As a DC native, I will never think of National Airport as Reagan Airport. For my friend, it's Bombay that will never be Mumbai to him. And both of us are having a tough time making the transition from Bouchon to Bistro Bobette.
But we're trying and tonight's cocktail party for Bobette's regulars was what brought up the subject of name changes. He asked if I was going to Bouchon; I said yes, I was going to BB and that's how the whole thing unfolded. Change is tough.
Not so the party, a delightful mix of customers who frequent the space on Cary Street with the new name. When I got there, I was immediately given wine and bartender Olivier introduced me to the man standing next to me, resulting in a most unexpected exchange.
I asked what he did (artist) and he asked what I did (write). Without a moment's pause, he said, "You write the I Could Go On and On blog." Color me shocking pink because how in the world had he figured that out? He said all it took was my name and occupation.
Wow. I was wildly flattered that he reads my blog, even more so when he said he'd wondered if the blog wasn't a compendium of several people's activities since the "writer" was out every night. I assured him it was just me living this rather odd little life.
If that had been the extent of our conversation, it would have been memorable, but he turned out to be a really interesting guy. He and his wife had moved to RVA from NYC because they'd fallen in love with our fair city (as opposed to all the people who leave RVA for NYC, only to inevitably return).
I had even seen his show at Ghostprint Gallery last fall; I remember being impressed enough that I would have bought a painting if not for my writer's budget. I asked him about where he eats here, his thoughts on VMFA and what he missed about the big city (pizza mostly).
Together we sampled the array of taste delights being passed around. Hands down, the hot dogs stole my heart; Chef Francis has Sausagecraft make them from his personal recipe.
When the mound of toothpicks from my frankfurter feast became embarrassingly large, I finally asked Olivier to remove the evidence. Actually, I had to do that twice...or thrice, I don't remember. Hopefully, no one was keeping track.
Also being passed were cured salmon on house made rye crisps, puff pastry with three cheeses and herbs, and liver mousse crostini. It was a nice little cocktail party spread.
The crowd was a lively one; lots of accents, several artists, a wine master-to-be and a good assortment of neighbors made for an eclectic mix of people to talk to. My couple date finally showed and we formed a corner group, taking on any and all comers in conversation.
When the official party wound down, my couple date and I moved our unofficial one to Juelp. I arrived first to a nearly full bar and sat down next to an accommodating guy who offered to make room for me and my soon-to-arrive friends.
I made a crack about the cornbread crumbs he'd left on the bar in front of me and he sheepishly admitted to having just eaten two of those sweet Southern muffins.
"And I'd already had two appetizers and soup!" he bragged. My friends had just come in when a rack of lamb was deposited in front of the guy. Turning to my friends, I amazed them by sharing what he'd already consumed.
To all our astonishment, his plate was gone within five minutes. Man versus food, right there at Julep. Man won.
We couldn't compete with an eater like that, so we got a variety to share. Roasted Blue Point Oysters with spicy Tasso ham and basil remoulade. Shrimp and grits with white Cheddar and grilled Andouille sausage.
A cheese plate with house made pimento cheese, a triple cream bleu, and two Caromonts. Pan-seared foie gras with Granny Smith apple-cranberry chutney, rice paper crisps and sherry vinegar beef jus.
Just a little something to nibble on. The oysters ruled, the shrimp and grits are reliably good at Julep, the crisps with the cheese so buttery they flaked apart and the foie gras incredibly rich after having started with the others.
Mixologist Bobby whipped up a tasty cocktail using his new Cream de Violette. I told him about the unusual Maker's Mark drink (with a splash of Bordeaux) that I'd tasted at Amuse last week.
Not only did he immediately recognize it (my friend had just said he'd never heard of such a thing and he's a cocktail geek), but he said it's quite the trendy thing in NYC these days (NY Sidecar, should you care). And he was there last weekend doing alcoholic investigation, so he should know.
A long discussion of NYC bars (Employees Only, not to be missed), food (bone marrow poppers; be still my heart) and trends (a gypsy in the vestibule) followed because of Bobby's recent fact-finding excursion and our interest in hearing the details.
But eventually as the night (and drinks) wore on, the topic became affairs of the heart, mostly those of Bobby and his friends.
Forgotten birthdays, crossed signals, mad chemistry and burning bridges occupied the last couple hours of the evening. The wise one of the group offered the older male perspective on pursuit and retreat (and hated being called the older one) to the younger one.
The other XX-chromosomed one and I saw his girl troubles as just that: the difficulties of dealing with an immature female who hasn't a clue who she is or what she wants.
Easy for us to say from the vantage point of a few years. Woman, girl: not interchangeable terms.
Except maybe on bathroom doors and even then, I've got no compunction whatsoever about using the men's room. I did so tonight at Bouchon and got complimented ("Damn, you have beautiful legs!") on the way out.
Excuse me, at Bistro Bobette. Change is tough.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Count Me as a Book-Owning Woman
Thomas Jefferson rules this town and if you have any doubt about that, just go to a Banner Lecture about TJ at the Virginia Historical Society. But get there early, because the parking lot is completely filled half an hour before the event.
At previous lectures, I'd observed that R.E. Lee was a big audience-getter, but I think TJ topped even old whisker-face. Speaking today was Susan Kern on her new book The Jeffersons at Shadwell, about the great man's birthplace. Oddly enough, she warned us that there would be much talk of punch.
Kern displayed a keen sense of humor immediately, saying that what had been discovered about TJ at the archaeological dig at Shadwell TJ didn't match the Five Ponds Press textbooks Virginia is using.
I couldn't resist laughing out loud which made the tiny little gray-haired woman next to me look at me in horror (my grandmother also thought I had a tendency to be too loud). The guy on the other side of me nudged me and gave me a thumbs-up in agreement, though.
Her lecture was full of fun facts, highlighting all the new information gleaned from the dig. The home of Peter and Jane Jefferson had five or six heated rooms, the dining room could hold twenty people for intimate little dinner parties, and Jane was the only woman in Virginia who owned her own books.
Some pieces of of Peter's surveying tools were even discovered and Kern said she got a huge thrill matching up the hash marks of his to her own tool. It was these images that ended up on the cover of her book, if that gives you any idea of how satisfying it must have been for a history geek to find them.
The two most startling facts I heard today were that it took five days of travel to get from Shadwell to Williamsburg and that Peter's will bequeathed his slaves to his eight children by age.
So his two year old was bequeathed a two-year old slave, the better for the servant to spend a lifetime learning the needs of serving the gentry. And, you know, so when you left the family home, you could take a person who'd known you your whole life.
As for the punch angle, a bowl of it was apparently part of the deal when Peter acquired the land for Shadwell and again at his funeral where 35-100 pounds of sugar were required to make sufficient punch to send him off.
After her lecture, Kern said, "Were it later in the day, I'd suggest a bowl of punch, but instead I'll take questions." Quite honestly, I would have preferred the questions followed by punch, but I think I'm getting spoiled by lectures with benefits.
But at least we're back in lecture season, so I'm happy to take what I can get, with or without punch.
At previous lectures, I'd observed that R.E. Lee was a big audience-getter, but I think TJ topped even old whisker-face. Speaking today was Susan Kern on her new book The Jeffersons at Shadwell, about the great man's birthplace. Oddly enough, she warned us that there would be much talk of punch.
Kern displayed a keen sense of humor immediately, saying that what had been discovered about TJ at the archaeological dig at Shadwell TJ didn't match the Five Ponds Press textbooks Virginia is using.
I couldn't resist laughing out loud which made the tiny little gray-haired woman next to me look at me in horror (my grandmother also thought I had a tendency to be too loud). The guy on the other side of me nudged me and gave me a thumbs-up in agreement, though.
Her lecture was full of fun facts, highlighting all the new information gleaned from the dig. The home of Peter and Jane Jefferson had five or six heated rooms, the dining room could hold twenty people for intimate little dinner parties, and Jane was the only woman in Virginia who owned her own books.
Some pieces of of Peter's surveying tools were even discovered and Kern said she got a huge thrill matching up the hash marks of his to her own tool. It was these images that ended up on the cover of her book, if that gives you any idea of how satisfying it must have been for a history geek to find them.
The two most startling facts I heard today were that it took five days of travel to get from Shadwell to Williamsburg and that Peter's will bequeathed his slaves to his eight children by age.
So his two year old was bequeathed a two-year old slave, the better for the servant to spend a lifetime learning the needs of serving the gentry. And, you know, so when you left the family home, you could take a person who'd known you your whole life.
As for the punch angle, a bowl of it was apparently part of the deal when Peter acquired the land for Shadwell and again at his funeral where 35-100 pounds of sugar were required to make sufficient punch to send him off.
After her lecture, Kern said, "Were it later in the day, I'd suggest a bowl of punch, but instead I'll take questions." Quite honestly, I would have preferred the questions followed by punch, but I think I'm getting spoiled by lectures with benefits.
But at least we're back in lecture season, so I'm happy to take what I can get, with or without punch.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Of Skulkers and Sweetness
For the record, I really don't get this whole Civil War Sesquicentennial thing. Do other countries mark the anniversary of their civil wars with cultural events? I honestly don't know, but it seems unlikely.
But before I got to "celebrating" bloodshed and strife, I met a friend at Lemaire for sparkling conversation and people watching on a budget. It's best if you ease into these things.
The two of us enjoyed a bottle of Centine, a blend of Sangiovese, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, as much a treat for its soft tannins and fruit-forward qualities as for its $10 price tag.
We paired it with a cheese and fruit plate of Humbolt Fog, Midnight Moon and Maytag Bleu (a steal at $9), with blackberries, grapes and apple slices. It's no wonder that the Wednesday crowds continue to grow as word spreads about what a great deal it is.
Our entertainment was the crowd around us. There was a Jersey Shore-looking couple discussing having their wedding at Lemaire; they stood out with her dyed platinum blond hair and his blacker-than-black pompadour. I'm sure they'll make a beautiful orange couple.
The guy next to me sat down, ordered a bottle of wine and never looked up, not at people, not at the TV, not at anything. My friend suggested he was just eavesdropping, but he couldn't have been hearing anything good because all of a sudden, he got his check and left, leaving half a bottle on the bar. Come back, we'll talk about juicier stuff!
As I walked out, I heard furious tapping on the restaurant's window and turned around to see a couple of restaurant owners waving madly at me.
I had to assume that both had the night off and were availing themselves of the same great deals we had while their respective restaurants chugged along without them tonight. I gave them the international symbol for party hearty and waved goodbye.
Stop number two was the Hartnett Museum at UR, first for a program of Music of the Civil War, followed by the opening and reception for "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection."
While I actually recognized a few of the songs, like "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," the rest seemed somehow familiar yet evocative of the period, if only because I just saw Gone With the Wind.
After the performance, the audience descended on the gallery to take in the drawings and engravings made to document the war for the citizenry back home.
With photo technology only able to document still images at that time, war artists were key to capturing the action as it unfolded.
The drawings showed all aspects of war life. There was one of a deserter being executed before the ranks of soldiers (let that be an example to you, boys!). Another showed Cavalry officers driving back skulkers (those shiftless soldiers who tried to avoid fighting in battle).
Most of the drawings were done to be used in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, a tabloid- format paper that brought the war home with battle depictions made by artists who risked their lives to detail them.
The drawings were transferred onto woodblocks and then divided into sections for various artists to cut out and then reassembled, resulting in about a three-day lag between receiving the image and publishing it, a feat that only Leslie's paper was capable of.
What was interesting was how the engravers "sanitized" the drawings, changing them to better reflect the paper's views.
In one scene of carnage, a wounded man's agonized face was softened to just look tired. A soldier with his arm badly wounded and dripping blood was blended into a crowd to save viewers from such unpleasantness.
Looking at the drawings, I was struck by the knowledge that they had all been created in the moment, whether in battle, punishment or glory. Many still had the fold creases from when they were mailed back to their editor for publication.
As I said, I don't entirely get the whole 150th hoopla, but these extraordinary documents of a dark time in this country's past are absolute must-sees for their first-hand accounts of life during wartime.
I socialized a bit at the reception, discussing the show with strangers and a couple of acquaintances, before heading out to Rowland to meet a friend to close out the evening. Walking in, I was warmly greeted by a trio of Amuse staff, out enjoying a night off.
Then it was over to see my girlfriend, who'd brought a friend she'd wanted me to meet (sadly, no, not a guy) who raved about my tights, but said she'd never have the nerve to wear such a thing. And yet, she's the one who had introduced my friend to that den of sexual playthings, Priscilla's.
She was amazed and appalled that I'd never been into the store, presuming that every adult has needed pleasure toys or peekaboo lingerie by this point in their life. I had to admit that I hadn't.
I may have lost the points I'd earned with the tights with my lack of a Priscilla's Frequent Customer card, but she was polite enough to keep talking to me anyway.
As I enjoyed the macadamia chocolate tart, one of the Amuse guys yelled over, "You don't need that. You're sweet enough already."
I've been called many things in my life, but sweet's never been one of them. On the other hand, even a blatant lie, when well-intended, can be appreciated.
It's not like it came from a skulker or anything.
But before I got to "celebrating" bloodshed and strife, I met a friend at Lemaire for sparkling conversation and people watching on a budget. It's best if you ease into these things.
The two of us enjoyed a bottle of Centine, a blend of Sangiovese, Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, as much a treat for its soft tannins and fruit-forward qualities as for its $10 price tag.
We paired it with a cheese and fruit plate of Humbolt Fog, Midnight Moon and Maytag Bleu (a steal at $9), with blackberries, grapes and apple slices. It's no wonder that the Wednesday crowds continue to grow as word spreads about what a great deal it is.
Our entertainment was the crowd around us. There was a Jersey Shore-looking couple discussing having their wedding at Lemaire; they stood out with her dyed platinum blond hair and his blacker-than-black pompadour. I'm sure they'll make a beautiful orange couple.
The guy next to me sat down, ordered a bottle of wine and never looked up, not at people, not at the TV, not at anything. My friend suggested he was just eavesdropping, but he couldn't have been hearing anything good because all of a sudden, he got his check and left, leaving half a bottle on the bar. Come back, we'll talk about juicier stuff!
As I walked out, I heard furious tapping on the restaurant's window and turned around to see a couple of restaurant owners waving madly at me.
I had to assume that both had the night off and were availing themselves of the same great deals we had while their respective restaurants chugged along without them tonight. I gave them the international symbol for party hearty and waved goodbye.
Stop number two was the Hartnett Museum at UR, first for a program of Music of the Civil War, followed by the opening and reception for "Civil War Drawings from the Becker Collection."
While I actually recognized a few of the songs, like "Battle Hymn of the Republic" and "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," the rest seemed somehow familiar yet evocative of the period, if only because I just saw Gone With the Wind.
After the performance, the audience descended on the gallery to take in the drawings and engravings made to document the war for the citizenry back home.
With photo technology only able to document still images at that time, war artists were key to capturing the action as it unfolded.
The drawings showed all aspects of war life. There was one of a deserter being executed before the ranks of soldiers (let that be an example to you, boys!). Another showed Cavalry officers driving back skulkers (those shiftless soldiers who tried to avoid fighting in battle).
Most of the drawings were done to be used in Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, a tabloid- format paper that brought the war home with battle depictions made by artists who risked their lives to detail them.
The drawings were transferred onto woodblocks and then divided into sections for various artists to cut out and then reassembled, resulting in about a three-day lag between receiving the image and publishing it, a feat that only Leslie's paper was capable of.
What was interesting was how the engravers "sanitized" the drawings, changing them to better reflect the paper's views.
In one scene of carnage, a wounded man's agonized face was softened to just look tired. A soldier with his arm badly wounded and dripping blood was blended into a crowd to save viewers from such unpleasantness.
Looking at the drawings, I was struck by the knowledge that they had all been created in the moment, whether in battle, punishment or glory. Many still had the fold creases from when they were mailed back to their editor for publication.
As I said, I don't entirely get the whole 150th hoopla, but these extraordinary documents of a dark time in this country's past are absolute must-sees for their first-hand accounts of life during wartime.
I socialized a bit at the reception, discussing the show with strangers and a couple of acquaintances, before heading out to Rowland to meet a friend to close out the evening. Walking in, I was warmly greeted by a trio of Amuse staff, out enjoying a night off.
Then it was over to see my girlfriend, who'd brought a friend she'd wanted me to meet (sadly, no, not a guy) who raved about my tights, but said she'd never have the nerve to wear such a thing. And yet, she's the one who had introduced my friend to that den of sexual playthings, Priscilla's.
She was amazed and appalled that I'd never been into the store, presuming that every adult has needed pleasure toys or peekaboo lingerie by this point in their life. I had to admit that I hadn't.
I may have lost the points I'd earned with the tights with my lack of a Priscilla's Frequent Customer card, but she was polite enough to keep talking to me anyway.
As I enjoyed the macadamia chocolate tart, one of the Amuse guys yelled over, "You don't need that. You're sweet enough already."
I've been called many things in my life, but sweet's never been one of them. On the other hand, even a blatant lie, when well-intended, can be appreciated.
It's not like it came from a skulker or anything.
Lunch Lecture: Talk Grouse, Think Dog
If you go to a science lecture, you will be given wine. At least that's how it worked out today the Science Museum's Lunch Break Science lecture.
