any evening. After an old-fashioned, he asked Josh for a drink suggestion, requesting something "tasty," whatever that means in drink terms (obviously I have no idea).
Josh suggested a 1930s cocktail, the Godfather (Amaretto and scotch), and when he delivered it, announced that it might taste like "band aids and candy." It was not to Prabir's taste, but a nearby musician tasted and praised it, saying "These vintage cocktails always have great texture."
Brookings is on day 158 of a 209-day project to record every Beatles song and post it on youtube. At this point, he's halfway through the White album and tonight's song, recorded live, was "I'm So Tired."
Naturally, this led to a Beatles discussion amongst those around me: Sgt. Pepper vs. Magical Mystery Tour and Rubber Soul vs. Revolver (the same arguments Beatles lovers have been having since the albums came out). I shared my opinions and then backed away from the fray to mingle.
A friend told me about his idea for the ultimate RVA bar (it would be in Carver), a sous chef neighbor I hadn't seen lately told me about his upcoming gig and a musician I met tonight gave me credit for skirts and tights in this frigid weather, after asking if I had any sweat pants (I don't).
In a late discussion of neighborhoods with both a Church Hill and a Union Hill resident, I was asked where I live. "Jackson Ward," I told them proudly.
"And that's why you're so awesome," James said.
But not nearly as awesome as my neighbors who can really dance.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
We Will Not Be Snow WImps
Early in the week, my friend Danny and I had made plans to have lunch and an outing today. By yesterday, the forecast was sounding a bit ominous, so I sent him an email letting him know that we were still on regardless of whether or not the sky fell. Of the same mind, he agreed.
But the weather wasn't making it easy. We got to our lunch destination only to find it closed for the day, the note on the door not even explaining why. Okay, fine. There are plenty of other restaurants in this town, so we instead went to Louisiana Flair, where the glowing "open" sign was like a beacon in the falling sleet and snow.
We were barely inside the restaurant before being enthusiastically welcomed by our server-to-be, who asked what we wanted to drink. At that moment, Danny remembered he hadn't fed the meter. We didn't know if the parking nazis worked on a day like this, but why take the risk?
Before he left to take care of that, he asked for coffee and our server graciously said he'd put a fresh pot on while Danny was taking care of business. Since it was going on 2:00 by then, I insisted he order before going outside.
That turned out to be the easy part. We glanced at the Daily Specials menu: smothered pork chop or meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and roll. I said I'd be getting the chop, so he wanted the meatloaf. Done.
By the time Danny returned unsuccessfully ("The meter's frozen!"), our server was placing our plates on the table and telling us, "You just made it in time. We were about to close." Wouldn't that have been tragic?
My large bone-in chop was lost under all that gravy goodness, but I managed to get every scrap of meat off the bone without ever really being able to see it. Danny shared a bite or two of his meatloaf and we agreed it was seasoned just right; Mom would approve. And my grandmother would have also given her blessing to the long-cooked pork-seasoned string beans. A perfect meal for a snowy day.
As we drove to our next destination, a church, Danny warned me that they'd probably be closed, too. Closed? Aren't they supposed to be open and available for sanctuary and solace at all times? Besides the website said they were open daily until 4:00.
Except, apparently, when it snows. The pink sign on the door said they were closed for snow. I could make a wimpy Episcopalian joke here, but I'll refrain.
Once back in the car, Danny said that we should have had a Plan B. True that, so we put on our thinking caps. He suggested the main library for their current art show, and with nothing else immediately coming to mind, I was more than happy to agree.
"Evolution of City Art" turned out to be paintings by RVA artists influenced by graffiti; the interesting part was the many directions the artists had taken from graffiti to their current works. We saw skateboard decks, what looked like a death mask and a detailed schematic called "Stereo," among other things.
My favorites were a couple of large-scale, intricate pen drawings overlaid with calligraphy. The contrast in the delicacy of the drawing and the wide brushstrokes of the calligraphy was truly beautiful. Sadly, they were also NFS, not that I should be thinking of buying art.
In the spirit of the season, it's book giveaway week at the library, so we couldn't resist stopping at the shelves on the way out and scoring a few freebies (the limit is one grocery bag, fyi).
My non-fiction nerdy side couldn't resist Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick and The House of Mondavi: The Rise and Fall of an American Wine Dynasty, a mere 1100 pages between the two of them. Both will make great beach reads.
Danny handed me a slim, tattered volume called Hiroshima by John Hersey, the story of six people who survived the atom bomb. The book is the text of the report to which The New Yorker devoted its entire issue of August 31, 1946. I couldn't resist bringing it home, difficult as I know it will be to read.
You see my point? Snow wimps would have missed out on smothered chops, urban art and free books.
Not this chick.
But the weather wasn't making it easy. We got to our lunch destination only to find it closed for the day, the note on the door not even explaining why. Okay, fine. There are plenty of other restaurants in this town, so we instead went to Louisiana Flair, where the glowing "open" sign was like a beacon in the falling sleet and snow.
We were barely inside the restaurant before being enthusiastically welcomed by our server-to-be, who asked what we wanted to drink. At that moment, Danny remembered he hadn't fed the meter. We didn't know if the parking nazis worked on a day like this, but why take the risk?
Before he left to take care of that, he asked for coffee and our server graciously said he'd put a fresh pot on while Danny was taking care of business. Since it was going on 2:00 by then, I insisted he order before going outside.
That turned out to be the easy part. We glanced at the Daily Specials menu: smothered pork chop or meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and roll. I said I'd be getting the chop, so he wanted the meatloaf. Done.
By the time Danny returned unsuccessfully ("The meter's frozen!"), our server was placing our plates on the table and telling us, "You just made it in time. We were about to close." Wouldn't that have been tragic?
My large bone-in chop was lost under all that gravy goodness, but I managed to get every scrap of meat off the bone without ever really being able to see it. Danny shared a bite or two of his meatloaf and we agreed it was seasoned just right; Mom would approve. And my grandmother would have also given her blessing to the long-cooked pork-seasoned string beans. A perfect meal for a snowy day.
As we drove to our next destination, a church, Danny warned me that they'd probably be closed, too. Closed? Aren't they supposed to be open and available for sanctuary and solace at all times? Besides the website said they were open daily until 4:00.