Speaking on the science of wine were Jason Tesauro, Sommelier and Marketing Director at Barboursville Vineyards and Luca Paschina, winemaker of same. I took a seat in the front row and the guy nearest me immediately struck up a conversation about Chateau Morrisette, a winery I've never visited.
He recommended CM wines, specifying vintages, told me about the winery dogs and warned me about the scenic overlook's precipice, saying, "You'll feel like you're at the edge of the earth."
A person could be forgiven for thinking that I have "Talk to me" tattooed on my forehead (and even if I did it would be under my bangs) given the speed with which I end up talking to strangers sometimes.
Jason led the charge with a talk about using new technology in winemaking including NDVI (normalized difference vegetation index, a technique based on GPS), ground penetration radar (peeking into the earth for clues rather than waiting for centuries to figure it out) and sap flow technology (how thirsty is the plant really?). It was a lot of science for the non-scientific among us.
I had to laugh when he qualified all his technology talk by insisting that it wasn't for the purpose of creating 'Frankenwine' because, "You can use all these tools and still produce lousy wine." It was reassuring to hear that even the most sophisticated technology will never replace boots on the ground.
Luca's talk was an acknowledgement that technology has its place, but history has proven that the old ways have worked for centuries. He cited France as a place that has collected so much wine-making experience that no technology could compete with what has been gleaned by mere mortals.
I'd met Luca before, but was reminded today why he's such an interesting guy. Like me, he doesn't have a TV but unlike me. he goes grouse-hunting. Somehow hearing that made me think of hot dogs and I made a snap decision to have one after the lesson was over (grouse, hot dogs, I can't explain it).
I especially related to his warning to be careful about how we process scientific fact and technology; he said it's the responsibility of winemakers to decide how much to use. Some is worthy, some is not.
When he finished, he suggested that the floor be opened for specific questions and Jason suggested that after that they'd be open for specific wine drinking.
He stood and asked how many in the room had been to a Virginia winery and fully three quarters of the audience raised their hands. Gesturing to Luca, he said, "Preacher, choir." True that.
During our practicum to reinforce the lessons of the lecture, they poured two quintessential Virginia grapes, Viognier and Cabernet Franc for our sipping pleasure. Most attendees went with one or the other but I saw no need to limit my learning experience.
As we were milling about with our wine cup(s), apropos of nothing, my seatmate asked if I'd heard about the new hot dog place in the West End.
I'm not quite sure how he'd managed to read my mind, but I told him that I hadn't but was already planning on lunch at City Dogs after this. Turns out he didn't even know about the Fan location, so I was able to enlighten him before heading directly there.
One of the distinguishing features of City Dogs is how male-dominated its customer base always is, but when I walked in today, there were two other female customers. I was amazed.
After ordering my Tennessee Dog (mustard, onions, chili and cole slaw), I acknowledged as much to my server, the servers usually being the only other females in the place.
"I know, we wonder about that every day," she said. She thought women might worry about calories, although as she pointed out, the soy dog is only 60 calories ("Yea, but that's not a real hot dog," I said and she agreed wholeheartedly).
Since we're both big hot dog lovers (her favorite is the Santa Fe Dog with salsa, cheese, jalapenos, guacamole and tortilla chips), we couldn't quite get our heads around how women could pass up the pleasures of a good dog.
Could be that neither of us is a very good representation of our sex. Now that's a real possibility, at least for me.
And I'm okay with that as long as it means I get to keep inhaling a hot dog or two when the mood strikes. You know, like when someone mentions grouse hunting.
Speaking on the science of wine were Jason Tesauro, Sommelier and Marketing Director at Barboursville Vineyards and Luca Paschina, winemaker of same. I took a seat in the front row and the guy nearest me immediately struck up a conversation about Chateau Morrisette, a winery I've never visited.
He recommended CM wines, specifying vintages, told me about the winery dogs and warned me about the scenic overlook's precipice, saying, "You'll feel like you're at the edge of the earth."
A person could be forgiven for thinking that I have "Talk to me" tattooed on my forehead (and even if I did it would be under my bangs) given the speed with which I end up talking to strangers sometimes.
Jason led the charge with a talk about using new technology in winemaking including NDVI (normalized difference vegetation index, a technique based on GPS), ground penetration radar (peeking into the earth for clues rather than waiting for centuries to figure it out) and sap flow technology (how thirsty is the plant really?). It was a lot of science for the non-scientific among us.
I had to laugh when he qualified all his technology talk by insisting that it wasn't for the purpose of creating 'Frankenwine' because, "You can use all these tools and still produce lousy wine." It was reassuring to hear that even the most sophisticated technology will never replace boots on the ground.
Luca's talk was an acknowledgement that technology has its place, but history has proven that the old ways have worked for centuries. He cited France as a place that has collected so much wine-making experience that no technology could compete with what has been gleaned by mere mortals.
I'd met Luca before, but was reminded today why he's such an interesting guy. Like me, he doesn't have a TV but unlike me. he goes grouse-hunting. Somehow hearing that made me think of hot dogs and I made a snap decision to have one after the lesson was over (grouse, hot dogs, I can't explain it).
I especially related to his warning to be careful about how we process scientific fact and technology; he said it's the responsibility of winemakers to decide how much to use. Some is worthy, some is not.
When he finished, he suggested that the floor be opened for specific questions and Jason suggested that after that they'd be open for specific wine drinking.
He stood and asked how many in the room had been to a Virginia winery and fully three quarters of the audience raised their hands. Gesturing to Luca, he said, "Preacher, choir." True that.
During our practicum to reinforce the lessons of the lecture, they poured two quintessential Virginia grapes, Viognier and Cabernet Franc for our sipping pleasure. Most attendees went with one or the other but I saw no need to limit my learning experience.
As we were milling about with our wine cup(s), apropos of nothing, my seatmate asked if I'd heard about the new hot dog place in the West End.
I'm not quite sure how he'd managed to read my mind, but I told him that I hadn't but was already planning on lunch at City Dogs after this. Turns out he didn't even know about the Fan location, so I was able to enlighten him before heading directly there.
One of the distinguishing features of City Dogs is how male-dominated its customer base always is, but when I walked in today, there were two other female customers. I was amazed.
After ordering my Tennessee Dog (mustard, onions, chili and cole slaw), I acknowledged as much to my server, the servers usually being the only other females in the place.
"I know, we wonder about that every day," she said. She thought women might worry about calories, although as she pointed out, the soy dog is only 60 calories ("Yea, but that's not a real hot dog," I said and she agreed wholeheartedly).
Since we're both big hot dog lovers (her favorite is the Santa Fe Dog with salsa, cheese, jalapenos, guacamole and tortilla chips), we couldn't quite get our heads around how women could pass up the pleasures of a good dog.
Could be that neither of us is a very good representation of our sex. Now that's a real possibility, at least for me.
And I'm okay with that as long as it means I get to keep inhaling a hot dog or two when the mood strikes. You know, like when someone mentions grouse hunting.
Dinner with a Kiwi
Few subject lines make my blood run cold like "I know how you felt 2 years ago," which showed up in my inbox today. I wouldn't want my worst enemy to know how I felt two years ago, much less a close friend.
Fortunately, that subject line referred only to my friend getting laid off and while that's plenty to deal with, it's only a fraction of what I was dealt back then, here.
But it's still enough to process that I offered to meet up with him and be an ear and that's how we found ourselves the only customers at Secco late this afternoon.
And Secco was a lovely place to be with that winter weather-threatening sky all around us and our lit candle for ambiance and pseudo-warmth. It was downright cozy.
He told me how it went down and we compared that to my experience. We discussed his future possibilities and how bad events eventually deliver good things (I'm proof of that). He insisted that he was not devastated by it and seemed to be sincere.
On the plus side, he'd already observed that being laid off meant people wanted to buy him drinks, and he was liking that part of all this. I reminded him that now he could stay up as late as he wanted, also a good thing.
Before we knew it, a couple of hours had passed and we both had plans to move on to.
Mine involved a friend who'd invited me to a Clos du Bois wine dinner for four at the Berkeley Hotel with the wine rep and the winemaker, a charming New Zealander who now lives and works in the Alexander Valley.
We began with a couple of social hours with the dining room's manger, sipping Clos du Bois' Reserve Merlot and Marlstone, two outstanding reds that kept the conversation focused on wine and winemaking...except when we were discussing rugby, soccer and Legend brown ale (a brewing mistake, I learned tonight).
The bacon-wrapped housemade country pate and crostini that arrived during our conversation was stellar and the fact that it was served warm noted. The warmth brought out the earthy flavors in the best possible way, causing my friend and I to wonder why pate isn't served warm more often.
We had the pleasure of being joined by Hall of Famer Willy Lanier, who sat down and stole the spotlight while sharing some wine with us.
We had a particularly interesting discussion with him of Bill and Hillary's relationship dynamic and considered at what point it became acceptable to flash one's thong in the Oval Office. Did we just have to wait for the thong to be invented or was it a generational thing?
When our football great of a guest departed, the four of us made our way to the table for dinner, sitting boy/girl/boy/girl for mixing purposes. Our server was a neighbor of mine ("Hey, I know you!"), making for excellent Jackson Ward representation in the room.
After the intense satisfaction of all those bottles of Clos du Bois, we came back to earth with a bottle of Wild Hog Zinfandel to enjoy with our meal. We kicked things off with an amuse bouche of shrimp fritters, then I had the wedge salad. It was followed by the rabbit stew with a spiced pear sorbet arriving in between it and the wedge.
The rabbit stew had a cheese-topped biscuit floating on its sea of veggies and tender, braised rabbit. I couldn't have imagined a better meal for a damp, cold night like the one just outside the windows of the dining room. Sorry, Thumper.
Considering our unlikely group, we had a fascinating night of conversation, ranging from the difference between a state and a Commonwealth (quick, do you know?), how corking decisions are made and the particulars of our local delicacy, Brunswick Stew. No surprise that squirrel talk followed.
Naturally, I had to talk music with the winemaker (causing my friend to say, "I stay out of it when she starts talking music"). The only New Zealanders I could think of were the Finn brothers (whom he'd seen with Eddie Vedder) but he schooled me in some less well-known NZ bands to check out.
I stayed out of the marmite versus Vegemite discussion, but took his recommendation that it's a taste best acquired in childhood. Looks like I missed my chance.
For me it was fortunate that I hadn't missed my chance to spend the evening with my first New Zealand native, a guy who actually said, "When I got out of university I had three career choices: beer, wine or cheese." Luckily for the wine world, the hophead chose the grape.
When our marathon wine party ended, my friend suggested a stop at Comfort for a nightcap. But the gentlemen had to be up and on the road to DC at 7:30 a.m., so we soldiered on without them.
Walking into Comfort, bartender Greg looked at us suspiciously and asked, "What have you been up to?"
Tonight there were a lot of interesting answers to that question. I settled for "Drinking good wine" but that didn't begin to cover what a satisfying night it had been.
Fortunately, that subject line referred only to my friend getting laid off and while that's plenty to deal with, it's only a fraction of what I was dealt back then, here.
But it's still enough to process that I offered to meet up with him and be an ear and that's how we found ourselves the only customers at Secco late this afternoon.
And Secco was a lovely place to be with that winter weather-threatening sky all around us and our lit candle for ambiance and pseudo-warmth. It was downright cozy.
He told me how it went down and we compared that to my experience. We discussed his future possibilities and how bad events eventually deliver good things (I'm proof of that). He insisted that he was not devastated by it and seemed to be sincere.
On the plus side, he'd already observed that being laid off meant people wanted to buy him drinks, and he was liking that part of all this. I reminded him that now he could stay up as late as he wanted, also a good thing.
Before we knew it, a couple of hours had passed and we both had plans to move on to.
Mine involved a friend who'd invited me to a Clos du Bois wine dinner for four at the Berkeley Hotel with the wine rep and the winemaker, a charming New Zealander who now lives and works in the Alexander Valley.
We began with a couple of social hours with the dining room's manger, sipping Clos du Bois' Reserve Merlot and Marlstone, two outstanding reds that kept the conversation focused on wine and winemaking...except when we were discussing rugby, soccer and Legend brown ale (a brewing mistake, I learned tonight).
The bacon-wrapped housemade country pate and crostini that arrived during our conversation was stellar and the fact that it was served warm noted. The warmth brought out the earthy flavors in the best possible way, causing my friend and I to wonder why pate isn't served warm more often.
We had the pleasure of being joined by Hall of Famer Willy Lanier, who sat down and stole the spotlight while sharing some wine with us.
We had a particularly interesting discussion with him of Bill and Hillary's relationship dynamic and considered at what point it became acceptable to flash one's thong in the Oval Office. Did we just have to wait for the thong to be invented or was it a generational thing?
When our football great of a guest departed, the four of us made our way to the table for dinner, sitting boy/girl/boy/girl for mixing purposes. Our server was a neighbor of mine ("Hey, I know you!"), making for excellent Jackson Ward representation in the room.
After the intense satisfaction of all those bottles of Clos du Bois, we came back to earth with a bottle of Wild Hog Zinfandel to enjoy with our meal. We kicked things off with an amuse bouche of shrimp fritters, then I had the wedge salad. It was followed by the rabbit stew with a spiced pear sorbet arriving in between it and the wedge.
The rabbit stew had a cheese-topped biscuit floating on its sea of veggies and tender, braised rabbit. I couldn't have imagined a better meal for a damp, cold night like the one just outside the windows of the dining room. Sorry, Thumper.
Considering our unlikely group, we had a fascinating night of conversation, ranging from the difference between a state and a Commonwealth (quick, do you know?), how corking decisions are made and the particulars of our local delicacy, Brunswick Stew. No surprise that squirrel talk followed.
Naturally, I had to talk music with the winemaker (causing my friend to say, "I stay out of it when she starts talking music"). The only New Zealanders I could think of were the Finn brothers (whom he'd seen with Eddie Vedder) but he schooled me in some less well-known NZ bands to check out.
I stayed out of the marmite versus Vegemite discussion, but took his recommendation that it's a taste best acquired in childhood. Looks like I missed my chance.
For me it was fortunate that I hadn't missed my chance to spend the evening with my first New Zealand native, a guy who actually said, "When I got out of university I had three career choices: beer, wine or cheese." Luckily for the wine world, the hophead chose the grape.
When our marathon wine party ended, my friend suggested a stop at Comfort for a nightcap. But the gentlemen had to be up and on the road to DC at 7:30 a.m., so we soldiered on without them.
Walking into Comfort, bartender Greg looked at us suspiciously and asked, "What have you been up to?"
Tonight there were a lot of interesting answers to that question. I settled for "Drinking good wine" but that didn't begin to cover what a satisfying night it had been.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Dixie and Lullabies
I had a night fit for a child; I had stories told to me and lullabies sung to me. I should sleep very well tonight.
This evening, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story was presenting another extravaganza of righteous storytelling at Balliceaux and the theme was "Down with Dixie."
After attending their last event, I knew to expect half a dozen pre-chosen storytellers to start followed by intermission and then volunteer storytellers from the audience.
Tonight's stories ranged from the picaresque to the socially significant. One was about a southern Sunday dinner and moonshine subbbing for vinegar on collards. Another was about Union spy and Church Hill resident Elizabeth van Lew.
One told of her realization in ninth grade that her parents were racists because of their intensely negative reaction to her being asked to homecoming by a black football player.
One story told by a self-described "New York Jew" was about counter-intelligence work he did in RVA during the 1960s, infiltrating the White Citizens' Council, a group he described as "the KKK in business suits" who met in Hanover County. He remembered how he'd been lulled into thinking that the leader was just a regular guy with entirely different viewpoints.
Another told a tale of making a difference; she and her husband volunteered at the local library two nights a month. When the library board decided to ban blacks from checking out books, the couple met with an emissary from the local black community and let him know that on the nights they were there, everyone could check out books.
One of the most dramatic was by a woman who dated the nephew of the man who bombed the Birmingham church that killed four little girls in the 60s. After the bombing, his mother heard the man say incriminating things and saw the dynamite; she eventually testified against him, resulting in years of death threats. But she had spoken up because she couldn't not do so.
This month's stories were far more dramatic than November's and time and again, I was struck by how powerful it was to be hearing these strangers' stories that I would have otherwise never known.
I was so engrossed that it took me the better part of the evening to finish my glass of (another excellent) Chilean cab and a stellar chai-infused chocolate pate with blackberries and whipped cream. And that's saying something.
Seated on the couch next to me was an African-American guy and during intermission, I asked him how the stories were affecting him; he wanted to know the same from me.
He was struck by how much of the attitudes mentioned still exist and, like me, by how relatively recently things had been so very different in terms of race.
After such a compelling event, I'd have thought that not much could have held a candle to it, but I'd have been wrong.
I'd been invited to an evening of songs, carols and stories in a log cabin just across the river. The Music Tapes is a group who travels around the east coast playing at people's houses at bedtime singing soothing songs. And at this time of year, they add in a holiday element.
The hostess had e-mailed me last week saying she was considering wearing her pajamas to the show and asking my opinion on that. I told her that if it were at my house and people were coming to sing me lullabies, I'd wear my pj's. (Okay, I don't have pj's, but if I did, I would).
So she had on pajamas and her husband had on his slippers and there was mulled wine and baked goods. The two dozen of us were ready for whatever the Music Tapes were bringing us.
And it was quite the holiday lullaby show. The Tapes had three multi-talented members playing musical saw, tuba, toy piano, keyboard, trumpet and more. They'd created a mechanized organ-playing tower with wooden hands that stroked the keys.
They had a bubble machine that showered us with bubbles; I was close enough that they were breaking on my face. There was a circular bird cage holder decorated with Christmas lights with a bell hanging in it where the cage would go.
The banjos were usually played with a bow. We saw a movie of a performing elephant shown onto a pillow the hostess was holding. The plastic snowman and sheep figures sang to us.
"Let It Snow" merited a double musical saw performance. "Night and Day" was introduced as a love song to day and nighttime. There were jokes about genies and Sylvester Stallone. There were stories about Romanian circuses and the song that was used to put out fires before water was invented.
And at the end, we were all given blindfolds (mine was black and white polka dotted) and told a soothing story about the dark, what it does to us and what a friend it can be.
By the time we took the blindfolds off, I'm sure I wasn't the only one in the dark room who wished my bed was in the next room.
Wonder what I'll dream about tonight...
This evening, Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story was presenting another extravaganza of righteous storytelling at Balliceaux and the theme was "Down with Dixie."
After attending their last event, I knew to expect half a dozen pre-chosen storytellers to start followed by intermission and then volunteer storytellers from the audience.
Tonight's stories ranged from the picaresque to the socially significant. One was about a southern Sunday dinner and moonshine subbbing for vinegar on collards. Another was about Union spy and Church Hill resident Elizabeth van Lew.
One told of her realization in ninth grade that her parents were racists because of their intensely negative reaction to her being asked to homecoming by a black football player.
One story told by a self-described "New York Jew" was about counter-intelligence work he did in RVA during the 1960s, infiltrating the White Citizens' Council, a group he described as "the KKK in business suits" who met in Hanover County. He remembered how he'd been lulled into thinking that the leader was just a regular guy with entirely different viewpoints.
Another told a tale of making a difference; she and her husband volunteered at the local library two nights a month. When the library board decided to ban blacks from checking out books, the couple met with an emissary from the local black community and let him know that on the nights they were there, everyone could check out books.
One of the most dramatic was by a woman who dated the nephew of the man who bombed the Birmingham church that killed four little girls in the 60s. After the bombing, his mother heard the man say incriminating things and saw the dynamite; she eventually testified against him, resulting in years of death threats. But she had spoken up because she couldn't not do so.
This month's stories were far more dramatic than November's and time and again, I was struck by how powerful it was to be hearing these strangers' stories that I would have otherwise never known.
I was so engrossed that it took me the better part of the evening to finish my glass of (another excellent) Chilean cab and a stellar chai-infused chocolate pate with blackberries and whipped cream. And that's saying something.
Seated on the couch next to me was an African-American guy and during intermission, I asked him how the stories were affecting him; he wanted to know the same from me.
He was struck by how much of the attitudes mentioned still exist and, like me, by how relatively recently things had been so very different in terms of race.
After such a compelling event, I'd have thought that not much could have held a candle to it, but I'd have been wrong.
I'd been invited to an evening of songs, carols and stories in a log cabin just across the river. The Music Tapes is a group who travels around the east coast playing at people's houses at bedtime singing soothing songs. And at this time of year, they add in a holiday element.
The hostess had e-mailed me last week saying she was considering wearing her pajamas to the show and asking my opinion on that. I told her that if it were at my house and people were coming to sing me lullabies, I'd wear my pj's. (Okay, I don't have pj's, but if I did, I would).
So she had on pajamas and her husband had on his slippers and there was mulled wine and baked goods. The two dozen of us were ready for whatever the Music Tapes were bringing us.
And it was quite the holiday lullaby show. The Tapes had three multi-talented members playing musical saw, tuba, toy piano, keyboard, trumpet and more. They'd created a mechanized organ-playing tower with wooden hands that stroked the keys.
They had a bubble machine that showered us with bubbles; I was close enough that they were breaking on my face. There was a circular bird cage holder decorated with Christmas lights with a bell hanging in it where the cage would go.
The banjos were usually played with a bow. We saw a movie of a performing elephant shown onto a pillow the hostess was holding. The plastic snowman and sheep figures sang to us.
"Let It Snow" merited a double musical saw performance. "Night and Day" was introduced as a love song to day and nighttime. There were jokes about genies and Sylvester Stallone. There were stories about Romanian circuses and the song that was used to put out fires before water was invented.
And at the end, we were all given blindfolds (mine was black and white polka dotted) and told a soothing story about the dark, what it does to us and what a friend it can be.
By the time we took the blindfolds off, I'm sure I wasn't the only one in the dark room who wished my bed was in the next room.
Wonder what I'll dream about tonight...
Monday, January 10, 2011
Party, Pie and Pathos
No doubt about it, restaurant owners sure know how to throw a party, even when it's not at their restaurant. Or maybe especially when it's not at their restaurant.
Best of all, the party was right in the neighborhood, affording me an opportunity to see the inside of their 1846 J-Ward house. And while my house is old (1876), it couldn't compare to this stately three-story house with servants' rooms and separate staircase in the back.
The party was a great mix of people from the neighborhood, the restaurant and their work, so I saw plenty of familiar faces and met lots of new ones. A Fan restaurant owner recognized me from his restaurant, he said, and my days walking in the Museum District and that's been over four years now.
The food spread was notable for its abundance and the fact that it had not been prepared by the restaurant staff. Instead, our hostess had spent the day slaving in the kitchen, wowing her staff with the results and the fact that they didn't have to do anything.
Knowing I am a red wine lover, the hostess offered to open a bottle of Unco Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile, saying that she wanted to offer it to someone who would savor it. I was more than happy to be that volunteer and was rewarded with a beautiful, full-bodied wine.
The house was full of local art and I did a full tour in order to see who they had collected since I do the same; we overlapped only on Adam Juresko.
There was a pool table in one of the front parlors, so there was always a game in progress, not that I can play anything that requires hand/eye coordination, but it was fun to watch as people got loopier and less concerned abut where their cues were going.
After a couple of most enjoyable hours taking to new people and eating myself silly, I had to leave to make a dinner double date (my role being that of unnecessary extra).
When I got to Ipanema, I told bartender Brandon that I was there for fifth wheel duty and he said, "They're waiting for you in the back." At least everyone's clear on my role here.
Because I had already eaten so much at the party, my dinner consisted of blueberry pie a la mode while they ate entrees. My mother would not have approved.
It was my first time seeing all the photos I had taken at the Thanksgiving party using someone else's camera and I have to agree with those I photographed that I did a damn fine job of capturing that party. I'm just not sure how I ended up in any of the pictures.
We were an odd group; four of the five of us are bloggers and another four of the five on Twitter, necessarily making for conversation about some of the other players in those fields. I just can't keep my thoughts to 140 characters.
Since we had a teacher in our midst, I brought up the Virginia textbook debacle to hear his opinion on it and share mine. I'm fascinated about how stuff like that happens.
We talked about the Live at Ipanema series, but they stayed put when I went to claim a bar stool so I could have a good view of the Itchy Hearts when they started playing. Best of all, once there I found several friends in the vicinity and ready to provide company until the music began.
A musician friend had given me a mix tape file for Christmas and his first question after I thanked him for it was whether or not I had rearranged the order of the songs (I hadn't). He's the only person I know of besides myself who actually rearranges CDs to achieve the perfect order and I guess he'd been worried I might.
Even more flattering, he said he wants me to listen to his own CD when recording is finished to give him my opinion of its order. I consider that request quite an honor and told him so. What do I know, besides what my ear likes?
Tonight the Itchy Hearts was just Andy Cobb because the other two band members couldn't make it. A friend told me that as often as not, Andy is the Itchy Hearts. While it would have been nice to have the full effect, his songs are so heartfelt that everything is conveyed with just his guitar and voice.
He commented on how odd it is that people are willing to come listen to him sing about his emotional anguish, downplaying how satisfying it is to hear a musician express what we non-musical types cannot. Sure, I've got heartbreak, but I can't make it sound nearly as soulful as Andy can.
It was a noisy crowd tonight with lots of high-pitched laughter mid-set, but it was worth it to be back in the little basement restaurant for an evening of folk music and friends, many of whom I hadn't seen since before the holidays.
And every time I was asked how my holidays were, I answered, "Great. Glad they're over."
Best of all, the party was right in the neighborhood, affording me an opportunity to see the inside of their 1846 J-Ward house. And while my house is old (1876), it couldn't compare to this stately three-story house with servants' rooms and separate staircase in the back.
The party was a great mix of people from the neighborhood, the restaurant and their work, so I saw plenty of familiar faces and met lots of new ones. A Fan restaurant owner recognized me from his restaurant, he said, and my days walking in the Museum District and that's been over four years now.
The food spread was notable for its abundance and the fact that it had not been prepared by the restaurant staff. Instead, our hostess had spent the day slaving in the kitchen, wowing her staff with the results and the fact that they didn't have to do anything.
Knowing I am a red wine lover, the hostess offered to open a bottle of Unco Cabernet Sauvignon from Chile, saying that she wanted to offer it to someone who would savor it. I was more than happy to be that volunteer and was rewarded with a beautiful, full-bodied wine.
The house was full of local art and I did a full tour in order to see who they had collected since I do the same; we overlapped only on Adam Juresko.
There was a pool table in one of the front parlors, so there was always a game in progress, not that I can play anything that requires hand/eye coordination, but it was fun to watch as people got loopier and less concerned abut where their cues were going.
After a couple of most enjoyable hours taking to new people and eating myself silly, I had to leave to make a dinner double date (my role being that of unnecessary extra).
When I got to Ipanema, I told bartender Brandon that I was there for fifth wheel duty and he said, "They're waiting for you in the back." At least everyone's clear on my role here.
Because I had already eaten so much at the party, my dinner consisted of blueberry pie a la mode while they ate entrees. My mother would not have approved.
It was my first time seeing all the photos I had taken at the Thanksgiving party using someone else's camera and I have to agree with those I photographed that I did a damn fine job of capturing that party. I'm just not sure how I ended up in any of the pictures.
We were an odd group; four of the five of us are bloggers and another four of the five on Twitter, necessarily making for conversation about some of the other players in those fields. I just can't keep my thoughts to 140 characters.
Since we had a teacher in our midst, I brought up the Virginia textbook debacle to hear his opinion on it and share mine. I'm fascinated about how stuff like that happens.
We talked about the Live at Ipanema series, but they stayed put when I went to claim a bar stool so I could have a good view of the Itchy Hearts when they started playing. Best of all, once there I found several friends in the vicinity and ready to provide company until the music began.
A musician friend had given me a mix tape file for Christmas and his first question after I thanked him for it was whether or not I had rearranged the order of the songs (I hadn't). He's the only person I know of besides myself who actually rearranges CDs to achieve the perfect order and I guess he'd been worried I might.
Even more flattering, he said he wants me to listen to his own CD when recording is finished to give him my opinion of its order. I consider that request quite an honor and told him so. What do I know, besides what my ear likes?
Tonight the Itchy Hearts was just Andy Cobb because the other two band members couldn't make it. A friend told me that as often as not, Andy is the Itchy Hearts. While it would have been nice to have the full effect, his songs are so heartfelt that everything is conveyed with just his guitar and voice.
He commented on how odd it is that people are willing to come listen to him sing about his emotional anguish, downplaying how satisfying it is to hear a musician express what we non-musical types cannot. Sure, I've got heartbreak, but I can't make it sound nearly as soulful as Andy can.
It was a noisy crowd tonight with lots of high-pitched laughter mid-set, but it was worth it to be back in the little basement restaurant for an evening of folk music and friends, many of whom I hadn't seen since before the holidays.
And every time I was asked how my holidays were, I answered, "Great. Glad they're over."
Sunday, January 9, 2011
GWTW Virgins
If you want a truly unique experience watching Gone with the Wind, go with a) someone who's never seen it before and b) in a theater full of people who laugh at the wrong moments. Like today's Movie and Mimosas show at the Bowtie.
I didn't realize my friend hadn't seen it before or that her impression was that it had a happy ending.
She was totally unprepared for the rapid-fire deaths of Frank Kennedy, Bonnie Blue and Miss Melly and just as disturbed by how much she grew to dislike the Scarlett character as the movie wore on.
She didn't even realize she'd committed to a four-hour extravaganza, commenting on our way out, "Well, this day's gone now." Yes, but you're a better person for it, I assured her.
The crowd reacted oddly to the movie, laughing at a scene where a man fights having his leg amputated and at almost everything Mammy said, whether it was humorous or not. At the close of the first half when Scarlett vows never to be hungry again in the fields of Tara, they cackled.
To their credit, they gasped when Bonnie broke her neck falling off her pony and when Scarlett fell down the steps miscarrying, so maybe they were just first-timers, too. What else would explain laughing out loud at "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"?
But it had been at least ten years since I'd seen GWTW on the big screen and Bowtie not only played the overture, but the intermission and exit music as well to give us the full 1939 experience. So I was glad to have devoted most of my afternoon to it.
Truth be told, I'm entranced by a man who woos and proposes by saying, "I can't go all my life waiting to catch you between husbands."
Count me as a fan of Rhett Butler-type men: black-hearted varmints with no need for a reputation who appreciate the same.
His emphasis on frequent kissing doesn't hurt, either.
I didn't realize my friend hadn't seen it before or that her impression was that it had a happy ending.
She was totally unprepared for the rapid-fire deaths of Frank Kennedy, Bonnie Blue and Miss Melly and just as disturbed by how much she grew to dislike the Scarlett character as the movie wore on.
She didn't even realize she'd committed to a four-hour extravaganza, commenting on our way out, "Well, this day's gone now." Yes, but you're a better person for it, I assured her.
The crowd reacted oddly to the movie, laughing at a scene where a man fights having his leg amputated and at almost everything Mammy said, whether it was humorous or not. At the close of the first half when Scarlett vows never to be hungry again in the fields of Tara, they cackled.
To their credit, they gasped when Bonnie broke her neck falling off her pony and when Scarlett fell down the steps miscarrying, so maybe they were just first-timers, too. What else would explain laughing out loud at "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn"?
But it had been at least ten years since I'd seen GWTW on the big screen and Bowtie not only played the overture, but the intermission and exit music as well to give us the full 1939 experience. So I was glad to have devoted most of my afternoon to it.
Truth be told, I'm entranced by a man who woos and proposes by saying, "I can't go all my life waiting to catch you between husbands."
Count me as a fan of Rhett Butler-type men: black-hearted varmints with no need for a reputation who appreciate the same.
His emphasis on frequent kissing doesn't hurt, either.
Friend Gone (Slightly) Mad
Question: Is it wrong to expect a long-time friend to act like a friend? Better question: Is it unrealistic?
Case in point: I recently heard from an old friend, someone I hadn't seen in years, but whom I've known for over a decade. We were never close, but periodically we'd run into each other and hang out, nothing more.
His phone call was to invite me to dinner to catch up and see where each other's life was these days. He suggested Avalon at 5:00 and although it seemed ungodly early to meet for dinner, I promised to be there.
Not surprisingly, we were the first people in the door, with our pick of tables. My friend even inadvertently influenced the music by asking me loudly, "What the hell is this music?' which immediately caused it to be changed to Miles Davis and jazz. I guess the staff had no one else to listen to but him.
Looking to me to decide what wine to drink (a questionable decision at best), I chose the Seven of Hearts Viognier-Rousanne, a refreshing blend with nice acidity. My friend was pleased with my choice and even made a note of it, intending to pick up a few bottles. I'd done good, he said.
Unfortunately, we got started on the topic of politics, never a good thing because of the gulf that exists between our beliefs. The funny part was that he kept hearing my opinions as variations of his, saying time and again that we weren't that far off in our politics. He believes Bush was brilliant and Obama is a socialist and I don't. Enough said.
As the bottle was nearing an end, we decided to order, no quick task for a man who had to ask what pork belly and veal sweetbreads were.
I started with the autumn pear and apple salad with frisee, roasted local peanuts and blackberries with rosemary vinaigrette followed by the rack of lamb with braised Swiss chard and turnip/parsnip puree.
My dear old friend, desperately seeking meat and potatoes, asked for the beef teres major with a date and sweet potato mash, but only after questioning the mash and requesting his meat well done. I'm guessing he thought we were very compatible on food as well.
While I was enjoying my salad, he was saying, "Boy that looks like some dull rabbit food." I suggested he enjoy some bread with blueberry butter and keep his thoughts to himself. Meanwhile I was trying to remember our last meal together and if it had been this much of a pain.
Fortunately he loved his entree and my lamb was exquisite, medium-rare and rich enough to contrast with the bite of the chard.
We talked about less controversial topics like the VA ABC (who doesn't hate the government being in the alcohol business?) and our parents' failed attempts at the rhythm method (from big families, both of us).
When none of the desserts appealed to me, he suggested I come back to his place for a glass of wine, saying he'd bought a bottle he thought I'd like.
Although I had made plans to meet a girlfriend later (ensuring myself an out), I still had an hour to kill, so I agreed. Besides, he wanted me to meet his new hound and how could I resist that?
Things got off to a fine start with him lighting the gas fireplace to take the chill off of the night air, the hound enthusiastically sniffing and jumping on me and two glasses of an excellent St. Francis Cabernet Sauvignon being poured.
I complimented him on his wine choice, saying that I liked its long finish and appreciated his thoughtfulness in choosing it with me in mind.