Except, apparently, when it snows. The pink sign on the door said they were closed for snow. I could make a wimpy Episcopalian joke here, but I'll refrain.
Once back in the car, Danny said that we should have had a Plan B. True that, so we put on our thinking caps. He suggested the main library for their current art show, and with nothing else immediately coming to mind, I was more than happy to agree.
"Evolution of City Art" turned out to be paintings by RVA artists influenced by graffiti; the interesting part was the many directions the artists had taken from graffiti to their current works. We saw skateboard decks, what looked like a death mask and a detailed schematic called "Stereo," among other things.
My favorites were a couple of large-scale, intricate pen drawings overlaid with calligraphy. The contrast in the delicacy of the drawing and the wide brushstrokes of the calligraphy was truly beautiful. Sadly, they were also NFS, not that I should be thinking of buying art.
In the spirit of the season, it's book giveaway week at the library, so we couldn't resist stopping at the shelves on the way out and scoring a few freebies (the limit is one grocery bag, fyi).
My non-fiction nerdy side couldn't resist Showman: The Life of David O. Selznick and The House of Mondavi: The Rise and Fall of an American Wine Dynasty, a mere 1100 pages between the two of them. Both will make great beach reads.
Danny handed me a slim, tattered volume called Hiroshima by John Hersey, the story of six people who survived the atom bomb. The book is the text of the report to which The New Yorker devoted its entire issue of August 31, 1946. I couldn't resist bringing it home, difficult as I know it will be to read.
You see my point? Snow wimps would have missed out on smothered chops, urban art and free books.
Not this chick.
Bloodbuzz Ohio
What kind of idiot thinks she can park near the Jefferson during holiday season? Me, but after fifteen minutes of driving around, I realized the error of my thinking and just accepted the endless loops around the blocks.
I finally found a space on Grace Street, only to discover once I arrived that I could have used the valet parking since I was having dinner. Live and learn.
The holiday diners were crowding Lemaire when I walked in, but luckily two bar stools opened up when party-goers departed the bar for the dining room. My friend and I swooped in, claiming the stools in time to qualify for Discovery wine prices ($10 a bottle), easily the highlight of Wednesdays at Lemaire.
I decided on the jumbo lump crab cake sandwich on an English muffin with remoulade and tomato. When offered my choice of sides, I originally asked for fresh fruit, but my friend insisted on fries so I changed my order. She went with the Berkshire pork chop and grits, so you can see why she wanted fries.
My sandwich arrived with fruit, but my server graciously agreed to go fetch the missing fries, but not before instructing me to eat the mistaken fruit (melon, cantaloupe, pineapple and blackberries) in the interim. Okay, if you insist.
The crabcake passed this Maryland-raised crab lover's standards, with hunks of lump crabmeat falling out with each bite. That's what we're talking about when we say jumbo lump in Maryland.
When my fries arrived, they were well fried and fairly large (almost steak fries), tasting of potato and not just crispiness. I traded some for two bites of her porkchop.
For those who may not know (and that would not be most of the people at the bar around us), the secret to Discovery wine night is to order the second bottle by 7:00, whether you're ready for it or not. Or so I've heard from wine lovers, so we did.
Tonight's occasion was hearing about my friend's recent weekend in NYC with her new paramour and she did have tales to tell, all good. You'd think that listening to anecdotes from a romantic weekend would be like forcing a starving man to listen to tales of a feast, but I actually enjoy hearing about the possibilities of romance (you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one).
Dessert was Humbolt Fog, fruit and crackers, as fine a finish as I could have wanted. My friend went with a last course of lentil soup (don't ask), but by the time we both finished, we were full and decided to call it a night.
Just as we were paying our check, I noticed the bright red drinks going to the two guys next to us and made a suitable holiday comment, only mildly derisive. Little did I realize that that was the invitation the two guys from Ohio needed to join us.
They turned out to be delightful company, one a basketball player turned psychiatrist and the other a business owner. Before long, they knew way too much about us and were psychoanalyzing my friend (I escaped due to my absence of a love life) and her relationship with her ex.
I was at least able to join in on the discussion of the word smitten, a favorite of mine for its specific connotation (and personal history). We moved on to what is allowable outside a relationship in terms of male/female ties, a subject which turned out to be quite emotional (except for those of us not dating).
At one point, I quoted my friend Danny ("Men are simple creatures"), a point with which both the Ohioans agreed. One told us that men want to be asked about their feelings, a fact which surprised both my friend and me. Sometimes you can glean the most interesting information from strangers.
Eventually, one of the guys excused himself (they had a 6 a.m. flight) and told the other guy to sign for their bar tab ($189) and he'd see his friend in the morning. The remaining visitor finished the analysis of my friend, looking to me for backup now that his partner in crime was gone.
Hey, I don't know nothing about sustaining no relationships. You're looking at the wrong backup, friend.
I finally found a space on Grace Street, only to discover once I arrived that I could have used the valet parking since I was having dinner. Live and learn.
The holiday diners were crowding Lemaire when I walked in, but luckily two bar stools opened up when party-goers departed the bar for the dining room. My friend and I swooped in, claiming the stools in time to qualify for Discovery wine prices ($10 a bottle), easily the highlight of Wednesdays at Lemaire.
I decided on the jumbo lump crab cake sandwich on an English muffin with remoulade and tomato. When offered my choice of sides, I originally asked for fresh fruit, but my friend insisted on fries so I changed my order. She went with the Berkshire pork chop and grits, so you can see why she wanted fries.
My sandwich arrived with fruit, but my server graciously agreed to go fetch the missing fries, but not before instructing me to eat the mistaken fruit (melon, cantaloupe, pineapple and blackberries) in the interim. Okay, if you insist.
The crabcake passed this Maryland-raised crab lover's standards, with hunks of lump crabmeat falling out with each bite. That's what we're talking about when we say jumbo lump in Maryland.
When my fries arrived, they were well fried and fairly large (almost steak fries), tasting of potato and not just crispiness. I traded some for two bites of her porkchop.
For those who may not know (and that would not be most of the people at the bar around us), the secret to Discovery wine night is to order the second bottle by 7:00, whether you're ready for it or not. Or so I've heard from wine lovers, so we did.