He told me about his match.com adventures, brought me up to date on his relationships of the past few years and shared some of his recent dating attempts. He asked for mine, but of course I had none to share and said so. That may have been my mistake.
"How about I get us a hotel room at the beach and we'll see what happens in bed with a view of the ocean?" he asked without a trace of humor.
I gave him the friend look of death, to which he responded, "What, too bold?" Yes, I told him, too bold and completely inappropriate.
"But we've been friends all these years and I've never really pressured you to sleep with me, so maybe it's time I did," he said as if it was the most logical conclusion in the world.
"You never know what might happen if we gave it a try." I don't know what driving off a cliff might be like, either, but I'm not trying it.
I declined another glass of wine and said my goodnights to the hound and the clueless, heading to Lemaire to meet my girlfriend. Before she arrived, I had some company in the form of a local who chatted me up after we bonded over both having been laid off a couple of years ago.
He told me about the 16" of snow they'd recently gotten in Virginia Beach, his hometown. He said that he eats at Lemaire once a week for the pork chop because it's so good. And he complained about the expense of having to buy a top hat and cane for a friend's upcoming wedding. What do you do with them afterwards?
I so wanted to get his opinion on what my friend had just said to me, mainly for the male point of view, but couldn't bring myself to share.
Then my girlfriend arrived and for the next couple of hours I listened to her talk about her love life while sipping wine and eating Humbolt Fog, but never mentioning what had happened.
Maybe I was trying to block out the shock of his out-of-the-blue offer. Maybe I was just happy she was acting like a normal friend.
Maybe the whole thing was just too ridiculous to take seriously. Especially from a long-time friend.
Case in point: I recently heard from an old friend, someone I hadn't seen in years, but whom I've known for over a decade. We were never close, but periodically we'd run into each other and hang out, nothing more.
His phone call was to invite me to dinner to catch up and see where each other's life was these days. He suggested Avalon at 5:00 and although it seemed ungodly early to meet for dinner, I promised to be there.
Not surprisingly, we were the first people in the door, with our pick of tables. My friend even inadvertently influenced the music by asking me loudly, "What the hell is this music?' which immediately caused it to be changed to Miles Davis and jazz. I guess the staff had no one else to listen to but him.
Looking to me to decide what wine to drink (a questionable decision at best), I chose the Seven of Hearts Viognier-Rousanne, a refreshing blend with nice acidity. My friend was pleased with my choice and even made a note of it, intending to pick up a few bottles. I'd done good, he said.
Unfortunately, we got started on the topic of politics, never a good thing because of the gulf that exists between our beliefs. The funny part was that he kept hearing my opinions as variations of his, saying time and again that we weren't that far off in our politics. He believes Bush was brilliant and Obama is a socialist and I don't. Enough said.
As the bottle was nearing an end, we decided to order, no quick task for a man who had to ask what pork belly and veal sweetbreads were.
I started with the autumn pear and apple salad with frisee, roasted local peanuts and blackberries with rosemary vinaigrette followed by the rack of lamb with braised Swiss chard and turnip/parsnip puree.
My dear old friend, desperately seeking meat and potatoes, asked for the beef teres major with a date and sweet potato mash, but only after questioning the mash and requesting his meat well done. I'm guessing he thought we were very compatible on food as well.
While I was enjoying my salad, he was saying, "Boy that looks like some dull rabbit food." I suggested he enjoy some bread with blueberry butter and keep his thoughts to himself. Meanwhile I was trying to remember our last meal together and if it had been this much of a pain.
Fortunately he loved his entree and my lamb was exquisite, medium-rare and rich enough to contrast with the bite of the chard.
We talked about less controversial topics like the VA ABC (who doesn't hate the government being in the alcohol business?) and our parents' failed attempts at the rhythm method (from big families, both of us).
When none of the desserts appealed to me, he suggested I come back to his place for a glass of wine, saying he'd bought a bottle he thought I'd like.
Although I had made plans to meet a girlfriend later (ensuring myself an out), I still had an hour to kill, so I agreed. Besides, he wanted me to meet his new hound and how could I resist that?
Things got off to a fine start with him lighting the gas fireplace to take the chill off of the night air, the hound enthusiastically sniffing and jumping on me and two glasses of an excellent St. Francis Cabernet Sauvignon being poured.
I complimented him on his wine choice, saying that I liked its long finish and appreciated his thoughtfulness in choosing it with me in mind.
He told me about his match.com adventures, brought me up to date on his relationships of the past few years and shared some of his recent dating attempts. He asked for mine, but of course I had none to share and said so. That may have been my mistake.
"How about I get us a hotel room at the beach and we'll see what happens in bed with a view of the ocean?" he asked without a trace of humor.
I gave him the friend look of death, to which he responded, "What, too bold?" Yes, I told him, too bold and completely inappropriate.
"But we've been friends all these years and I've never really pressured you to sleep with me, so maybe it's time I did," he said as if it was the most logical conclusion in the world.
"You never know what might happen if we gave it a try." I don't know what driving off a cliff might be like, either, but I'm not trying it.
I declined another glass of wine and said my goodnights to the hound and the clueless, heading to Lemaire to meet my girlfriend. Before she arrived, I had some company in the form of a local who chatted me up after we bonded over both having been laid off a couple of years ago.
He told me about the 16" of snow they'd recently gotten in Virginia Beach, his hometown. He said that he eats at Lemaire once a week for the pork chop because it's so good. And he complained about the expense of having to buy a top hat and cane for a friend's upcoming wedding. What do you do with them afterwards?
I so wanted to get his opinion on what my friend had just said to me, mainly for the male point of view, but couldn't bring myself to share.
Then my girlfriend arrived and for the next couple of hours I listened to her talk about her love life while sipping wine and eating Humbolt Fog, but never mentioning what had happened.
Maybe I was trying to block out the shock of his out-of-the-blue offer. Maybe I was just happy she was acting like a normal friend.
Maybe the whole thing was just too ridiculous to take seriously. Especially from a long-time friend.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
His and Her Camera Views
How could I be so foolish as to trust the RTD?
Once again, they have shown their ineptitude, this time with something as simple as a fricking calendar.
But the afternoon wasn't a complete loss because the book talk at Fountain Books with Chip Jones, author of War Shots: Norm Hatch and the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Cameramen of WW II, was fascinating and supplemented by some of the most compelling WW II photographs I've ever laid eyes on.
Using images shot by the very cameramen he writes about, Jones talked about former Marine Hatch and his happenstance route to becoming the preeminent photographer of the island-hopping campaign late in the war.
The kid who couldn't afford college ended up documenting the key moments of the war and eventually becoming an advisor to Hollywood on war films.
A photo of Hatch wading ashore with a hundred pounds of film and photo equipment on his shoulders to avoid the waves said it all.
All I could think was that it was a good thing he was young and strong, although Jones said Hatch still has amazing upper body strength, even at 90.
There were photos of Hatch shooting fires, the devastation after Nagasaki and flag-raising at Iwo Jima, all striking for how dangerous his work in documenting the war effort was.
When Jones asked Hatch about how he dealt with being surrounded by such awfulness and death, Hatch claimed "emotional detachment," a difficult thing to believe given what he witnessed.
The audience was full of former Marines, no doubt sharing Jones' sentiment that hearing Hatch's stories somehow gave them a window into their own fathers' wartime experiences.
Without that frame of reference, my interest was mainly in hearing a first-hand witness' take on it all.
I had been joined by my fellow nerd James, who claimed to Fountain owner Kelly that we compete to attend the most nerdy events.
Trying to impress James with my event knowledge, I asked if he was going to the artist talk after the book talk.
Since he didn't even know about it, that round went to me.
Reynolds Gallery was hosting a gallery talk with artist Sally Mann at 1 (or so the unreliable RTD had printed) and James was beside himself about it when I told him.
All of a sudden, we were heading straight from Fountain to Reynolds for more shared learning.
So you can imagine our mutual disappointment when we walked in to a full house and owner Bev Reynolds immediately apologizing because the gallery talk had been earlier.
She told us to come in for the question and answer session in progress and apologized profusely for the RTD error. I lost all my points right there.
Sorry, James.
I don't know who looked the most crestfallen, James, me, or the other latecomers clustered around us.
We only got to hear about ten minutes worth of Mann talking and while it was really good stuff (her developing methods, her shooting strategies), it was only a fraction of what she'd shared with the audience before we arrived.
Over-sized mounted copies of one of Mann's photographs were given to the audience, so there was that unexpected gift, but either of us would have preferred listening to Mann for an hour to a consolation prize.
On the other hand, we got to hear Mann talk about her work for ten minutes and for that we were grateful.
It doesn't excuse the RTD's sloppiness (or my error in taking them at their word), but we had to appreciate the satisfaction of a Saturday spent hearing about the art of photography past and present.
And that, I'm afraid, is what makes us nerds.
Once again, they have shown their ineptitude, this time with something as simple as a fricking calendar.
But the afternoon wasn't a complete loss because the book talk at Fountain Books with Chip Jones, author of War Shots: Norm Hatch and the U.S. Marine Corps Combat Cameramen of WW II, was fascinating and supplemented by some of the most compelling WW II photographs I've ever laid eyes on.
Using images shot by the very cameramen he writes about, Jones talked about former Marine Hatch and his happenstance route to becoming the preeminent photographer of the island-hopping campaign late in the war.
The kid who couldn't afford college ended up documenting the key moments of the war and eventually becoming an advisor to Hollywood on war films.
A photo of Hatch wading ashore with a hundred pounds of film and photo equipment on his shoulders to avoid the waves said it all.
All I could think was that it was a good thing he was young and strong, although Jones said Hatch still has amazing upper body strength, even at 90.
There were photos of Hatch shooting fires, the devastation after Nagasaki and flag-raising at Iwo Jima, all striking for how dangerous his work in documenting the war effort was.
When Jones asked Hatch about how he dealt with being surrounded by such awfulness and death, Hatch claimed "emotional detachment," a difficult thing to believe given what he witnessed.
The audience was full of former Marines, no doubt sharing Jones' sentiment that hearing Hatch's stories somehow gave them a window into their own fathers' wartime experiences.
Without that frame of reference, my interest was mainly in hearing a first-hand witness' take on it all.
I had been joined by my fellow nerd James, who claimed to Fountain owner Kelly that we compete to attend the most nerdy events.
Trying to impress James with my event knowledge, I asked if he was going to the artist talk after the book talk.
Since he didn't even know about it, that round went to me.
Reynolds Gallery was hosting a gallery talk with artist Sally Mann at 1 (or so the unreliable RTD had printed) and James was beside himself about it when I told him.
All of a sudden, we were heading straight from Fountain to Reynolds for more shared learning.
So you can imagine our mutual disappointment when we walked in to a full house and owner Bev Reynolds immediately apologizing because the gallery talk had been earlier.
She told us to come in for the question and answer session in progress and apologized profusely for the RTD error. I lost all my points right there.
Sorry, James.
I don't know who looked the most crestfallen, James, me, or the other latecomers clustered around us.
We only got to hear about ten minutes worth of Mann talking and while it was really good stuff (her developing methods, her shooting strategies), it was only a fraction of what she'd shared with the audience before we arrived.
Over-sized mounted copies of one of Mann's photographs were given to the audience, so there was that unexpected gift, but either of us would have preferred listening to Mann for an hour to a consolation prize.
On the other hand, we got to hear Mann talk about her work for ten minutes and for that we were grateful.
It doesn't excuse the RTD's sloppiness (or my error in taking them at their word), but we had to appreciate the satisfaction of a Saturday spent hearing about the art of photography past and present.
And that, I'm afraid, is what makes us nerds.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Pocahontas Was Not a Jesus Freak
The snowfall was an especially nice touch, as was the knight, but I could have done without the maggots.
For me, the first First Friday of 2011 began at the VMFA as they kicked off documentary month for their Friday Film series. Tonight's screening was Little White Feather and the Hunter, about the legend of Pocahontas, certainly a topic near and dear to the history of Virginia.
While the film's images of the estuary landscape of the Chesapeake Bay and Essex, England were striking, the voice overs seemed scattered; they ranged from ancestors of Pocahontas' tribe to anthropologists and archaeologists, all explaining their take on the Indian princess who moved to England and converted to Christianity ("She was looking for Jesus," one said. No, she wasn't, you wacko).
Call me a wimp, but I wasn't the only one who had a tough time seeing an image of a bloody, recently-killed deer strung up from a tree and drawn-out shots of oyster shucking seemed irrelevant after a while.
Mainly the film served to show the wide range of perceptions and misconceptions people still have about Pocahontas, both here and in England.
My innate nerdiness showed itself because I left feeling vaguely dissatisfied with having learned absolutely nothing new; the film was pretty but vapid and that's coming from a documentary dork.
Back in the Ward, I began my gallery tour at ADA Gallery for the Morgan Herrin piece, "Untitled." The 7' wooden sculpture of a knight who seems to have stalactites hanging downwards from his body like icicles, was the undisputed highlight of the evening.
I still remember my sheer awe at encountering his untitled female nude (the one bought by Lance Armstrong) on a Sunday morning on Floyd Avenue a few years ago; this piece has the same monumentality, classicism and skill with wood that stopped me in my tracks that day.
As I stood there gaping at the beauty of the work and wishing I could run my hand over it, a guy behind me said, "Now I just need to get my love life in order and life will be great." He said it so nonchalantly that I wanted to turn around and ask, "Yea, me, too. Exactly how do you do that?"
Over at Gallery 5, the Papier-Machete exhibit of paper works was packed, and with good reason. The large scale cut-out works were beautiful, full of energy and so intricate and detailed that the first thing I'd ask the artists is how long it took her (and what happened to her social life in the meantime).
I found the papier- mache road kill pieces especially clever; recreations of actual road kill were made and filled with wildflower seeds.
After the show, the pieces will be returned to the streets where their predecessors were first found and eventually the wildflowers will begin to sprout from their artistic shells. Naturally, photos will document the growth.
These pieces led to a discussion with a couple of (male) gallery-goers about finding dead animals (possums, armadillos and such) only to discover upon picking them up (something I would never do) that they were dead and full of maggots.
Descriptions of slime and decay followed and I made my escape, finding a couple of friends nearby with whom I could discuss more pleasant things.
On the way out I saw a box of faux cupcakes in GallowLily's "Sweet Home" exhibit and pretended to take a swipe of icing to make my friend Andrew laugh (I'm an icing licker from way back and he knows this. Hell, he's videotaped it).
Except that my gloved finger came up unexpectedly full of frosting. Oops. He backed away, saying, "I didn't see a thing," as I snagged the cupcake to remove the evidence of my folly, eating it as we made our way out.
The gloves had to come off, though; cupcakes lose a good part of their pleasure when finger-licking isn't possible. Lesson learned.
We decided to make our way to 1708 Gallery on the basis of another friend's endorsement of the Mathew Friday show there, based on the state of Texas banning mention of Thomas Jefferson in its history books. In Texas, though; really is anyone surprised?
"The Liberty of Empire" was structured almost like a workshop, exploring some of Thomas Jefferson's less-publicized passions (like his interest in anarchist Utopian communities, his budding interest in ecology and disdain for capitalism) and how they relate to our country today.
As the friend who had recommended the exhibit had told me, "Go see it once through tonight and then go back to really take it all in."
Since he's one of RVA's preeminent history buffs, I knew as soon as we got there that he was right. It was provocative, but tough to appreciate amongst the crowds; I will go back and explore what a raving lunatic TJ must have been to dream so big.
We walked into Quirk for a quick peek at the pottery show featuring a lot of large-sale jugs and vessels beautifully decorated, but the surprise came when we exited the gallery to find it seriously snowing. We are becoming a place where it snows regularly and no one's quite used to it.
It was beautiful and people around me were getting excited about it, although as a high school teacher I randomly spoke to told me, it was a waste. "What good does Friday snow do me?" Um, save you snow make-up days come June perhaps?
My friends were headed to the Slip/Bottom for a "bar hop" ("Do you mean pub crawl?" another friend humorously corrected) beginning at Sine' (again, her comment, "God, why there?"), but I was more in the mood for some wine, a view of the falling snow and a long chat with an old friend.
Got it all...without hopping or crawling.
For me, the first First Friday of 2011 began at the VMFA as they kicked off documentary month for their Friday Film series. Tonight's screening was Little White Feather and the Hunter, about the legend of Pocahontas, certainly a topic near and dear to the history of Virginia.
While the film's images of the estuary landscape of the Chesapeake Bay and Essex, England were striking, the voice overs seemed scattered; they ranged from ancestors of Pocahontas' tribe to anthropologists and archaeologists, all explaining their take on the Indian princess who moved to England and converted to Christianity ("She was looking for Jesus," one said. No, she wasn't, you wacko).
Call me a wimp, but I wasn't the only one who had a tough time seeing an image of a bloody, recently-killed deer strung up from a tree and drawn-out shots of oyster shucking seemed irrelevant after a while.
Mainly the film served to show the wide range of perceptions and misconceptions people still have about Pocahontas, both here and in England.
My innate nerdiness showed itself because I left feeling vaguely dissatisfied with having learned absolutely nothing new; the film was pretty but vapid and that's coming from a documentary dork.
Back in the Ward, I began my gallery tour at ADA Gallery for the Morgan Herrin piece, "Untitled." The 7' wooden sculpture of a knight who seems to have stalactites hanging downwards from his body like icicles, was the undisputed highlight of the evening.