Tonight's occasion was hearing about my friend's recent weekend in NYC with her new paramour and she did have tales to tell, all good. You'd think that listening to anecdotes from a romantic weekend would be like forcing a starving man to listen to tales of a feast, but I actually enjoy hearing about the possibilities of romance (you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one).
Dessert was Humbolt Fog, fruit and crackers, as fine a finish as I could have wanted. My friend went with a last course of lentil soup (don't ask), but by the time we both finished, we were full and decided to call it a night.
Just as we were paying our check, I noticed the bright red drinks going to the two guys next to us and made a suitable holiday comment, only mildly derisive. Little did I realize that that was the invitation the two guys from Ohio needed to join us.
They turned out to be delightful company, one a basketball player turned psychiatrist and the other a business owner. Before long, they knew way too much about us and were psychoanalyzing my friend (I escaped due to my absence of a love life) and her relationship with her ex.
I was at least able to join in on the discussion of the word smitten, a favorite of mine for its specific connotation (and personal history). We moved on to what is allowable outside a relationship in terms of male/female ties, a subject which turned out to be quite emotional (except for those of us not dating).
At one point, I quoted my friend Danny ("Men are simple creatures"), a point with which both the Ohioans agreed. One told us that men want to be asked about their feelings, a fact which surprised both my friend and me. Sometimes you can glean the most interesting information from strangers.
Eventually, one of the guys excused himself (they had a 6 a.m. flight) and told the other guy to sign for their bar tab ($189) and he'd see his friend in the morning. The remaining visitor finished the analysis of my friend, looking to me for backup now that his partner in crime was gone.
Hey, I don't know nothing about sustaining no relationships. You're looking at the wrong backup, friend.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Fresca: No Meat!
Today is the two-year anniversary of my being laid off, and if that doesn't call for a celebratory lunch out, I don't know what does.
A reader-turned-friend had suggested we meet at Fresca today and see what they could do for our carnivorous palates. I'm liking how that area of Cary/Addison Streets is becoming quite the little eating destination, what with Acacia, Lamplighter and now Fresca putting down stakes. No telling what might be next and that's good for everybody.
When I walked in, I found a big table of VMFA employees seriously chowing down in the sunny restaurant. They looked like happy eaters to me. My friend had not yet arrived, so I scoped out the little dining room, finding it both cheerful and interesting.
The orange and blue stools are vintage Howard Johnson's (which I found very cool since I remember eating at HoJos as a young kid) and the old neon clock on the wall had real presence.
Ikea's contribution was the light fixtures, natch, since no restaurant can be created in this town without their lighting, as well as the black chairs; the red chairs were yard sale finds and the freestanding booths were blue.
A big purple chalkboard told a tale of meatless goodness and I perused it while waiting for my friend. I had just about decided what I wanted when I heard the pizza recommended to another customer.
Hmm, now that I looked, there was an oven back there; maybe I should reconsider. And then my friend arrived to put in her vote.
I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record but we had to start with soup, in this case mushroom with roasted garlic and wild brown rice. I told her what I'd overheard about the pizza and she agreed that we needed to taste the "chorizo," roasted garlic and red pepper pizza. To round out our lunch we got the Fresca Cobb salad, a collection of "rawish" veggies, cucumbers, avocado, V bacon, cheese and Kalamata olives.
Just as we were being rung up, we spotted the house made lemon cupcakes on the counter and added that to our feast. If they're nice enough to bake for us, we certainly want to taste for them.
31-degree temperature aside, the soup was superb. Full of onions and mushrooms, the broth had a depth of flavor that had us trying to figure out how it was possible that there was no beef or chicken stock in it (we got the answer later when we asked chef/consultant Jannequin Bennett for the secret). Next time: the butternut squash soup.
It's hard to beat the instant gratification of a wood-burning oven, so we were still slurping soup when our pie arrived. Thin crusted, loaded with toppings and with just enough spice in the "chorizo" to keep it interesting, we tucked into it quite happily.
The beauty queen of the lunch, though, was the Fresca Cobb, a large plate of greens and veggies (broccoli, cauliflower, carrots) with a generous helping of avocado, egg, olives and cheese. The accompanying dressing got raves from both of us; it reminded my friend of the stellar dressing everyone who ever visited Grace Place loved and for me, it was creamy without being heavy or fatty tasting.
Turns out tofu is the magic ingredient, along with some oil and dill (other herbs still to be identified), making for a most delicious dressing to coat all those healthy veggies.
Despite the abundance of food, we found plenty of time to talk about how Jews eat, the unacceptability of electric stoves, cookie baking and me being/not being an old maid. Meanwhile, the music ranged from Led Zeppelin to Chicago; I later learned that Arcade Fire had been removed. Pity, I would have loved that. And then it was cupcake time.
This simple little cupcake, generously iced and wrapped in a square of paper, was a throwback to a simpler times. Like the lemon cakes my grandmother occasionally made, it had flecks of lemon peel in it and a sweet icing to contrast with the tartness of the lemon. After the meal we'd just had, a half was just perfect we agreed.
Jimmy Sneed had been buzzing around the room while we ate and eventually he came over and asked us what our story was. "We're just eaters," I told him. He asked if we were meat-eaters, clearly pleased when we said we were.
My friend had taken cooking classes from him years ago and shared that with him (her memory was that he hated green peppers, an aversion I share. They're not ripe, for goodness sakes. Why eat unripe anything?). He still hates them.
We talked about his appearance years ago on Julia Child's program and about the woman herself. He said she never hesitated to say what she was thinking, making me sure that I'd have liked her.
At one point, he grabbed a hunk of salt, handed it to me and said, "Lick it." Fresca touts its Utah salt, but as I told him, "No man's ever asked me to lick his salt before." I licked and liked it. I also learned that bacteria can't live on salt, so it was just fine for my friend to lick it after me (although her lick was much daintier than mine, I noticed).
By then we'd been at Fresca for a good two hours and it seemed wise to get on with our lives, so we thanked the staff and headed out into the cold sunshine.
The meat had not been missed.
A reader-turned-friend had suggested we meet at Fresca today and see what they could do for our carnivorous palates. I'm liking how that area of Cary/Addison Streets is becoming quite the little eating destination, what with Acacia, Lamplighter and now Fresca putting down stakes. No telling what might be next and that's good for everybody.