I still remember my sheer awe at encountering his untitled female nude (the one bought by Lance Armstrong) on a Sunday morning on Floyd Avenue a few years ago; this piece has the same monumentality, classicism and skill with wood that stopped me in my tracks that day.
As I stood there gaping at the beauty of the work and wishing I could run my hand over it, a guy behind me said, "Now I just need to get my love life in order and life will be great." He said it so nonchalantly that I wanted to turn around and ask, "Yea, me, too. Exactly how do you do that?"
Over at Gallery 5, the Papier-Machete exhibit of paper works was packed, and with good reason. The large scale cut-out works were beautiful, full of energy and so intricate and detailed that the first thing I'd ask the artists is how long it took her (and what happened to her social life in the meantime).
I found the papier- mache road kill pieces especially clever; recreations of actual road kill were made and filled with wildflower seeds.
After the show, the pieces will be returned to the streets where their predecessors were first found and eventually the wildflowers will begin to sprout from their artistic shells. Naturally, photos will document the growth.
These pieces led to a discussion with a couple of (male) gallery-goers about finding dead animals (possums, armadillos and such) only to discover upon picking them up (something I would never do) that they were dead and full of maggots.
Descriptions of slime and decay followed and I made my escape, finding a couple of friends nearby with whom I could discuss more pleasant things.
On the way out I saw a box of faux cupcakes in GallowLily's "Sweet Home" exhibit and pretended to take a swipe of icing to make my friend Andrew laugh (I'm an icing licker from way back and he knows this. Hell, he's videotaped it).
Except that my gloved finger came up unexpectedly full of frosting. Oops. He backed away, saying, "I didn't see a thing," as I snagged the cupcake to remove the evidence of my folly, eating it as we made our way out.
The gloves had to come off, though; cupcakes lose a good part of their pleasure when finger-licking isn't possible. Lesson learned.
We decided to make our way to 1708 Gallery on the basis of another friend's endorsement of the Mathew Friday show there, based on the state of Texas banning mention of Thomas Jefferson in its history books. In Texas, though; really is anyone surprised?
"The Liberty of Empire" was structured almost like a workshop, exploring some of Thomas Jefferson's less-publicized passions (like his interest in anarchist Utopian communities, his budding interest in ecology and disdain for capitalism) and how they relate to our country today.
As the friend who had recommended the exhibit had told me, "Go see it once through tonight and then go back to really take it all in."
Since he's one of RVA's preeminent history buffs, I knew as soon as we got there that he was right. It was provocative, but tough to appreciate amongst the crowds; I will go back and explore what a raving lunatic TJ must have been to dream so big.
We walked into Quirk for a quick peek at the pottery show featuring a lot of large-sale jugs and vessels beautifully decorated, but the surprise came when we exited the gallery to find it seriously snowing. We are becoming a place where it snows regularly and no one's quite used to it.
It was beautiful and people around me were getting excited about it, although as a high school teacher I randomly spoke to told me, it was a waste. "What good does Friday snow do me?" Um, save you snow make-up days come June perhaps?
My friends were headed to the Slip/Bottom for a "bar hop" ("Do you mean pub crawl?" another friend humorously corrected) beginning at Sine' (again, her comment, "God, why there?"), but I was more in the mood for some wine, a view of the falling snow and a long chat with an old friend.
Got it all...without hopping or crawling.
Breaking the Mold at Breakfast
You have to wonder if you're getting a little predictable when you walk into a restaurant (say, 821 Cafe) at 9:30 and the server looks at you and says, "You're not getting nachos for breakfast, are you?"
No, smartypants, I'm not. It has to be 10:45 or later in order for me to feel justified in ordering nachos (and calling it brunch) without grossing people out.
My photographer friend had invited me to breakfast and arrived with an impressively big camera (the guy at the next stool noting that, "Boy, have you got a big lens," surely something every guy wants to hear). It took him a few moments to take in the splendor of the new 821; it was his first visit since the move and renovation.
"I don't know if I like it," he said uneasily. "It looks so...clean. And bright." That's sort of the beauty of it: the old tables, chairs and stools, but all in a pristine new room. And with the same mostly punk music always playing, although we did hear some vintage Tears for Fears and the Fixx this morning.
Friend got eggs and the pancakes, a stack nearly as impressively big as his camera and I put together a Breakfast Platter (any four sides), consisting of bacon, fresh fruit, an everything bagel and sausage patties. Not a black bean in sight.
Not your typical breakfast of champions, but plenty good enough to dim the memory of the nachos I wasn't having.
Besides, I don't want them to think they have me pegged.
No, smartypants, I'm not. It has to be 10:45 or later in order for me to feel justified in ordering nachos (and calling it brunch) without grossing people out.
My photographer friend had invited me to breakfast and arrived with an impressively big camera (the guy at the next stool noting that, "Boy, have you got a big lens," surely something every guy wants to hear). It took him a few moments to take in the splendor of the new 821; it was his first visit since the move and renovation.
"I don't know if I like it," he said uneasily. "It looks so...clean. And bright." That's sort of the beauty of it: the old tables, chairs and stools, but all in a pristine new room. And with the same mostly punk music always playing, although we did hear some vintage Tears for Fears and the Fixx this morning.
Friend got eggs and the pancakes, a stack nearly as impressively big as his camera and I put together a Breakfast Platter (any four sides), consisting of bacon, fresh fruit, an everything bagel and sausage patties. Not a black bean in sight.
Not your typical breakfast of champions, but plenty good enough to dim the memory of the nachos I wasn't having.
Besides, I don't want them to think they have me pegged.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Show Me Something Good
Give me buildings, give me dresses, give me food and wine. I am so happy it's January and life as I know and need it has resumed.
I got the ball rolling at the Virginia Center for Architecture for the Design 2010 opening and reception. The competition awards recognition to the best examples of architecture, interior design and preservation projects from the last year, all done by Virginia firms. Go, local.
Each of the projects shown had merit (as judged by a jury), but some really caught my attention. An office building in a Baltimore, for instance, used waste metal panels from a local bike cog manufacturer to define a wall. Cool enough, but made all the more so by the fact that it was meant to reflect the strong bike culture in that office.
They even had one of the panels on display, which I was dying to touch, but the sign said not to (why, because I might hurt the metal?). What a clever and meaningful use for a waste product.
Winners included projects as diverse as the renovation of the 1818 Stephen Decatur house in Washington to the recent expansion of the VMFA, with buildings at UVA, Rice University and Washington and Lee in between.
The renovation of the Art Deco Henrico Theater was especially compelling, being so close to home. Paint analysis was used to determine the theater's original interior colors (red, orange and silver) and both the carpet and wall tile were meticulously recreated to ensure historical accuracy. Now I know I need to see that theater for myself.
Having satisfied my architecture jones, I left to meet a friend at Amuse. To my surprise, the Wearable Art fashion show was in full progress, having been rescheduled from its original date due to snow.
We arrived at the perfect time to catch the last catwalk featuring all the models and designers in their finery. The atrium was packed with family and friends of the high-school designers and models involved, but we managed to find a place from which to take it all in.
The outfits were, for the most part, over the top in the way that only fashion designed for haute couture or by high school students can be. Lots of bubble dresses, trains and enormous accessories, all wildly impractical.
Two things struck me. One was the prevalence of male designers; there were plenty of teen aged guys willing to show their designing talents to the world.
Second was the contrast between the models and designers. For the most part, the designers dressed in a completely low-key manner and loped behind their creatively-garbed models who strutted for all they were worth.
From there we dodged people to make it upstairs to a packed Amuse. Bartender Stephen greeted me as we sat down at two center stools. We heard about the cocktail of the evening (lemon and lime juices, Maker's Mark and a splash of Bordeaux) and ordered one to share, finding it pretty and surprisingly tasty.
Friend did the ordering duties, choosing the 2008 Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and the cheese plate so we would be fortified for some good chatting since it had been a while since our last in-depth conversation.
She told me about her new position, I explained why I still haven't started dating, she shared her insight on several people she knows better than I do and we talked about restaurants, new and old. Some topics never die.
We tasted some faux absinthe (I tell you, it's everywhere lately) as well as the new Wasmund's rye spirit, a single malt rye from Rappahannock. And then the place was suddenly flooded with light.
No one was sure what caused it, but several customers called it "cruel" and the staff scrambled to dim the lights, no easy maneuver given that the lighting system is French and no one fully understands how to work it. But we were about ready to go anyway, so we paid up and I thanked Stephen for yet another excellent evening at Amuse.
As the guy sitting a stool away had acknowledged to me earlier, "This is the best bar in the neighborhood." I know what he means.
We decided to make Six Burner our ending point and slid in just in time to get a plate of fried oysters in a creamy sriracha sauce before the kitchen closed. The three tables around us provided the low-key chatter to accompany the Motown soundtrack as we ate.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see that the featured red was Warwick Pinotage, one of my very favorite grapes (gamy, smokey and, according to friend's superior nose, "smells like bacon") and a shoe-in to be my choice whenever I see it on a menu (which is not nearly often enough).
Bartender Josh kept us amused with tales of recording rap bands, recent road trips and rock god posturing. He also asked me what good shows were coming up, the same thing my friend had asked me just minutes before. What do I look like, a walking music calendar?
You're not seeing the full picture, my friends. It isn't only about music, but it does have to grab me.
Like cog panels, bubble dresses and local rye. It just has to be interesting.
I got the ball rolling at the Virginia Center for Architecture for the Design 2010 opening and reception. The competition awards recognition to the best examples of architecture, interior design and preservation projects from the last year, all done by Virginia firms. Go, local.
Each of the projects shown had merit (as judged by a jury), but some really caught my attention. An office building in a Baltimore, for instance, used waste metal panels from a local bike cog manufacturer to define a wall. Cool enough, but made all the more so by the fact that it was meant to reflect the strong bike culture in that office.
They even had one of the panels on display, which I was dying to touch, but the sign said not to (why, because I might hurt the metal?). What a clever and meaningful use for a waste product.
Winners included projects as diverse as the renovation of the 1818 Stephen Decatur house in Washington to the recent expansion of the VMFA, with buildings at UVA, Rice University and Washington and Lee in between.
The renovation of the Art Deco Henrico Theater was especially compelling, being so close to home. Paint analysis was used to determine the theater's original interior colors (red, orange and silver) and both the carpet and wall tile were meticulously recreated to ensure historical accuracy. Now I know I need to see that theater for myself.
Having satisfied my architecture jones, I left to meet a friend at Amuse. To my surprise, the Wearable Art fashion show was in full progress, having been rescheduled from its original date due to snow.
We arrived at the perfect time to catch the last catwalk featuring all the models and designers in their finery. The atrium was packed with family and friends of the high-school designers and models involved, but we managed to find a place from which to take it all in.
The outfits were, for the most part, over the top in the way that only fashion designed for haute couture or by high school students can be. Lots of bubble dresses, trains and enormous accessories, all wildly impractical.
Two things struck me. One was the prevalence of male designers; there were plenty of teen aged guys willing to show their designing talents to the world.
Second was the contrast between the models and designers. For the most part, the designers dressed in a completely low-key manner and loped behind their creatively-garbed models who strutted for all they were worth.
From there we dodged people to make it upstairs to a packed Amuse. Bartender Stephen greeted me as we sat down at two center stools. We heard about the cocktail of the evening (lemon and lime juices, Maker's Mark and a splash of Bordeaux) and ordered one to share, finding it pretty and surprisingly tasty.
Friend did the ordering duties, choosing the 2008 Chateau Ste. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon and the cheese plate so we would be fortified for some good chatting since it had been a while since our last in-depth conversation.
She told me about her new position, I explained why I still haven't started dating, she shared her insight on several people she knows better than I do and we talked about restaurants, new and old. Some topics never die.
We tasted some faux absinthe (I tell you, it's everywhere lately) as well as the new Wasmund's rye spirit, a single malt rye from Rappahannock. And then the place was suddenly flooded with light.
No one was sure what caused it, but several customers called it "cruel" and the staff scrambled to dim the lights, no easy maneuver given that the lighting system is French and no one fully understands how to work it. But we were about ready to go anyway, so we paid up and I thanked Stephen for yet another excellent evening at Amuse.
As the guy sitting a stool away had acknowledged to me earlier, "This is the best bar in the neighborhood." I know what he means.
We decided to make Six Burner our ending point and slid in just in time to get a plate of fried oysters in a creamy sriracha sauce before the kitchen closed. The three tables around us provided the low-key chatter to accompany the Motown soundtrack as we ate.
I couldn't have been more pleased to see that the featured red was Warwick Pinotage, one of my very favorite grapes (gamy, smokey and, according to friend's superior nose, "smells like bacon") and a shoe-in to be my choice whenever I see it on a menu (which is not nearly often enough).
Bartender Josh kept us amused with tales of recording rap bands, recent road trips and rock god posturing. He also asked me what good shows were coming up, the same thing my friend had asked me just minutes before. What do I look like, a walking music calendar?
You're not seeing the full picture, my friends. It isn't only about music, but it does have to grab me.
Like cog panels, bubble dresses and local rye. It just has to be interesting.
I'll Wait, Not Call
When someone gives me a hard time about not having a cell phone, I have plenty of justification for why I won't become one of the mobile masses. But one of the primary reasons is as simple as what cell phone culture has done to people's attention spans.
I can't always think of an example of this when I'm trying to justify myself to the cell-dedicated, but I heard a perfect example on my walk today. Heading toward the Village on Grace Street, a guy was looking left and right. Finally, he called someone and asked the dumbest question I've heard in a while, "Are you here?"
Apparently the callee confirmed what the caller had already known; he wasn't there yet. "Okay, then I'll go back inside and get a table," caller boy said.
Remember back in the olden days when you were meeting a friend at a restaurant and they weren't there when you arrived? You had a choice to make; you could get a table and wait for them or stand out front and wait for them.
But the issue wasn't so pressing or perplexing that you needed to know immediately in order to decide your course of action. Whether you stood or sat, your friend was likely going to find you once they arrived. And if they never showed, you ate lunch by yourself. But life went on.
Mine still does, but clearly I'm in the minority. Maybe that's my objection to cell phones: they negate the need for patience. And isn't patience worth preserving?
Patience is a virtue.
Possess it if you can.
Seldom found in woman.
Never found in man.
I beg to differ.
I can't always think of an example of this when I'm trying to justify myself to the cell-dedicated, but I heard a perfect example on my walk today. Heading toward the Village on Grace Street, a guy was looking left and right. Finally, he called someone and asked the dumbest question I've heard in a while, "Are you here?"
Apparently the callee confirmed what the caller had already known; he wasn't there yet. "Okay, then I'll go back inside and get a table," caller boy said.
Remember back in the olden days when you were meeting a friend at a restaurant and they weren't there when you arrived? You had a choice to make; you could get a table and wait for them or stand out front and wait for them.
But the issue wasn't so pressing or perplexing that you needed to know immediately in order to decide your course of action. Whether you stood or sat, your friend was likely going to find you once they arrived. And if they never showed, you ate lunch by yourself. But life went on.
Mine still does, but clearly I'm in the minority. Maybe that's my objection to cell phones: they negate the need for patience. And isn't patience worth preserving?
Patience is a virtue.
Possess it if you can.
Seldom found in woman.
Never found in man.
I beg to differ.
Talent vs. Pac-Man
I once had a seafood terrine so well-done that when I finished eating it, I immediately ordered another. That was at the Inn at Montross back in the 90s and I've never forgotten it or had a comparable one since.
Until tonight.
I spent the day road tripping on the Northern Neck doing research for a piece I'm writing on wineries (I know, I know, but somebdy's got to do it). For road music, I went all-girl today: Nellie McKay for theatrics, Petula Clark for the retro touch and Neko Case for that voice and the heartbreak. Women and wine, it just made sense.
When I got home, I had a call from a friend suggesting dinner, but after a solitary day alone with my thoughts, I wasn't ready to do the dinner companion thing, at least not well, so I declined and decided on Aziza's alone instead.
Perfect choice. My favorite server welcomed me in, poured me the Marques de Riscal Tempranillo and gave me a moment with the menu, saying, "I don't need to explain any of that to you." No indeed.
And there it was, waiting for me: scallop and lobster terrine with mixed greens, leeft (turnips pickled in beet and jalapeno juice), pickled onions and anchovy aioli. Oh. My. God.
The slices of creamy terrine, with their delicate flavor and full of chunks of seafood, were atop a creamy lobster sauce set off perfectly by the tang of the leeft and the salty ailoi.
One bite and I was transported back to that restaurant on the Northern Neck that had introduced me to this dish. How had it taken so long for me to enjoy that sublime taste again?
Between the wine, the crusty bread, the terrine, and the Sinatra bandstand channel they were playing, it was a perfect meal.
My server friend provided just enough conversation when I wasn't reading the Post article about six DC chefs losing weight despite the restaurant lifestyle (kind of fascinating, actually). I couldn't have asked for anything more (alright, maybe...).
When it came time to make the big decision (cream puff: yea or nay?), she helped swing my vote to wine over dessert with a most compelling argument. Besides, that puff really is enormous for one person, not that I'm not talented in the dessert arena, although certainly less so than I once was. Wine it was.