When I walked in, I found a big table of VMFA employees seriously chowing down in the sunny restaurant. They looked like happy eaters to me. My friend had not yet arrived, so I scoped out the little dining room, finding it both cheerful and interesting.
The orange and blue stools are vintage Howard Johnson's (which I found very cool since I remember eating at HoJos as a young kid) and the old neon clock on the wall had real presence.
Ikea's contribution was the light fixtures, natch, since no restaurant can be created in this town without their lighting, as well as the black chairs; the red chairs were yard sale finds and the freestanding booths were blue.
A big purple chalkboard told a tale of meatless goodness and I perused it while waiting for my friend. I had just about decided what I wanted when I heard the pizza recommended to another customer.
Hmm, now that I looked, there was an oven back there; maybe I should reconsider. And then my friend arrived to put in her vote.
I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record but we had to start with soup, in this case mushroom with roasted garlic and wild brown rice. I told her what I'd overheard about the pizza and she agreed that we needed to taste the "chorizo," roasted garlic and red pepper pizza. To round out our lunch we got the Fresca Cobb salad, a collection of "rawish" veggies, cucumbers, avocado, V bacon, cheese and Kalamata olives.
Just as we were being rung up, we spotted the house made lemon cupcakes on the counter and added that to our feast. If they're nice enough to bake for us, we certainly want to taste for them.
31-degree temperature aside, the soup was superb. Full of onions and mushrooms, the broth had a depth of flavor that had us trying to figure out how it was possible that there was no beef or chicken stock in it (we got the answer later when we asked chef/consultant Jannequin Bennett for the secret). Next time: the butternut squash soup.
It's hard to beat the instant gratification of a wood-burning oven, so we were still slurping soup when our pie arrived. Thin crusted, loaded with toppings and with just enough spice in the "chorizo" to keep it interesting, we tucked into it quite happily.
The beauty queen of the lunch, though, was the Fresca Cobb, a large plate of greens and veggies (broccoli, cauliflower, carrots) with a generous helping of avocado, egg, olives and cheese. The accompanying dressing got raves from both of us; it reminded my friend of the stellar dressing everyone who ever visited Grace Place loved and for me, it was creamy without being heavy or fatty tasting.
Turns out tofu is the magic ingredient, along with some oil and dill (other herbs still to be identified), making for a most delicious dressing to coat all those healthy veggies.
Despite the abundance of food, we found plenty of time to talk about how Jews eat, the unacceptability of electric stoves, cookie baking and me being/not being an old maid. Meanwhile, the music ranged from Led Zeppelin to Chicago; I later learned that Arcade Fire had been removed. Pity, I would have loved that. And then it was cupcake time.
This simple little cupcake, generously iced and wrapped in a square of paper, was a throwback to a simpler times. Like the lemon cakes my grandmother occasionally made, it had flecks of lemon peel in it and a sweet icing to contrast with the tartness of the lemon. After the meal we'd just had, a half was just perfect we agreed.
Jimmy Sneed had been buzzing around the room while we ate and eventually he came over and asked us what our story was. "We're just eaters," I told him. He asked if we were meat-eaters, clearly pleased when we said we were.
My friend had taken cooking classes from him years ago and shared that with him (her memory was that he hated green peppers, an aversion I share. They're not ripe, for goodness sakes. Why eat unripe anything?). He still hates them.
We talked about his appearance years ago on Julia Child's program and about the woman herself. He said she never hesitated to say what she was thinking, making me sure that I'd have liked her.
At one point, he grabbed a hunk of salt, handed it to me and said, "Lick it." Fresca touts its Utah salt, but as I told him, "No man's ever asked me to lick his salt before." I licked and liked it. I also learned that bacteria can't live on salt, so it was just fine for my friend to lick it after me (although her lick was much daintier than mine, I noticed).
By then we'd been at Fresca for a good two hours and it seemed wise to get on with our lives, so we thanked the staff and headed out into the cold sunshine.
The meat had not been missed.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
No Princes Tonight
Some evenings just make you feel like a warm muffin, you know, all happy and satisfied. This turned out to be one of those.
It started with dinner at Sprout with Andrew. Although I'd shared his birthday dinner with his friends last Friday, tonight was just the two of us doing our annual shared meal in honor of him. I applaud his ability to keep his birthday going; he's now five days in and still celebrating.
This wicked cold compelled us both to start with Charlie's chicken and potato soup, full of large chunks of chicken and skin-on potatoes floating in a lovely clear broth. I felt better about the cold with every spoonful.
For my main course, I had the sliced steak salad (salad greens and radish with mustard dressing), the meat perfectly medium rare and the freshest-tasting mixed greens possible in December.
Andrew had the grilled cheddar with sliced apples and didn't even offer me a bite, despite having nothing but superlatives to say about it. I let it slide because it was, after all, his sandwich. Dessert, in the form of raspberry cream puffs on a plate of chocolate sauce, disappeared in the blink of an eye.
I left to go to the loo and ran into a friend; we talked about last night's show which she'd missed and she kindly invited me to her Christmas party. I must have chatted longer than I realized because when I finally came out of the bathroom, Andrew was waiting for me with my coat in hand. Time to go.
And he was right because tonight was the Listening Room and smart cookies know to arrive in time to socialize (and get the good donuts, if you're so inclined) before the music starts promptly at 8. So off we went.
As I walked by the musicians' room on the way in, my friend Jameson called to me. He'd told me the other night that he wanted me (and 20 other people) to help with stage props during their set tonight. Eyeing the collection of stuffed animals on the table, he grabbed one and said, "You should have the beaver," causing the room to explode in laughter. Indeed I should.
Josh Quarles of the Speckled Bird went on first and it was a pleasure to hear him solo for a change. He announced that, "I'm going to be the boring one compared with the other two acts." Boring is not the word I would have used for his excellent songwriting and voice. He even did some looping to bring his cello playing into the room.
I have seen Jameson's band, Lobo Marino, before but I knew this was going to be a particularly colorful set. Jameson came onstage barefoot (with reason) and Laney looked like a movie star in a long gold coat over all black; Nathaniel was his usual handsome multi-talented self.
They did a few songs off the upcoming album (recorded with the oh-so-talented Dave Watkins recently) and then music off their stellar last CD, "Keep Your Head Up."
At one point, Jameson's need for bare feet became obvious when he used his big toe to turn on a power strip, which started two box fans with paper streamers attached and bits of paper resting on top. It was quite an effect as paper scattered and streamers blew around during the song.