The other server later joined our conversation on Fresca and food at Bottom bars, and I listened to their thoughts on the Biggest Loser and the Oprah channel (unable to contribute much to TV topics), as they did their end-of-the-night duties while I finished my wine (and they finished theirs, Aziza's being closed by then).
From there, I went to Strange Matter for a show by the uber-talented Julie Karr, a performer whose shows I try not to miss.
For those who aren't familiar with her amazing talent, she has a sort of Fiona Apple voice, full of deepness and clarity. As I stood there surrounded by people who had never heard her before, I eavesdropped on their comments as they tried to wrap their heads around her raspy, beautiful voice.
She began by saying, "I forgot when you play here you compete with video games and the sounds of fighting demons like Pac-man." Honestly, Strange Matter's 80s video games were no match for what she was putting out.
And, because she's the self-deprecating type, she apologized for her guitar sounding jangly ("like an Indian adventure cruise") and her voice being congested (she's just over three days of the flu). No one in the room would have noticed either.
After a set of heartbreak and longing, she closed with an a capella number that silenced the room. Her gravelly ode to a match with the devil was mesmerizing. And, in typical Julie fashion, she finished with a joke about buying her CD so you could hear her some more.
The fact is, her voice stays with you like the taste of a magnificent seafood terrine. But even with a golden memory, you still want to experience it for real again.
Tonight I got to do both. Lucky me.
Until tonight.
I spent the day road tripping on the Northern Neck doing research for a piece I'm writing on wineries (I know, I know, but somebdy's got to do it). For road music, I went all-girl today: Nellie McKay for theatrics, Petula Clark for the retro touch and Neko Case for that voice and the heartbreak. Women and wine, it just made sense.
When I got home, I had a call from a friend suggesting dinner, but after a solitary day alone with my thoughts, I wasn't ready to do the dinner companion thing, at least not well, so I declined and decided on Aziza's alone instead.
Perfect choice. My favorite server welcomed me in, poured me the Marques de Riscal Tempranillo and gave me a moment with the menu, saying, "I don't need to explain any of that to you." No indeed.
And there it was, waiting for me: scallop and lobster terrine with mixed greens, leeft (turnips pickled in beet and jalapeno juice), pickled onions and anchovy aioli. Oh. My. God.
The slices of creamy terrine, with their delicate flavor and full of chunks of seafood, were atop a creamy lobster sauce set off perfectly by the tang of the leeft and the salty ailoi.
One bite and I was transported back to that restaurant on the Northern Neck that had introduced me to this dish. How had it taken so long for me to enjoy that sublime taste again?
Between the wine, the crusty bread, the terrine, and the Sinatra bandstand channel they were playing, it was a perfect meal.
My server friend provided just enough conversation when I wasn't reading the Post article about six DC chefs losing weight despite the restaurant lifestyle (kind of fascinating, actually). I couldn't have asked for anything more (alright, maybe...).
When it came time to make the big decision (cream puff: yea or nay?), she helped swing my vote to wine over dessert with a most compelling argument. Besides, that puff really is enormous for one person, not that I'm not talented in the dessert arena, although certainly less so than I once was. Wine it was.
The other server later joined our conversation on Fresca and food at Bottom bars, and I listened to their thoughts on the Biggest Loser and the Oprah channel (unable to contribute much to TV topics), as they did their end-of-the-night duties while I finished my wine (and they finished theirs, Aziza's being closed by then).
From there, I went to Strange Matter for a show by the uber-talented Julie Karr, a performer whose shows I try not to miss.
For those who aren't familiar with her amazing talent, she has a sort of Fiona Apple voice, full of deepness and clarity. As I stood there surrounded by people who had never heard her before, I eavesdropped on their comments as they tried to wrap their heads around her raspy, beautiful voice.
She began by saying, "I forgot when you play here you compete with video games and the sounds of fighting demons like Pac-man." Honestly, Strange Matter's 80s video games were no match for what she was putting out.
And, because she's the self-deprecating type, she apologized for her guitar sounding jangly ("like an Indian adventure cruise") and her voice being congested (she's just over three days of the flu). No one in the room would have noticed either.
After a set of heartbreak and longing, she closed with an a capella number that silenced the room. Her gravelly ode to a match with the devil was mesmerizing. And, in typical Julie fashion, she finished with a joke about buying her CD so you could hear her some more.
The fact is, her voice stays with you like the taste of a magnificent seafood terrine. But even with a golden memory, you still want to experience it for real again.
Tonight I got to do both. Lucky me.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Musical Treats at Sprout
I am so glad the holidays are over and things are starting to pick back up again. I was going crazy with so little happening (other than parties) for the past two weeks.
Happily, tonight was a satisfying kick-off to a new year. I started at the Empress to meet a friend for their Tuesday tasting, which, due to it being the first week back, had been scaled back. Not to worry, it was still superb.
Friend arrived first and had already ordered a bottle of the Ferrande Sauvignon Blanc, a surprise upon my first taste because she never goes French (and ended up none too fond of it, but manged to drink it anyway). She'd spent the day addressing body part needs and I heard the stories to prove it.
We were one of only two tables there for the tasting, which offered three pairings instead of the usual four (reducing the price form a very reasonable $15 to a mere $10).
On the menu: crabcake with Granny Smith apple slaw paired with Dry Creek Chenin Blanc, Manchego and English pea risotto served with Lunetta Prosecco and finally sweet potatoes with a garlic zucchini saute and the Hob Nob Pinot Noir.
When I got there, the music was absent and there was no way I could deal with that, so I asked our server about it. Technical difficulties, she assured me, but they were working on it. At last, David Bowie's "Young Americans" became audible (and later "Rebel, Rebel") but when the CD finished, it came on a second time and a third. Oops. Vintage if you must, but variety essential.
Friend also ordered the decadent white truffle potato soup, a side of English peas (her first ever; she was overcome with the wonder of them), and the dessert trio with a side of English peas to go. I had chocolate/chili pate, always a delightfully spicy way to end a meal there.
Peas became the emblem of the evening when Chef Carly told our server that there was pea in the ladies' room and that she needed to clean it up. She disgustedly walked in to find a single English pea on the floor. That's chef humor for you (full disclosure: we laughed).
After a three-hour meal, we parted ways so I could go to Sprout for a show and she could go home to rest up before returning to work tomorrow after a long break; her dread was palpable.
At Sprout, owner Laurie told me that Victory farms is taking over the market portion of the restaurant, a situation sure to be a win/win for both. It'll begin next month with full market goodness by May.
In the back room, the bands were setting up and the guy responsible for their label, Crafty Records, was designing his merch table. I chatted with some of the musicians while everything got fully formed.
I must have shown my true colors because later Crafty guy asked me, "Want a bookmark?" to which I responded, "What makes you think I read?"
"Cause you're wordy," he said, nailing this stranger. Let's call a spade a spade, shall we?
Crazy and the Brains, from Jersey, got the ball rolling with their high-energy odes to the Ramones and the Clash. Songs were short, hard and full-on (some kid said to his friend, "This is really loud," and I just looked at him in pity).
I was really impressed with the fact that they had a xylophone player, Jeffrey, whose percussion added such an interesting sound to their music, which included a cover of Bow Wow Wow's 1982 cover "I Want Candy." Now when's the last time you heard that gem?
After the volume and energy of C&TB, up came folkie Gabriel Gall of Relatives, but minus his band for the first time tonight. He had a hushed and appealing voice and was accompanied by his brother Jacob on percussion for a few songs.
During one, he said, "In my head, this is where I hear everybody singing along." Measured beat. "Please don't do that." Most interesting lyric: "I am dying to say what's on my mind. I will make a lampshade of my love."
Isaac Gillespie and his improvised band came next and since he'd been one of the musicians I'd talked to before the show, I knew that his sound had been compared to that of the Band, which was right on.
It had a raw-edged Americana feel to it and this time Jeffrey the xylophone player was on drums. Turns out he was a drummer before going to school for percussion, so now he hits anything (well, I might add).
Isaac began by acknowledging, "There's nothing more pathetic than the sound of guitars tuning." A tuner was brought in. He encouraged a singalong for the title track of their new CD, "I Will Wreck Your Life," promising that the wrecking wouldn't be as bad as heroin, but more like booze. Forewarned is forearmed.
They finally got some (limited) dancing going when Isaac said, "We'd like to play a song by the godfather of soul, Steve Miller" and then did a cover of 1976's "Rockin' Me." We were covering some vintage ground tonight, kids.
Headlining was local favorite Ben Shepherd, one of the many who left RVA for NYC and (fortunately) returned. All of the musicians who preceded him acknowledged their respect for his amazing songwriting skills.
He took the stage simply with an acoustic guitar and launched into a song about being mugged. From there, his songs meandered all over the place, always with a compelling storyline. Example: "What I can't fathom or really understand is the world that existed before I was born."
It was unfortunate that so many people didn't stay for the entire show. The first three bands, with their changing players, were a huge treat for the Tuesday night audience that stayed put. Add in that it was a free show and it's even tougher to understand why more music-lovers didn't show up for an excellent show.
Oh, well, their loss, not mine. Of course, as I was discussing with a few of the musicians just before I left, considering that the top-grossing tour of 2010 was Bon Jovi, one has to wonder what's going on in the music appreciation world anyway.
Living on a prayer, indeed. My prayer would be that we continue to be lucky enough to host talent, both traveling and local, for low and no cost in Richmond.
That would keep on rockin' my world.
Happily, tonight was a satisfying kick-off to a new year. I started at the Empress to meet a friend for their Tuesday tasting, which, due to it being the first week back, had been scaled back. Not to worry, it was still superb.
Friend arrived first and had already ordered a bottle of the Ferrande Sauvignon Blanc, a surprise upon my first taste because she never goes French (and ended up none too fond of it, but manged to drink it anyway). She'd spent the day addressing body part needs and I heard the stories to prove it.
We were one of only two tables there for the tasting, which offered three pairings instead of the usual four (reducing the price form a very reasonable $15 to a mere $10).
On the menu: crabcake with Granny Smith apple slaw paired with Dry Creek Chenin Blanc, Manchego and English pea risotto served with Lunetta Prosecco and finally sweet potatoes with a garlic zucchini saute and the Hob Nob Pinot Noir.
When I got there, the music was absent and there was no way I could deal with that, so I asked our server about it. Technical difficulties, she assured me, but they were working on it. At last, David Bowie's "Young Americans" became audible (and later "Rebel, Rebel") but when the CD finished, it came on a second time and a third. Oops. Vintage if you must, but variety essential.
Friend also ordered the decadent white truffle potato soup, a side of English peas (her first ever; she was overcome with the wonder of them), and the dessert trio with a side of English peas to go. I had chocolate/chili pate, always a delightfully spicy way to end a meal there.
Peas became the emblem of the evening when Chef Carly told our server that there was pea in the ladies' room and that she needed to clean it up. She disgustedly walked in to find a single English pea on the floor. That's chef humor for you (full disclosure: we laughed).
After a three-hour meal, we parted ways so I could go to Sprout for a show and she could go home to rest up before returning to work tomorrow after a long break; her dread was palpable.
At Sprout, owner Laurie told me that Victory farms is taking over the market portion of the restaurant, a situation sure to be a win/win for both. It'll begin next month with full market goodness by May.
In the back room, the bands were setting up and the guy responsible for their label, Crafty Records, was designing his merch table. I chatted with some of the musicians while everything got fully formed.
I must have shown my true colors because later Crafty guy asked me, "Want a bookmark?" to which I responded, "What makes you think I read?"
"Cause you're wordy," he said, nailing this stranger. Let's call a spade a spade, shall we?
Crazy and the Brains, from Jersey, got the ball rolling with their high-energy odes to the Ramones and the Clash. Songs were short, hard and full-on (some kid said to his friend, "This is really loud," and I just looked at him in pity).
I was really impressed with the fact that they had a xylophone player, Jeffrey, whose percussion added such an interesting sound to their music, which included a cover of Bow Wow Wow's 1982 cover "I Want Candy." Now when's the last time you heard that gem?
After the volume and energy of C&TB, up came folkie Gabriel Gall of Relatives, but minus his band for the first time tonight. He had a hushed and appealing voice and was accompanied by his brother Jacob on percussion for a few songs.
During one, he said, "In my head, this is where I hear everybody singing along." Measured beat. "Please don't do that." Most interesting lyric: "I am dying to say what's on my mind. I will make a lampshade of my love."
Isaac Gillespie and his improvised band came next and since he'd been one of the musicians I'd talked to before the show, I knew that his sound had been compared to that of the Band, which was right on.
It had a raw-edged Americana feel to it and this time Jeffrey the xylophone player was on drums. Turns out he was a drummer before going to school for percussion, so now he hits anything (well, I might add).
Isaac began by acknowledging, "There's nothing more pathetic than the sound of guitars tuning." A tuner was brought in. He encouraged a singalong for the title track of their new CD, "I Will Wreck Your Life," promising that the wrecking wouldn't be as bad as heroin, but more like booze. Forewarned is forearmed.
They finally got some (limited) dancing going when Isaac said, "We'd like to play a song by the godfather of soul, Steve Miller" and then did a cover of 1976's "Rockin' Me." We were covering some vintage ground tonight, kids.
Headlining was local favorite Ben Shepherd, one of the many who left RVA for NYC and (fortunately) returned. All of the musicians who preceded him acknowledged their respect for his amazing songwriting skills.
He took the stage simply with an acoustic guitar and launched into a song about being mugged. From there, his songs meandered all over the place, always with a compelling storyline. Example: "What I can't fathom or really understand is the world that existed before I was born."
It was unfortunate that so many people didn't stay for the entire show. The first three bands, with their changing players, were a huge treat for the Tuesday night audience that stayed put. Add in that it was a free show and it's even tougher to understand why more music-lovers didn't show up for an excellent show.
Oh, well, their loss, not mine. Of course, as I was discussing with a few of the musicians just before I left, considering that the top-grossing tour of 2010 was Bon Jovi, one has to wonder what's going on in the music appreciation world anyway.
Living on a prayer, indeed. My prayer would be that we continue to be lucky enough to host talent, both traveling and local, for low and no cost in Richmond.
That would keep on rockin' my world.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Get Yourself a Trap Door
Out on my walk on Grace Street this morning, one of the regular VCU grounds guys said good morning and started explaining why I hadn't seen him in a while (I hadn't asked or wondered, but okay).
"It sure is cold out here," I said, changing the subject.
"Sure is," he said. "Got your long johns on?"
"No, but I've got leggings on under these," I explained. "Couldn't walk in this cold without two layers."
"Long janes, huh? Do those have a trap door like mine do?" he wondered. "Makes it awful easy."
"Uh, no," I said.
"You ought to get a pair of small men's long john's and then you'd have a trap door!" he told me, solving all my problems. Time to go, I thought.
"Maybe they come in peach!" he called to my back, chuckling. Maybe they do, but I doubt it.
Please tell me other people have these odd conversations with strangers.
"It sure is cold out here," I said, changing the subject.
"Sure is," he said. "Got your long johns on?"
"No, but I've got leggings on under these," I explained. "Couldn't walk in this cold without two layers."
"Long janes, huh? Do those have a trap door like mine do?" he wondered. "Makes it awful easy."
"Uh, no," I said.
"You ought to get a pair of small men's long john's and then you'd have a trap door!" he told me, solving all my problems. Time to go, I thought.
"Maybe they come in peach!" he called to my back, chuckling. Maybe they do, but I doubt it.
Please tell me other people have these odd conversations with strangers.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Proper French Kissing
I don't do the new year's resolution thing. It's not that I couldn't stand to improve myself, but I kind of feel like I'm always working on that anyway.
Like when I broke up with my boyfriend in 2002 and decided for the first time in my life to start doing exercises to reshape my arms. What's the correlation, you wonder?
None, but I had some extra time being single and it seemed about time I got stronger arms. So I resolved in late February to get them and I still work at it every day. So that's my idea of a resolution.
But I can tell that plenty of people like the arbitrary designation of January first as the starting point for making change. And I saw proof positive of that tonight when I drove down Franklin Street past the YMCA around 8:00 and saw the gym teeming with active bodies. It was like a workout party in there.
I got further proof when I arrived at Bistro Bobbette (the new name for Bouchon) to a dining room with a mere two tables occupied. Mondays usually hop at BB, but, as owner Wendy pointed out, "They're all on diets or at the gym." Gee, I wonder how long that will last?
So I planted myself at the bar, the better to look at the bar menu ($6 and $14) and enjoy some Muscadet. Dinner was the ham, onion and asparagus quiche and the onion and olive tart, both of which came with small well-dressed salads of mixed greens. A perfect little bistro supper.
My only barmate was a girl enjoying a large bowl of the creamy mushroom soup and salad combo ("I can't believe how much food this is for $6," she marveled). Somehow the topic of marriage came up and she insisted that she would never marry.
Wendy corrected her. "Never say never. I swore I'd never get married and then I met the right man and that was it. And I was 47!" The girl looked unconvinced, but allowed that the same thing could happen to her, unlikely as it seemed. I kept my mouth shut.
It turned out that she, too, had worked the census last spring, so we compared notes on the highs and lows of that job. I told her about the highlight of my census experience, here, and she was awestruck, agreeing that I was very fortunate to have made such a difference with my simple blunder.
The real fun started when Chef Francis came out to join us. Greeting me, I kissed his cheek, but only one. He turned his face to offer the other cheek and reminded me, "Deux!" a lesson he had imparted at our very first meeting. It is essential to kiss the French properly.