When they got to "Animal Hands," it was time for the crowd participation. The cue was the line "Oh, my god" and it was then that stuffed animal-holders had been instructed to throw their fuzzies at the band. I was in the front row center, so it was no difficulty at all to lob my beaver directly between Jameson's thighs. Let's just say I was the one who exploded in laughter that time.
Mingling after that set, I ran into a friend who'd assured me he was coming to the Listening Room (silly me, I thought he meant at the beginning). Turns out he was late because he'd gotten drunk (at the office Christmas party) and then lost (having parked over by Crossroads Coffee by mistake and then hiked to the show). But better late than never. I invited him to join us in the front row.
The laughter continued with Fuzzy Baby's set. If you haven't experienced them before, you can't be prepared for just how unique everything about this duo is. They bill themselves as a two-person one-man band for starters.
Instruments? Guitars, cymbals, drums, tuba, clarinet, cowbells, tambourine, and a Brazilian drum played from the inside. A capella, whistling, harmonies. Songs about cheese, unrequited love, obsessive love, photo albums and one of Richmond's finest trumpeters, Bob (the already classic, "Chimpanbob").
Theirs is truly music to laugh along with, when you're not marveling at their musical talent. A photographer friend leaned over in between songs and said, "I can't believe he's keeping time like that" about Giustino playing drums, cymbals, guitar and singing all at once. Not to mention looking extremely dapper doing it.
And the stage banter! Giustino's witty repartee with the audience riffed on everything from Josh and Lobo Marino to living room practice sessions ("I always have a microphone pointed at my crotch"). Molly was the perfect foil, setting him up and batting him down.
The late arrival friend asked me afterwards if they always did the banter (they do) and if it was always the same (it never is, which impressed him no end). Walking out, I asked him if he wanted a ride back to his car. He did.
Before he got out of my car, he asked me what I was doing next. "Are you off to have a drink and talk to princes?" he wondered.
I said that I hadn't decided but that I might just go home. "And write a blog post at 11-something?" he asked, clearly not believing.
"It could happen," I told him. It did.
It started with dinner at Sprout with Andrew. Although I'd shared his birthday dinner with his friends last Friday, tonight was just the two of us doing our annual shared meal in honor of him. I applaud his ability to keep his birthday going; he's now five days in and still celebrating.
This wicked cold compelled us both to start with Charlie's chicken and potato soup, full of large chunks of chicken and skin-on potatoes floating in a lovely clear broth. I felt better about the cold with every spoonful.
For my main course, I had the sliced steak salad (salad greens and radish with mustard dressing), the meat perfectly medium rare and the freshest-tasting mixed greens possible in December.
Andrew had the grilled cheddar with sliced apples and didn't even offer me a bite, despite having nothing but superlatives to say about it. I let it slide because it was, after all, his sandwich. Dessert, in the form of raspberry cream puffs on a plate of chocolate sauce, disappeared in the blink of an eye.
I left to go to the loo and ran into a friend; we talked about last night's show which she'd missed and she kindly invited me to her Christmas party. I must have chatted longer than I realized because when I finally came out of the bathroom, Andrew was waiting for me with my coat in hand. Time to go.
And he was right because tonight was the Listening Room and smart cookies know to arrive in time to socialize (and get the good donuts, if you're so inclined) before the music starts promptly at 8. So off we went.
As I walked by the musicians' room on the way in, my friend Jameson called to me. He'd told me the other night that he wanted me (and 20 other people) to help with stage props during their set tonight. Eyeing the collection of stuffed animals on the table, he grabbed one and said, "You should have the beaver," causing the room to explode in laughter. Indeed I should.
Josh Quarles of the Speckled Bird went on first and it was a pleasure to hear him solo for a change. He announced that, "I'm going to be the boring one compared with the other two acts." Boring is not the word I would have used for his excellent songwriting and voice. He even did some looping to bring his cello playing into the room.
I have seen Jameson's band, Lobo Marino, before but I knew this was going to be a particularly colorful set. Jameson came onstage barefoot (with reason) and Laney looked like a movie star in a long gold coat over all black; Nathaniel was his usual handsome multi-talented self.
They did a few songs off the upcoming album (recorded with the oh-so-talented Dave Watkins recently) and then music off their stellar last CD, "Keep Your Head Up."
At one point, Jameson's need for bare feet became obvious when he used his big toe to turn on a power strip, which started two box fans with paper streamers attached and bits of paper resting on top. It was quite an effect as paper scattered and streamers blew around during the song.
When they got to "Animal Hands," it was time for the crowd participation. The cue was the line "Oh, my god" and it was then that stuffed animal-holders had been instructed to throw their fuzzies at the band. I was in the front row center, so it was no difficulty at all to lob my beaver directly between Jameson's thighs. Let's just say I was the one who exploded in laughter that time.
Mingling after that set, I ran into a friend who'd assured me he was coming to the Listening Room (silly me, I thought he meant at the beginning). Turns out he was late because he'd gotten drunk (at the office Christmas party) and then lost (having parked over by Crossroads Coffee by mistake and then hiked to the show). But better late than never. I invited him to join us in the front row.
The laughter continued with Fuzzy Baby's set. If you haven't experienced them before, you can't be prepared for just how unique everything about this duo is. They bill themselves as a two-person one-man band for starters.
Instruments? Guitars, cymbals, drums, tuba, clarinet, cowbells, tambourine, and a Brazilian drum played from the inside. A capella, whistling, harmonies. Songs about cheese, unrequited love, obsessive love, photo albums and one of Richmond's finest trumpeters, Bob (the already classic, "Chimpanbob").
Theirs is truly music to laugh along with, when you're not marveling at their musical talent. A photographer friend leaned over in between songs and said, "I can't believe he's keeping time like that" about Giustino playing drums, cymbals, guitar and singing all at once. Not to mention looking extremely dapper doing it.
And the stage banter! Giustino's witty repartee with the audience riffed on everything from Josh and Lobo Marino to living room practice sessions ("I always have a microphone pointed at my crotch"). Molly was the perfect foil, setting him up and batting him down.
The late arrival friend asked me afterwards if they always did the banter (they do) and if it was always the same (it never is, which impressed him no end). Walking out, I asked him if he wanted a ride back to his car. He did.
Before he got out of my car, he asked me what I was doing next. "Are you off to have a drink and talk to princes?" he wondered.
I said that I hadn't decided but that I might just go home. "And write a blog post at 11-something?" he asked, clearly not believing.
"It could happen," I told him. It did.
Understanding the Odor of Sanctity
There are two ways I could justify combining lunch and a lecture.
When eating to supplement a history lesson, be certain that the food is regionally appropriate. When someone else has made gumbo on a frigid day, enjoy the fruits of their labor. We'll ignore the obvious: it was late and I was famished.
The Library of Virginia's new exhibit, Union or Secession: Virginians Decide, occasioned today's lecture, "Reaping the Whirlwind: Virginians on the Eve of War" by Elizabeth Varon.
The talk, like the exhibition, focuses on the difficulty the Commonwealth had in deciding with whom they would align themselves as the country was fracturing apart.
Given Virginia's border location, its emphasis on state allegiance and its history as the birthplace of so many history-makers, it became clear what a difficult decision it must have been for its residents to make. But the arrogance of the South is difficult to grasp.
Since I'm not a Southerner by birth, my interest in the subject is purely academic. Not so with many in the audience. One woman asked, "Did Lee have a death wish? How did he ever think he could beat the North, given the population and economic advantage they had?"
Another woman questioned whether the South wouldn't have won if Stonewall Jackson had lived. As if one man could have made a difference given all the factors involved. As Richmond spy Elizabeth van Lew put it, "Southerners are drunk on the odor of our own sanctity." Well said.
I was pleased to hear that after the lecture, a tour of the exhibit would be offered. While the Library of VA is the repository of so many official documents, it also collects personal documents and this exhibit combined both for a look at the period from all sides.
Because Virginia was so active in the slave trade, printed bills of receipt for enslaved persons were actually made at the time. Just fill in the particulars and you've sold a person. Chilling to see. I also learned that height determined price, so at 5'5", I would have been cheap. Karen, the bargain, so to speak.
A large poster soliciting men to fight began with "To Arms! To Arms! To Arms!" and ended with "Your state is in danger. Rally to her standard!" Hard to imagine wo/men being stirred to action by such a plea today.
I was fascinated to learn that in the run-up to secession, Virginia was quite busy laying claim to the Founding Fathers...just in case they should need the connections.
In 1858, the equestrienne statue of George Washington was erected in Capital Square to provide a visual reminder of the home boy. Shortly thereafter, James Monroe's remains were re-interred at Hollywood Cemetery (how could we let a Virginia President's bones rot in New York?).
The whole exhibit, part of the upcoming Sesquicentennial Observance of the Civil War, is definitely worth a visit, as much for the personal correspondence as for the enlarged official documents that set events in motion.
I came away with a new appreciation for what a difficult decision Virginia had to make. We had little in common with the rest of the south, having an extensive railroad system, far more industry and an economy where cotton was not king (wheat was). And yet...
By the time the tour ended, it was nearly 3:00 and I was starving. Luckily, Positive Vibe Express was still open (but just barely; the girl was sweeping the floor when I came in looking pitiful and asking if I could still eat) and I was delighted to hear that today's soup was chicken and sausage gumbo.
My steaming bowl of gumbo was full of okra, rice, sausage and chicken and couldn't have been any more perfect for this weather. It also brought home the point that Virginia's culture differed from other parts of the south, like Louisiana, where the West African influence was strong.
After licking my gumbo bowl clean, I walked back out through the exhibit one last time, past pictures of slave auction houses and maps of slave holding counties in Virginia.
It's all a lesson and I'm all about learning. And eating.
When eating to supplement a history lesson, be certain that the food is regionally appropriate. When someone else has made gumbo on a frigid day, enjoy the fruits of their labor. We'll ignore the obvious: it was late and I was famished.
The Library of Virginia's new exhibit, Union or Secession: Virginians Decide, occasioned today's lecture, "Reaping the Whirlwind: Virginians on the Eve of War" by Elizabeth Varon.
The talk, like the exhibition, focuses on the difficulty the Commonwealth had in deciding with whom they would align themselves as the country was fracturing apart.
Given Virginia's border location, its emphasis on state allegiance and its history as the birthplace of so many history-makers, it became clear what a difficult decision it must have been for its residents to make. But the arrogance of the South is difficult to grasp.
Since I'm not a Southerner by birth, my interest in the subject is purely academic. Not so with many in the audience. One woman asked, "Did Lee have a death wish? How did he ever think he could beat the North, given the population and economic advantage they had?"
Another woman questioned whether the South wouldn't have won if Stonewall Jackson had lived. As if one man could have made a difference given all the factors involved. As Richmond spy Elizabeth van Lew put it, "Southerners are drunk on the odor of our own sanctity." Well said.
I was pleased to hear that after the lecture, a tour of the exhibit would be offered. While the Library of VA is the repository of so many official documents, it also collects personal documents and this exhibit combined both for a look at the period from all sides.
Because Virginia was so active in the slave trade, printed bills of receipt for enslaved persons were actually made at the time. Just fill in the particulars and you've sold a person. Chilling to see. I also learned that height determined price, so at 5'5", I would have been cheap. Karen, the bargain, so to speak.
A large poster soliciting men to fight began with "To Arms! To Arms! To Arms!" and ended with "Your state is in danger. Rally to her standard!" Hard to imagine wo/men being stirred to action by such a plea today.
I was fascinated to learn that in the run-up to secession, Virginia was quite busy laying claim to the Founding Fathers...just in case they should need the connections.
In 1858, the equestrienne statue of George Washington was erected in Capital Square to provide a visual reminder of the home boy. Shortly thereafter, James Monroe's remains were re-interred at Hollywood Cemetery (how could we let a Virginia President's bones rot in New York?).
The whole exhibit, part of the upcoming Sesquicentennial Observance of the Civil War, is definitely worth a visit, as much for the personal correspondence as for the enlarged official documents that set events in motion.
I came away with a new appreciation for what a difficult decision Virginia had to make. We had little in common with the rest of the south, having an extensive railroad system, far more industry and an economy where cotton was not king (wheat was). And yet...