He joined Wendy, my fellow barmate and I at the bar for (what else?) restaurant talk as he ate his veal kidneys and crusty bread for supper. Francis and Wendy are just back from an eating weekend in DC and wanted to share.
It's fun for me to get updates about my hometown's restaurant scene, especially from a chef who used to work there. Naturally DC restaurant talk segued into Richmond restaurant talk and we had a lively discussion of which places have held up well and which seem to be coasting on former glory.
We all had opinions about how some people negatively judge a restaurant by its white tablecloths, presuming a snobbishness or higher price tag than is necessarily warranted (this happens to my neighborhood joint all the time).
Two restaurant sore points were overly dim lighting and serious din. Personally, I don't care about the lighting but I always want to be able to hear at least a bit of music no matter how loud the conversation gets. It just makes the food taste better, at least in my world.
That would be the world with no cell phones, no TV, no jewelry, no chain restaurants and year-round resolutions.
I know, I know. The world only I live in.
Like when I broke up with my boyfriend in 2002 and decided for the first time in my life to start doing exercises to reshape my arms. What's the correlation, you wonder?
None, but I had some extra time being single and it seemed about time I got stronger arms. So I resolved in late February to get them and I still work at it every day. So that's my idea of a resolution.
But I can tell that plenty of people like the arbitrary designation of January first as the starting point for making change. And I saw proof positive of that tonight when I drove down Franklin Street past the YMCA around 8:00 and saw the gym teeming with active bodies. It was like a workout party in there.
I got further proof when I arrived at Bistro Bobbette (the new name for Bouchon) to a dining room with a mere two tables occupied. Mondays usually hop at BB, but, as owner Wendy pointed out, "They're all on diets or at the gym." Gee, I wonder how long that will last?
So I planted myself at the bar, the better to look at the bar menu ($6 and $14) and enjoy some Muscadet. Dinner was the ham, onion and asparagus quiche and the onion and olive tart, both of which came with small well-dressed salads of mixed greens. A perfect little bistro supper.
My only barmate was a girl enjoying a large bowl of the creamy mushroom soup and salad combo ("I can't believe how much food this is for $6," she marveled). Somehow the topic of marriage came up and she insisted that she would never marry.
Wendy corrected her. "Never say never. I swore I'd never get married and then I met the right man and that was it. And I was 47!" The girl looked unconvinced, but allowed that the same thing could happen to her, unlikely as it seemed. I kept my mouth shut.
It turned out that she, too, had worked the census last spring, so we compared notes on the highs and lows of that job. I told her about the highlight of my census experience, here, and she was awestruck, agreeing that I was very fortunate to have made such a difference with my simple blunder.
The real fun started when Chef Francis came out to join us. Greeting me, I kissed his cheek, but only one. He turned his face to offer the other cheek and reminded me, "Deux!" a lesson he had imparted at our very first meeting. It is essential to kiss the French properly.
He joined Wendy, my fellow barmate and I at the bar for (what else?) restaurant talk as he ate his veal kidneys and crusty bread for supper. Francis and Wendy are just back from an eating weekend in DC and wanted to share.
It's fun for me to get updates about my hometown's restaurant scene, especially from a chef who used to work there. Naturally DC restaurant talk segued into Richmond restaurant talk and we had a lively discussion of which places have held up well and which seem to be coasting on former glory.
We all had opinions about how some people negatively judge a restaurant by its white tablecloths, presuming a snobbishness or higher price tag than is necessarily warranted (this happens to my neighborhood joint all the time).
Two restaurant sore points were overly dim lighting and serious din. Personally, I don't care about the lighting but I always want to be able to hear at least a bit of music no matter how loud the conversation gets. It just makes the food taste better, at least in my world.
That would be the world with no cell phones, no TV, no jewelry, no chain restaurants and year-round resolutions.
I know, I know. The world only I live in.
From 556 Miles Away
What can you expect from someone you've only seen five times in your life? How about the best compliment of my year?
At the Belvidere back in October, I'd met a man and woman who were here on business from Boston. She soon left for the hotel, but he stayed and struck up a conversation about dining (he eats out as much as I do), traveling (he travels a great deal on business and almost as much for pleasure), and art (a former artist, he had little tolerance for no-talents).
At the end of that rainy night, I told him he was a great conversationalist and he suggested we hang out the next night so I could show him the beer places in RVA that had been recommended to him. The beer part aside, it sounded like fun.
When he returned to Richmond a few weeks later on business, he let me know in advance so we could hang out again. This time, there were no beer joints, but just as much fun; we did InLight, we ate, drank and were merry and we over-shared our life stories, just for grins.
Then he went back to Boston and except for a few e-mails asking for my thoughts on an 18th-century poem and a Beat poem, we've had little communication.
So when I opened a recent e-mail from him, I couldn't have been more surprised at its contents:
I wish you much happiness and love during the new year...
You were the most interesting person I met in 2010.
High praise indeed from a guy who meets people practically everywhere and can talk to anyone.
Maybe there's hope for me yet.
At the Belvidere back in October, I'd met a man and woman who were here on business from Boston. She soon left for the hotel, but he stayed and struck up a conversation about dining (he eats out as much as I do), traveling (he travels a great deal on business and almost as much for pleasure), and art (a former artist, he had little tolerance for no-talents).
At the end of that rainy night, I told him he was a great conversationalist and he suggested we hang out the next night so I could show him the beer places in RVA that had been recommended to him. The beer part aside, it sounded like fun.
When he returned to Richmond a few weeks later on business, he let me know in advance so we could hang out again. This time, there were no beer joints, but just as much fun; we did InLight, we ate, drank and were merry and we over-shared our life stories, just for grins.
Then he went back to Boston and except for a few e-mails asking for my thoughts on an 18th-century poem and a Beat poem, we've had little communication.
So when I opened a recent e-mail from him, I couldn't have been more surprised at its contents:
I wish you much happiness and love during the new year...
You were the most interesting person I met in 2010.
High praise indeed from a guy who meets people practically everywhere and can talk to anyone.
Maybe there's hope for me yet.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Nine of Note: My Best of 2010
It would be silly for me to say that 2010 was a great year for music because I think every year is a great one.
Discovering new music, whether by familiar bands or fresh faces, is one of my great pleasures in life (undoubtedly that says something about the state of my personal/sex life). Every CD has the potential to be one that I rave about when people ask me for recommendations; some just grab me harder than others.
So here's my Top Nine list for the year. Around mid-summer I always start my master list of what's impressed me so far to ensure that I don't lose sight of any of the early-in-the-year stuff that wowed me, and just add on to it until the New Year rolls around. Then Andrew starts nagging me and I post my list.
For 2010, it looks like this:
1.The National: High Violet
I start my list with the band that has been my obsession since I first saw them in May 2007 at DAR. Between Matt Berninger's incredibly sexy baritone and his mature, thinking-man's lyrics, I can't imagine ever tiring of these guys and their evolving sound. Horns, violin and a lead singer who swigs from a bottle of wine onstage! I never have less than three of their CDs in my car at any given time, just in case of emergency. Favorite track: "Lemon World"
2. Beach House: Teen Dream
A big, dusky 60s-sounding voice, endless piano and an overall sense of sadness I could relate to kept this CD in high rotation since I first bought it. I saw these guys as an opener before "Teen Dream" was released, so I was blown away by how much more developed this album is than their previous stuff. When I meet someone new and we start talking music and they mention Beach House, I know we will have much to talk about and share in the future. Favorite track: "Lover of Mine"
3. Kings Go Forth: The Outsiders are Back
When I saw these guys at Balliceaux last spring, here, it was one of the most amazing musical experiences I've ever had and I've seen hundreds of shows. KGF kicked off their tour for the new CD in Richmond, yes Richmond, and for one night, their soul/funk/r & b jams were like a 2010 version of vintage soul in our own backyard. The album is the same, showing off their awesome horn section, three vocalists (black, white and Hispanic) and two drummers. It's good to know that the current generation is as capable of making butts shake as their forefathers. Favorite track: "High on Your Love"
4. Yeasayer: Odd Blood
This one came into my life last summer when there was a lot of competition for my listening time. The blend of experimental, arty and, yes, poppy indie rock wormed its way into my ears with all kinds of sounds I couldn't identify, but loved. I don't have to get you to love you, I just have to want more and this album was played at top volume on every road trip to the beach. Embrace the pop, admire the artiness. Favorite track: "I Remember"
5. Love Language: Libraries
I missed these guys opening up for Camera Obscura (due to a painful run-in) so I made a point to go to Charlottesville to catch them a few months later. To my mind, they have a layered and shimmery 60s sound, simple and pure and absolutely ear-pleasing. This is music from a guy who got his heart seriously broken and managed to make gorgeous music out of it. Favorite track: "Heart to Tell"
6. Fitz and the Tantrums: "Pickin' Up the Pieces"
White boy listens to way too much Motown and Stax, buys an old church organ, finds horn players and recruits black girl singer. I like that while the sound and arrangements are old-school, the lyrics are pure 21st-century. I've heard these guys are great live, but have yet to experience them. Favorite track: "Moneygrabber"
7. Violens: Amoral
I discovered these guys when they opened for MGMT at the National in 2008. I went up to their merch table after the show and told them I liked them better than MGMT and bought their EP. They threw in a t-shirt as a reward, I think, for my evident fandom. Ever since, I've been waiting for a full-length and this year I finally got it. Their psych-pop has a definite 60s sound to it, and often I hear a similarity to the Perniece Brothers, which is a good thing. Favorite track: "Violent Sensation Descends"
8. Good Old War: Good Old War
Because of years appreciating RVA's excellent folk scene, I have come to appreciate when unexpectedly good folk arrives from other places. Such was the case at the Dashboard Confessional show when Philly folksters GOW preceded the emo. Their sound is spare, yet full of feeling, with some of the most beautiful harmonies imaginable. Start to finish, you can just hear that these guys will make it big. Favorite track: "My Own Sinking Ship"
9. Best Coast: Crazy for You
I came to this one late, but it had my name all over it. Girl vocals, fuzzy surf guitars, lo-fi sound and purely girl emotions about unrequited love, heartbreak and patience. This CD perfectly exemplifies what I love about new music; you never know what influences a young musician is going to pull from. Favorite track: "Boyfriend"
Once again, I feel certain that my list will match no other on earth. But nothing would give me greater pleasure than discussing it with other ardent music lovers.
Any takers?
Discovering new music, whether by familiar bands or fresh faces, is one of my great pleasures in life (undoubtedly that says something about the state of my personal/sex life). Every CD has the potential to be one that I rave about when people ask me for recommendations; some just grab me harder than others.
So here's my Top Nine list for the year. Around mid-summer I always start my master list of what's impressed me so far to ensure that I don't lose sight of any of the early-in-the-year stuff that wowed me, and just add on to it until the New Year rolls around. Then Andrew starts nagging me and I post my list.
For 2010, it looks like this:
1.The National: High Violet
I start my list with the band that has been my obsession since I first saw them in May 2007 at DAR. Between Matt Berninger's incredibly sexy baritone and his mature, thinking-man's lyrics, I can't imagine ever tiring of these guys and their evolving sound. Horns, violin and a lead singer who swigs from a bottle of wine onstage! I never have less than three of their CDs in my car at any given time, just in case of emergency. Favorite track: "Lemon World"
2. Beach House: Teen Dream
A big, dusky 60s-sounding voice, endless piano and an overall sense of sadness I could relate to kept this CD in high rotation since I first bought it. I saw these guys as an opener before "Teen Dream" was released, so I was blown away by how much more developed this album is than their previous stuff. When I meet someone new and we start talking music and they mention Beach House, I know we will have much to talk about and share in the future. Favorite track: "Lover of Mine"
3. Kings Go Forth: The Outsiders are Back
When I saw these guys at Balliceaux last spring, here, it was one of the most amazing musical experiences I've ever had and I've seen hundreds of shows. KGF kicked off their tour for the new CD in Richmond, yes Richmond, and for one night, their soul/funk/r & b jams were like a 2010 version of vintage soul in our own backyard. The album is the same, showing off their awesome horn section, three vocalists (black, white and Hispanic) and two drummers. It's good to know that the current generation is as capable of making butts shake as their forefathers. Favorite track: "High on Your Love"
4. Yeasayer: Odd Blood
This one came into my life last summer when there was a lot of competition for my listening time. The blend of experimental, arty and, yes, poppy indie rock wormed its way into my ears with all kinds of sounds I couldn't identify, but loved. I don't have to get you to love you, I just have to want more and this album was played at top volume on every road trip to the beach. Embrace the pop, admire the artiness. Favorite track: "I Remember"
5. Love Language: Libraries
I missed these guys opening up for Camera Obscura (due to a painful run-in) so I made a point to go to Charlottesville to catch them a few months later. To my mind, they have a layered and shimmery 60s sound, simple and pure and absolutely ear-pleasing. This is music from a guy who got his heart seriously broken and managed to make gorgeous music out of it. Favorite track: "Heart to Tell"
6. Fitz and the Tantrums: "Pickin' Up the Pieces"
White boy listens to way too much Motown and Stax, buys an old church organ, finds horn players and recruits black girl singer. I like that while the sound and arrangements are old-school, the lyrics are pure 21st-century. I've heard these guys are great live, but have yet to experience them. Favorite track: "Moneygrabber"
7. Violens: Amoral
I discovered these guys when they opened for MGMT at the National in 2008. I went up to their merch table after the show and told them I liked them better than MGMT and bought their EP. They threw in a t-shirt as a reward, I think, for my evident fandom. Ever since, I've been waiting for a full-length and this year I finally got it. Their psych-pop has a definite 60s sound to it, and often I hear a similarity to the Perniece Brothers, which is a good thing. Favorite track: "Violent Sensation Descends"
8. Good Old War: Good Old War
Because of years appreciating RVA's excellent folk scene, I have come to appreciate when unexpectedly good folk arrives from other places. Such was the case at the Dashboard Confessional show when Philly folksters GOW preceded the emo. Their sound is spare, yet full of feeling, with some of the most beautiful harmonies imaginable. Start to finish, you can just hear that these guys will make it big. Favorite track: "My Own Sinking Ship"
9. Best Coast: Crazy for You
I came to this one late, but it had my name all over it. Girl vocals, fuzzy surf guitars, lo-fi sound and purely girl emotions about unrequited love, heartbreak and patience. This CD perfectly exemplifies what I love about new music; you never know what influences a young musician is going to pull from. Favorite track: "Boyfriend"
Once again, I feel certain that my list will match no other on earth. But nothing would give me greater pleasure than discussing it with other ardent music lovers.
Any takers?
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The Scotsman's Speech
Now I know what people do on New Year's Day night. They go to the movies, something that had never occurred to me until tonight.
I was just looking for something to do, but when I pulled up to the Westhampton Theater, I was greeted with a ticket line that snaked around the building. In the rain. Zero points for originality, Karen.
But I got in line with all the couples and groups of girlfriends, eventually scoring a ticket. Inside the concession lines were miles-long and the popcorn machine was malfunctioning at the worst possible time.
As I waited for popcorn, hoping I'd get mine before they ran out, people were coming out of one theater door and going in the other side looking for seats, not a good sign. Why had this ever seemed like a good idea I wondered?
Because I got to meet Rudy. When I entered the theater looking for a seat, I assumed I'd have an easy time of it since it was just me. Not so, but I finally saw an unoccupied chair and asked the dapper-looking older man next to it if it was free. It was and he waved me in.
As I sat down, I mentioned how surprised I was at how full the theater was. I've been going to the Westhampton for years and I'd never seen it all but sold out. He agreed, saying his wife had wanted to see The King's Speech, but that he was interested because he was a Brit.
How perfect to see a British movie sitting next to a native. I smiled at that and before I could even respond, he corrected himself, "Actually I'm a Scotsman from Edinburgh." Now we had our common ground, Rudy and I.
I told him I had a close friend who lives in Glasgow, or, more accurately, Barrhead, and he couldn't have looked more delighted. "You mean Barr-heed," he laughed, saying it like the locals do. Once he found out I'd been, he asked for my impressions of his homeland.
That led to a discussion of Scottish accents ("So Germanic-based," he told me, sharing words that sounded almost identical in German as when spoken with a Scottish accent). I told him how it had taken me some time to get used to my friend's accent, and even her word choices.
As I explained to him, the first time she referred to a dodgy neighborhood, I was lost. "Yes and there's lots of dodgy neighborhoods in Glasgow, so she'd know," Rudy said telling me about some he knew well.
He was full of surprises, informing me that he used to drink with Sean Connery back in the days when the actor was married to an actress but had not yet made it himself.
"Oh, he could be an unpleasant drunk," Rudy said. "I stayed away from him once he got in his cups. Got a temper and liked to fight, too."
He continued to tell me Sean Connery anecdotes (country club, Spain, eccentricities) until his wife returned with their popcorn. Glancing at my bag, she recognized me as being one of the last people to have scored a full popcorn; she hadn't and had settled for a partial portion and candy. I offered to share.
Her arrival coincided with the movie starting, which was too bad, because I could have gone on chatting with Rudy much longer.
The twinkle in his eye, that handsome wool driving cap of his, and the Scottish charm which I knew of first hand from my friend's brother, all combined to make him someone I wanted to know more about, even with his wife on the other side of him.