By the time the tour ended, it was nearly 3:00 and I was starving. Luckily, Positive Vibe Express was still open (but just barely; the girl was sweeping the floor when I came in looking pitiful and asking if I could still eat) and I was delighted to hear that today's soup was chicken and sausage gumbo.
My steaming bowl of gumbo was full of okra, rice, sausage and chicken and couldn't have been any more perfect for this weather. It also brought home the point that Virginia's culture differed from other parts of the south, like Louisiana, where the West African influence was strong.
After licking my gumbo bowl clean, I walked back out through the exhibit one last time, past pictures of slave auction houses and maps of slave holding counties in Virginia.
It's all a lesson and I'm all about learning. And eating.
I Get the 9 Parts
It was way too cold to go out in cute tights tonight, but I did it anyway...and to three different places. But I got compliments on them at two of the three places, so maybe it was worth it after all.
I was meeting my favorite international couple at Garnett's for dinner and it was the perfect place to feel cozy and warm on this frigid night.
Our meal got off to a great start with the smoked salmon platter while I told them about the propaganda film I'd seen last night, which they seemed to get a big kick out of. We were sort of joined by the biologist, who came in and sat down next to us for dinner and added his two cents' worth now and then.
In my quest to have a sandwich I haven't had before, I ordered the grilled ham and Gouda with mayo, mustard and pickles. Since it was the couple's first visit, they got the trademark sandwiches, the Louisville Hot Brown and the Crooque Monsieur Florentine and raved about the quality of the ingredients and the sheer size of the sammies.
Because the male portion of this couple has almost as fierce a sweet tooth as I do, we finished with the blackberry cake, a misnomer because it was more of an almond cake, very moist of crumb, with a blackberry filling and a classic butter cream that pleased us all for not being overly sweet.
From there it was five blocks to the Firehouse Theater for the Readers' Theater series, tonight presenting "9 Parts of Desire," a one-woman play depicting nine different Iraqi women and their feelings about their lives. Actress Sara Heifetz did a remarkable job of conveying the issues affecting each of the women, using body language, accents and the occasional prop, all while holding her script.
The playwright spent time in Iraq getting to know women there in order to make composite characters to reflect the array of smart, strong and beautiful women she met. A line that expressed the attitude toward them, "Iraqi women don't open their mouths, even for the dentist," pretty much said it all.
At the talkback with the director and actress afterwards, the audience seemed interested in seeing the play produced despite its strong political implications. Would RVA audiences come to see a play about Iraqi women? I know I'd like to think so.
One thing I found fascinating was the origin of the title. Apparently in the book of the same name from which the play was inspired (using the word "Nine" rather than the numeral), the author posits that god created ten parts of desire and gave nine to women and one to men.
Somehow this made perfect sense to our little group. It's certainly as good an explanation for the differences in the sexes as any I've heard.
Post-dinner and theater, what else was there but music? Sprout had scheduled a show at the last minute after the goings-on over at Strange Matter this weekend (violations, closings) had left three bands with no venue, so suddenly there was an excellent bill to be had.
Arriving at Sprout, the first thing I noticed was the addition of booths to the front room along with a row of shelves to create a divider between them and the door. Visually, it looked great while creating more seating. Win/win.
After some verbal sparring with the doorman (a good friend who was jokingly insisting on seeing my ID to let me in), I went back to the bar room and ordered up a Virgil's root beer and got comfy for the first musician, Louis Cyrtmus.
He was funny, saying he used to sit down to play but found he liked to dance mid-set so now he stands instead. An audience member yelled out, "It's rock and roll; you're supposed to stand!" Wait, isn't rock and roll about breaking the rules?
He tuned his guitar midway through rather than continuing to play it out of tune, much to the approval of the audience, many of whom were musicians. His set was short, so I'll be interested to hear more in the future.
The next performance was to be in the back room, which was already crowded by the time I made my way back there. Owner Jamie saw me and invited me to join him and a couple of friends in "the VIP booth" which was really just the back table pushed up against the wall.
I was honored...and lucky because there were no other seats except on the floor and the cute tights were not going to be good for floor sitting, I can assure you.
Charlottesville-turned-Richmond band Tyger and the Lamb came next and I have to agree with a friend who said, "I wish they played out more." Saying that they played well-constructed indie rock doesn't tell you much, but I heard lots of indie influences and enjoyed every song. So that's the best I can do.
Headlining was Asheville-via-Brooklyn band The Broadcast, a soulful indie rock six-piece group that could barely be contained on Sprout's stage. Lead singer Caitlin had a big set of pipes and her voice was a standout among a bunch of really talented musicians.
Caitlin said that she was called a hippie when they were in Brooklyn and once they moved to Asheville she was called a hipster, so she's not really sure where she belongs. Someone yelled out, "Richmond!" and the audience agreed that that wasn't too far off. We do have our fair share of hippie/hipster hybrids.
The Broadcast played a different set than they intended to, based on the intimacy of the room and the crowd. It worked well and they finished with their new single, as funky a song as I've ever heard in Sprout. These guys were good.
When they finished, Jamie and his fellow DJ immediately kicked into vintage mode and as I said my goodnights, Herb Alpert's "A Taste of Honey" was blaring from the turntable, the classic album cover with the girl covered in whipped cream propped up on the table.
Unlike Iraqi women, I have the freedom to enjoy myself as I see fit, cute tights and all. Chilly as it was, it was more than worth going out in them tonight. But isn't it always?
I was meeting my favorite international couple at Garnett's for dinner and it was the perfect place to feel cozy and warm on this frigid night.
Our meal got off to a great start with the smoked salmon platter while I told them about the propaganda film I'd seen last night, which they seemed to get a big kick out of. We were sort of joined by the biologist, who came in and sat down next to us for dinner and added his two cents' worth now and then.
In my quest to have a sandwich I haven't had before, I ordered the grilled ham and Gouda with mayo, mustard and pickles. Since it was the couple's first visit, they got the trademark sandwiches, the Louisville Hot Brown and the Crooque Monsieur Florentine and raved about the quality of the ingredients and the sheer size of the sammies.
Because the male portion of this couple has almost as fierce a sweet tooth as I do, we finished with the blackberry cake, a misnomer because it was more of an almond cake, very moist of crumb, with a blackberry filling and a classic butter cream that pleased us all for not being overly sweet.
From there it was five blocks to the Firehouse Theater for the Readers' Theater series, tonight presenting "9 Parts of Desire," a one-woman play depicting nine different Iraqi women and their feelings about their lives. Actress Sara Heifetz did a remarkable job of conveying the issues affecting each of the women, using body language, accents and the occasional prop, all while holding her script.
The playwright spent time in Iraq getting to know women there in order to make composite characters to reflect the array of smart, strong and beautiful women she met. A line that expressed the attitude toward them, "Iraqi women don't open their mouths, even for the dentist," pretty much said it all.
At the talkback with the director and actress afterwards, the audience seemed interested in seeing the play produced despite its strong political implications. Would RVA audiences come to see a play about Iraqi women? I know I'd like to think so.
One thing I found fascinating was the origin of the title. Apparently in the book of the same name from which the play was inspired (using the word "Nine" rather than the numeral), the author posits that god created ten parts of desire and gave nine to women and one to men.
Somehow this made perfect sense to our little group. It's certainly as good an explanation for the differences in the sexes as any I've heard.
Post-dinner and theater, what else was there but music? Sprout had scheduled a show at the last minute after the goings-on over at Strange Matter this weekend (violations, closings) had left three bands with no venue, so suddenly there was an excellent bill to be had.
Arriving at Sprout, the first thing I noticed was the addition of booths to the front room along with a row of shelves to create a divider between them and the door. Visually, it looked great while creating more seating. Win/win.
After some verbal sparring with the doorman (a good friend who was jokingly insisting on seeing my ID to let me in), I went back to the bar room and ordered up a Virgil's root beer and got comfy for the first musician, Louis Cyrtmus.
He was funny, saying he used to sit down to play but found he liked to dance mid-set so now he stands instead. An audience member yelled out, "It's rock and roll; you're supposed to stand!" Wait, isn't rock and roll about breaking the rules?
He tuned his guitar midway through rather than continuing to play it out of tune, much to the approval of the audience, many of whom were musicians. His set was short, so I'll be interested to hear more in the future.
The next performance was to be in the back room, which was already crowded by the time I made my way back there. Owner Jamie saw me and invited me to join him and a couple of friends in "the VIP booth" which was really just the back table pushed up against the wall.
I was honored...and lucky because there were no other seats except on the floor and the cute tights were not going to be good for floor sitting, I can assure you.
Charlottesville-turned-Richmond band Tyger and the Lamb came next and I have to agree with a friend who said, "I wish they played out more." Saying that they played well-constructed indie rock doesn't tell you much, but I heard lots of indie influences and enjoyed every song. So that's the best I can do.
Headlining was Asheville-via-Brooklyn band The Broadcast, a soulful indie rock six-piece group that could barely be contained on Sprout's stage. Lead singer Caitlin had a big set of pipes and her voice was a standout among a bunch of really talented musicians.
Caitlin said that she was called a hippie when they were in Brooklyn and once they moved to Asheville she was called a hipster, so she's not really sure where she belongs. Someone yelled out, "Richmond!" and the audience agreed that that wasn't too far off. We do have our fair share of hippie/hipster hybrids.
The Broadcast played a different set than they intended to, based on the intimacy of the room and the crowd. It worked well and they finished with their new single, as funky a song as I've ever heard in Sprout. These guys were good.
When they finished, Jamie and his fellow DJ immediately kicked into vintage mode and as I said my goodnights, Herb Alpert's "A Taste of Honey" was blaring from the turntable, the classic album cover with the girl covered in whipped cream propped up on the table.
Unlike Iraqi women, I have the freedom to enjoy myself as I see fit, cute tights and all. Chilly as it was, it was more than worth going out in them tonight. But isn't it always?
Monday, December 13, 2010
Snow Pictures
I'm not a photographer, although one of my photographs did make it into the "I Dream of a Richmond" photography show a few years back, a fact of which I am inordinately proud.
Still, when I opened my bedroom shade this morning to discover it was snowing, it didn't occur to me to grab my camera before leaving for my walk. It was a shame, too, because Grace Street was a winter wonderland, offering endless photographic possibilities with the snow coming down.
At a house where the tree out front had been decorated with giant colorful Christmas balls, each wore a slightly askew cap of snow, its angle dependent on how the snow was blowing. It was especially interesting because only the balls on either side of the tree had snow caps; the center ones did not.
Holly bushes looked like something off a Christmas card, with just the sharp green points and bottoms of the red berries visible. Greenery garlands strung on porches had a similar holiday look with their accents of white. If ever these homeowners wanted to take a seasonal picture of their houses, today was the day.
I saw a few tired pumpkins covered with snow as well as some scraggly mums buried under the a blanket of it, making for a perfect analogy about the shift of the seasons.
And everyone I passed asked me some version of the same question, "Isn't the snow great?" Besides the pure pleasure of walking while it's snowing (something I love) I like it because this is the perfect snow experience: beautiful, seasonally appropriate and not the least bit inconvenient.
And while I didn't take any photographs, the images are in my head so I could go on and on about all the beautiful snow-covered things I saw (the fences, the birdhouses, the rooflines...).
Just ask.
Still, when I opened my bedroom shade this morning to discover it was snowing, it didn't occur to me to grab my camera before leaving for my walk. It was a shame, too, because Grace Street was a winter wonderland, offering endless photographic possibilities with the snow coming down.
At a house where the tree out front had been decorated with giant colorful Christmas balls, each wore a slightly askew cap of snow, its angle dependent on how the snow was blowing. It was especially interesting because only the balls on either side of the tree had snow caps; the center ones did not.
Holly bushes looked like something off a Christmas card, with just the sharp green points and bottoms of the red berries visible. Greenery garlands strung on porches had a similar holiday look with their accents of white. If ever these homeowners wanted to take a seasonal picture of their houses, today was the day.
I saw a few tired pumpkins covered with snow as well as some scraggly mums buried under the a blanket of it, making for a perfect analogy about the shift of the seasons.
And everyone I passed asked me some version of the same question, "Isn't the snow great?" Besides the pure pleasure of walking while it's snowing (something I love) I like it because this is the perfect snow experience: beautiful, seasonally appropriate and not the least bit inconvenient.
And while I didn't take any photographs, the images are in my head so I could go on and on about all the beautiful snow-covered things I saw (the fences, the birdhouses, the rooflines...).
Just ask.
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