The King's Speech luckily provided an excellent two hours of entertainment with its superb British acting, truth-based story, a wealth of period details and wry British dialog. Definitely Oscar material.
When the lights came up, I immediately turned to Rudy and told him how very much I'd enjoyed talking to him. Doffing his hat at me, he insisted,"The pleasure was all mine."
Oh, no it wasn't, Rudy. Karmically speaking, I ended up at that movie tonight so I could have fifteen minutes of conversation with you. Seriously.
If it wouldn't have seemed untoward, I'd have given him my card and told him to call me so I could hear more of his stories and experience more of his charm.
But I'd probably already stretched my limits with his wife over the popcorn. No need to push my luck.
I was just looking for something to do, but when I pulled up to the Westhampton Theater, I was greeted with a ticket line that snaked around the building. In the rain. Zero points for originality, Karen.
But I got in line with all the couples and groups of girlfriends, eventually scoring a ticket. Inside the concession lines were miles-long and the popcorn machine was malfunctioning at the worst possible time.
As I waited for popcorn, hoping I'd get mine before they ran out, people were coming out of one theater door and going in the other side looking for seats, not a good sign. Why had this ever seemed like a good idea I wondered?
Because I got to meet Rudy. When I entered the theater looking for a seat, I assumed I'd have an easy time of it since it was just me. Not so, but I finally saw an unoccupied chair and asked the dapper-looking older man next to it if it was free. It was and he waved me in.
As I sat down, I mentioned how surprised I was at how full the theater was. I've been going to the Westhampton for years and I'd never seen it all but sold out. He agreed, saying his wife had wanted to see The King's Speech, but that he was interested because he was a Brit.
How perfect to see a British movie sitting next to a native. I smiled at that and before I could even respond, he corrected himself, "Actually I'm a Scotsman from Edinburgh." Now we had our common ground, Rudy and I.
I told him I had a close friend who lives in Glasgow, or, more accurately, Barrhead, and he couldn't have looked more delighted. "You mean Barr-heed," he laughed, saying it like the locals do. Once he found out I'd been, he asked for my impressions of his homeland.
That led to a discussion of Scottish accents ("So Germanic-based," he told me, sharing words that sounded almost identical in German as when spoken with a Scottish accent). I told him how it had taken me some time to get used to my friend's accent, and even her word choices.
As I explained to him, the first time she referred to a dodgy neighborhood, I was lost. "Yes and there's lots of dodgy neighborhoods in Glasgow, so she'd know," Rudy said telling me about some he knew well.
He was full of surprises, informing me that he used to drink with Sean Connery back in the days when the actor was married to an actress but had not yet made it himself.
"Oh, he could be an unpleasant drunk," Rudy said. "I stayed away from him once he got in his cups. Got a temper and liked to fight, too."
He continued to tell me Sean Connery anecdotes (country club, Spain, eccentricities) until his wife returned with their popcorn. Glancing at my bag, she recognized me as being one of the last people to have scored a full popcorn; she hadn't and had settled for a partial portion and candy. I offered to share.
Her arrival coincided with the movie starting, which was too bad, because I could have gone on chatting with Rudy much longer.
The twinkle in his eye, that handsome wool driving cap of his, and the Scottish charm which I knew of first hand from my friend's brother, all combined to make him someone I wanted to know more about, even with his wife on the other side of him.
The King's Speech luckily provided an excellent two hours of entertainment with its superb British acting, truth-based story, a wealth of period details and wry British dialog. Definitely Oscar material.
When the lights came up, I immediately turned to Rudy and told him how very much I'd enjoyed talking to him. Doffing his hat at me, he insisted,"The pleasure was all mine."
Oh, no it wasn't, Rudy. Karmically speaking, I ended up at that movie tonight so I could have fifteen minutes of conversation with you. Seriously.
If it wouldn't have seemed untoward, I'd have given him my card and told him to call me so I could hear more of his stories and experience more of his charm.
But I'd probably already stretched my limits with his wife over the popcorn. No need to push my luck.
Taking the New Year by the Horns
"What are you doing New Year's Day?"
The question came out of the blue from an old friend I hadn't seen in forever (he actually called me, if that tells you how out of touch we'd been).
I don't know about other people, but the first of the year is not usually a big day for me (although I once got married on New Year's Day, but that's a story for another day).
So when he suggested lunch today, I thought it was a fine idea. He wanted to hear what had been going on in my life since we last talked and although that meant there was the potential of lunch running into dinner to share everything, I was game.
It was also his first trip to J-Ward and based on the little he knew of it, his overall impression was nowhere near reality. I gave him directions to my house and told him to admire the architecture on his way in and that there would be a quiz later.
He left the restaurant choice to me and since I'd already thought I might go to Comfort today, suggested there (he'd never even heard of it). The Comfort kitchen was putting a Mexican spin on their menu and suggesting people bring themselves, their friends and their hangovers. Can do.
We were immediately seated in one of the two front alcoves with a three-sided view of Broad Street, which although a tad chilly for me, suited my friend fine. His first question to me was, "Are we drinking?" Um, I don't know why not. When's the next time it's going to be 1.1.11?
He wanted a screwdriver ("It's too early for wine," he told me. 1:30? Says whom?) and I asked for a glass of the Josef Bauer Gruner Vetliner. My friend liked the place but was flummoxed by things on the menu like pollo con mole and carne asada. I translated for him, causing him to ask, "How do you know this stuff?"
Our libations arrived and my friend and I ordered our food. He then came up with perhaps the best line of the afternoon. "Now don't go putting our food order in right away. I want to enjoy my drink and get a buzz on before eating." Our server laughed out loud.
We used the cocktail hour to hear about what had been going on in each other's lives, necessitating him ordering another drink since we both had a lot to share and many comments to make on the other's stories. I was surprise to hear how many serious relationships he'd been in since we'd last talked.
Luckily, we'd covered all the salient points when a food-runner arrived with our plates, grinning a mile wide. "I wanted to see who'd ordered the two best dishes," she claimed. "Really, these are the most amazing things on today's menu." Insert sound of us patting ourselves on back.
Friend had gotten the torta milanese, a crispy pork cutlet with the traditional accompaniments on a crispy roll with fries and I'd chosen the braised oxtail tacos, charros beans and rice. It was great to have her blessing on our choices and I told her so. "You'll see," she promised.
Our server came over shortly thereafter to ensure he'd timed our food arrival correctly. We assured him that he had, but my wine was long gone and he scurried off for more. The Austrian must keep up with the Mexican, if you know what I'm saying.
The staff's promises had not been empty ones; the oxtail was braised into chunks and slivers full of flavor and my friend's pork caused him to gush about how good it was. The huge sandwich kept him busy enough that I could snag a few fries while he worked his way through it.
The music was good when I could hear it, but we arrived just before the bulk of the masses did and there were times when it disappeared under the din of conversation.
Other times, Ray LaMontaigne, David Gray and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros provided a suitable soundtrack to our reunion visit. My friend, the type who is (sadly) oblivious to music, tolerated my extended conversation with our server about their playlist and band choices.
After having occupied a prime table for several hours, I suggested we move on to the rest of our respective days. He reluctantly agreed.
When we parted ways, he thanked me for "the charm of my company" and said it had been his best New Year's Day ever.
I wouldn't go that far, but it certainly beat the one where I got married. That's all I'm saying.
The question came out of the blue from an old friend I hadn't seen in forever (he actually called me, if that tells you how out of touch we'd been).
I don't know about other people, but the first of the year is not usually a big day for me (although I once got married on New Year's Day, but that's a story for another day).
So when he suggested lunch today, I thought it was a fine idea. He wanted to hear what had been going on in my life since we last talked and although that meant there was the potential of lunch running into dinner to share everything, I was game.
It was also his first trip to J-Ward and based on the little he knew of it, his overall impression was nowhere near reality. I gave him directions to my house and told him to admire the architecture on his way in and that there would be a quiz later.
He left the restaurant choice to me and since I'd already thought I might go to Comfort today, suggested there (he'd never even heard of it). The Comfort kitchen was putting a Mexican spin on their menu and suggesting people bring themselves, their friends and their hangovers. Can do.
We were immediately seated in one of the two front alcoves with a three-sided view of Broad Street, which although a tad chilly for me, suited my friend fine. His first question to me was, "Are we drinking?" Um, I don't know why not. When's the next time it's going to be 1.1.11?
He wanted a screwdriver ("It's too early for wine," he told me. 1:30? Says whom?) and I asked for a glass of the Josef Bauer Gruner Vetliner. My friend liked the place but was flummoxed by things on the menu like pollo con mole and carne asada. I translated for him, causing him to ask, "How do you know this stuff?"
Our libations arrived and my friend and I ordered our food. He then came up with perhaps the best line of the afternoon. "Now don't go putting our food order in right away. I want to enjoy my drink and get a buzz on before eating." Our server laughed out loud.
We used the cocktail hour to hear about what had been going on in each other's lives, necessitating him ordering another drink since we both had a lot to share and many comments to make on the other's stories. I was surprise to hear how many serious relationships he'd been in since we'd last talked.
Luckily, we'd covered all the salient points when a food-runner arrived with our plates, grinning a mile wide. "I wanted to see who'd ordered the two best dishes," she claimed. "Really, these are the most amazing things on today's menu." Insert sound of us patting ourselves on back.
Friend had gotten the torta milanese, a crispy pork cutlet with the traditional accompaniments on a crispy roll with fries and I'd chosen the braised oxtail tacos, charros beans and rice. It was great to have her blessing on our choices and I told her so. "You'll see," she promised.
Our server came over shortly thereafter to ensure he'd timed our food arrival correctly. We assured him that he had, but my wine was long gone and he scurried off for more. The Austrian must keep up with the Mexican, if you know what I'm saying.
The staff's promises had not been empty ones; the oxtail was braised into chunks and slivers full of flavor and my friend's pork caused him to gush about how good it was. The huge sandwich kept him busy enough that I could snag a few fries while he worked his way through it.
The music was good when I could hear it, but we arrived just before the bulk of the masses did and there were times when it disappeared under the din of conversation.
Other times, Ray LaMontaigne, David Gray and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros provided a suitable soundtrack to our reunion visit. My friend, the type who is (sadly) oblivious to music, tolerated my extended conversation with our server about their playlist and band choices.
After having occupied a prime table for several hours, I suggested we move on to the rest of our respective days. He reluctantly agreed.
When we parted ways, he thanked me for "the charm of my company" and said it had been his best New Year's Day ever.
I wouldn't go that far, but it certainly beat the one where I got married. That's all I'm saying.
Auld Lang Syne with a Thumping Bass
I celebrated New Year's Eve in a room full of handsome men who were extremely well-dressed and could not have been less interested in me. Or any female.
But to begin at the beginning, I got a late start because my wrist was bothering me and I was out of ibuprofen. When I went to get some at the store, I found I had a flat tire. All of a sudden the foodie gathering at a friend's house in the West End was not a possibility.
I knew my neighborhood joint would welcome me, even at such late notice, so I ended up at Bistro 27.This worked out especially well because once there I found out they were having a DJ later so I wouldn't even have to hoof it over to the Nile afterwards for entertainment (sorry, Rattlemouth, I do love your offbeat time signatures).
One thing you can count on for New Year's Eve is crowded restaurants, lots of female skin showing and over-the-top jewelry. Check, check and check. When I walked in, Ron the bartender greeted me by saying, "I was wondering if we'd see any of our regulars tonight." Just me.
I grabbed a corner stool at the bar (now padded booster-seat style to accommodate the slanted floor) and ordered Prosecco pronto while checking out the noisy crowd.
Before long, a guy in a tux took the stool next to mine, introduced himself and I then had a companion for the next four hours. Funny how that works out. Like me, he's a big 27 fan and was there for the duration. I knew he was a keeper for the evening when he immediately started scoping out the room and commenting to me.
There was no way I could resist ordering off the NYE menu, so I chose the lobster fra diavalo with house made red pepper fettuccine (half a lobster, jumbo shrimp and a fra diavolo sauce). Meanwhile a couple of wine reps, one a friend, came in for a glass of bubbly and he and I dished and made plans to meet up soon.
The heat of the fra diavolo was perfect for the dish: unmistakable but not overpowering and the serving of pasta so generous I shared it with my new friend while he awaited the arrival of his rock fish and jumbo prawn. You score a lot of points when you give a new friend fine food.
Meanwhile, the handsome men continued streaming through the door. Unique tuxedos abounded. One guy had on a blazer with low-key skulls and flowers. Another had coordinated his black and white dotted jacket with his shoes. Still another had a gold lame ruffled shirt and houndstooth shoes. Total awesomeness.
I got a chance to ask the DJ what he intended to play and he asked me what I wanted to hear (we settled for indie pop). I saw a friend for the first time since the Dashboard Confessional show and we blathered about how much we'd both enjoyed it. One of the servers complimented me on my curls. A restaurant owner told me that with legs like mine, I must be an amazing dancer (not true).
Dessert was mixed berries in a dark chocolate cup with mascarpone and more bubbles, right about the time the DJ kicked into gear and the colored lights started flashing around the room and ceiling.
As someone said to me during a particularly bass-heavy medley of "Let's Hear it for the Boy" and "Girls Just want to Have Fun," (and with no trace of irony), "Hey, Club 27!"
I could tell it was getting close to the bewitching hour when I saw the staff start moving closer to their main squeezes and glasses of bubbly being poured like crazy. Then we were counting down and everyone was kissing everyone.
So, I did get kissed, quite a lot actually, but not on the lips and not by anyone who mattered. Still, I'd lucked into good company, plenty of eye candy (my new friend estimated the room at 75% male) and enough people who knew me to feel like I belonged.
When I went to say goodbye to my new friend, he was visibly disappointed at my leaving. "You meet a lot of people in life and most are disposable," he said. "You're real. I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed sharing your company tonight. Thank you."
After a compliment like that, walking home to the sound of fireworks exploding everywhere was just icing on the cake.
Welcome 2011. Would it be too much to ask for this to be a really good year for me for a change?
But to begin at the beginning, I got a late start because my wrist was bothering me and I was out of ibuprofen. When I went to get some at the store, I found I had a flat tire. All of a sudden the foodie gathering at a friend's house in the West End was not a possibility.
I knew my neighborhood joint would welcome me, even at such late notice, so I ended up at Bistro 27.This worked out especially well because once there I found out they were having a DJ later so I wouldn't even have to hoof it over to the Nile afterwards for entertainment (sorry, Rattlemouth, I do love your offbeat time signatures).
One thing you can count on for New Year's Eve is crowded restaurants, lots of female skin showing and over-the-top jewelry. Check, check and check. When I walked in, Ron the bartender greeted me by saying, "I was wondering if we'd see any of our regulars tonight." Just me.
I grabbed a corner stool at the bar (now padded booster-seat style to accommodate the slanted floor) and ordered Prosecco pronto while checking out the noisy crowd.
Before long, a guy in a tux took the stool next to mine, introduced himself and I then had a companion for the next four hours. Funny how that works out. Like me, he's a big 27 fan and was there for the duration. I knew he was a keeper for the evening when he immediately started scoping out the room and commenting to me.
There was no way I could resist ordering off the NYE menu, so I chose the lobster fra diavalo with house made red pepper fettuccine (half a lobster, jumbo shrimp and a fra diavolo sauce). Meanwhile a couple of wine reps, one a friend, came in for a glass of bubbly and he and I dished and made plans to meet up soon.
The heat of the fra diavolo was perfect for the dish: unmistakable but not overpowering and the serving of pasta so generous I shared it with my new friend while he awaited the arrival of his rock fish and jumbo prawn. You score a lot of points when you give a new friend fine food.
Meanwhile, the handsome men continued streaming through the door. Unique tuxedos abounded. One guy had on a blazer with low-key skulls and flowers. Another had coordinated his black and white dotted jacket with his shoes. Still another had a gold lame ruffled shirt and houndstooth shoes. Total awesomeness.
I got a chance to ask the DJ what he intended to play and he asked me what I wanted to hear (we settled for indie pop). I saw a friend for the first time since the Dashboard Confessional show and we blathered about how much we'd both enjoyed it. One of the servers complimented me on my curls. A restaurant owner told me that with legs like mine, I must be an amazing dancer (not true).
Dessert was mixed berries in a dark chocolate cup with mascarpone and more bubbles, right about the time the DJ kicked into gear and the colored lights started flashing around the room and ceiling.
As someone said to me during a particularly bass-heavy medley of "Let's Hear it for the Boy" and "Girls Just want to Have Fun," (and with no trace of irony), "Hey, Club 27!"
I could tell it was getting close to the bewitching hour when I saw the staff start moving closer to their main squeezes and glasses of bubbly being poured like crazy. Then we were counting down and everyone was kissing everyone.
So, I did get kissed, quite a lot actually, but not on the lips and not by anyone who mattered. Still, I'd lucked into good company, plenty of eye candy (my new friend estimated the room at 75% male) and enough people who knew me to feel like I belonged.
When I went to say goodbye to my new friend, he was visibly disappointed at my leaving. "You meet a lot of people in life and most are disposable," he said. "You're real. I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed sharing your company tonight. Thank you."
After a compliment like that, walking home to the sound of fireworks exploding everywhere was just icing on the cake.
Welcome 2011. Would it be too much to ask for this to be a really good year for me for a change?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
