A woman walks in to a bar for a Brazilian.
My neighborhood joint, Bistro 27, has started doing Brazilian nights on Tuesday.
That means that the Brazilian chef now gets to make some of his favorite soul food one night a week.
Soon, they're going to add live music to make it even more fun.
Tonight I found a seat at the bar and was soon joined by another regular.
He made a point to tell me that he used to be a timid eater, but Chef Carlos had gotten him to try all kinds of oddities, things like hearts and tripe.
He was almost bragging, I think.
Chef explained that the two dishes he'd made were essentially Brazilian redneck food and with them, he was pouring Portuguese wines.
Praise the lord and pass the pork.
The wine was Vega Douro, a tasty red table wine that only got better the longer it was open.
Or maybe that was just the longer I stayed.
My first course was two little fried meat pies of ground beef and spices, served with a saffron aioli and mesclun.
I could already tell I'd make a fine Brazilian redneck.
While eating those, a couple more guys showed up at the bar, one from Philly and one from London, so all kinds of conversational opportunities opened up.
We found out the Englishman had been at 27 last night and come back tonight for another kosher meal, his main requirement.
The Philly guy was in town for less than 24 hours on business and after ten minutes talking to our little group, was convinced he'd found the best possible restaurant he could have landed in.
With a gregarious talker like Carlos ("My food is good and I have an accent!"), he was probably right.
Just about the time a New York businessman joined the bar, I got my next redneck plate.
This one was pork short ribs and Chorizo in a Brazilian stew kind of sauce, with a grits-like component and, most brilliant of all, barely wilted collards, served with rice.
It was served with a small mound of yucca flour so you could thicken the sauce if you wanted to.
The rich sauce, with its palm oil and coconut milk, coated the ribs I ate with my fingers, although they were falling off the bone so I suppose I could have used a fork.
As if.
But it was the thinly-sliced wilted collards that added so much to the overall taste.
The contrast of the long-cooked meat and fresh, vibrant-tasting, barely-cooked collards was sublime.
Holmes was meeting me at 27, having made it through tax season without killing a single client, and he was ready to celebrate the end of his crushing busy period.
I'd cleared the decks for him for the main part of my evening.
It took no time at all to convince him to join me in Brazilian food and Portuguese wine.
He also jumped right into the five-way chatter, weighing in on every topic bandied about and coming up with a few of his own.
He's good that way.
A restaurateur from Virginia Beach replaced a couple of the out-of-towners when they had to return to their hotels to get some shut-eye before another big day in the business world.
Soon after her came her beloved, celebrating his birthday and eager to talk about what a pain it had been getting into Richmond from Maryland tonight.
I quickly shifted the conversation to music and everyone's first show (the newcomer's had been Bachman-Turner Overdrive, oh my!) and things got looser.
Holmes and I knocked back a chocolate mousse (causing me to feel a bit guilty when his girlfriend called from her sick bed and he told her what he was doing) before I had to go.
I invited Holmes to join me for music at Strange Matter, but he was too tired from the past two weeks of work hell to manage it.
I thanked him for his sparkling company and headed west to Strange Matter, arriving just in time for Australia-via-London quartet, Splashh.
After a terrific meal sucking bones and savoring collards, nothing could have suited me better than the sunny, garage pop of these four guys.
Turns out this is their first time in the U.S., so Richmond got to show them what American audiences are like.
They were apparently already enjoying our whiskey.
With the band spewing out infectious, boppy songs that made it impossible to stand still, I have to hope they saw us unable to resist their effects-laden guitars and aura of major fun, AKA, a great, music-loving audience.
I could easily see them headlining before long.
The main event was Generationals, a band from New Orleans, and the reason I'd worn my "Rebuild New Orleans" shirt to the show.
Their sound check took forever it seemed, but that gave the late-coming crowd time to arrive and grab a beer and fill up the space in front of the stage.
"Have you heard our record, Heza?" they asked of the crowd, who clapped and yelled to say they had. "We really appreciate you being here on a Tuesday. There's a lot of stuff you could be doing instead. Like Netflix and stuff."
Please, don't remind them.
The band's breezy guitar pop lacked the sass of Splashh, but the songs were strong, the execution good and they seemed genuinely happy to be playing for us.
They mixed it up, doing songs from "Heza" as well as what they called "oldies, but goodies," meaning stuff off their 2009 and 2011 albums.
Wow, that is old.
Clearly they knew they were dealing with a young audience, as when they asked, "You guys remember the '90s? Some of you were probably born in the '90s!"
And while I was old-school enough to just stand back and enjoy their hooky, little songs, some of those '90s babies had other ideas.
Between songs, a girl handed one of the guitarists her phone, squealing, "I'm face-timing Olivia at William and Mary!"
To their credit, the band took the phone and talked at it, presumably to a dumbstruck Olivia who, despite repeated entreaties, never said a word back.
"I'm pretty sure this could never have happened at another time," the guitarist said, passing the phone on to the other guitarist before returning it to its owner.
Personally, I had no use for Olivia or her friend too busy face-timing to just enjoy a good show on a Tuesday night.
Must be a generational thing.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Boys and Girls in America
As book titles go, it was pretty catchy.
"Death by Petticoat," with the subtitle "American History Myths Debunked," was the subject of author Mary Theobald's book and talk today at the Library of Virginia,
She began by talking about how people are wedded to myths, perpetuating them long after facts have proven them wrong.
Taking examples from her book, she shared some long-held myths and the research that had taken them from "fact" to full-on myth.
Like how quilts were made to show secret codes to help slaves escape...except most of the supposed escape quilt patterns were created long after the Civil War.
Like how during colonial times, the number one cause of death for women was their petticoats catching on fire hearthside...except the number one cause of death was really disease, followed by childbirth.
Like how the position of the horse's feet in an equestrienne statue told whether the rider was wounded or died in war...except it didn't.
Theobald pointed out that many of these myths were perpetuated by guides of walking tours, ghost tours, carriage tours and the like.
In other words, tours focusing more on entertainment than education.
One of the most interesting factoids I leaned was about the term "hoe cake," which had been believed to have arisen from slaves cooking corn cakes on their hoes while working out in the field.
And while they may have done that, too, the fact is that hoe is an obsolete word for griddle.
We know that because Martha Washington said so in the cookbook she wrote.
And if you can't trust Martha Washington, who can you trust?
During the Q & A, a woman asked about separate stairs for girls and boys at an old schoolhouse she'd visited, saying the guide had claimed it was so boys wouldn't look up girls' skirts.
Even Theobald had to admit that that was probably no myth.
Plenty of things change over time and others not so much.
"Death by Petticoat," with the subtitle "American History Myths Debunked," was the subject of author Mary Theobald's book and talk today at the Library of Virginia,
She began by talking about how people are wedded to myths, perpetuating them long after facts have proven them wrong.
Taking examples from her book, she shared some long-held myths and the research that had taken them from "fact" to full-on myth.
Like how quilts were made to show secret codes to help slaves escape...except most of the supposed escape quilt patterns were created long after the Civil War.
Like how during colonial times, the number one cause of death for women was their petticoats catching on fire hearthside...except the number one cause of death was really disease, followed by childbirth.
Like how the position of the horse's feet in an equestrienne statue told whether the rider was wounded or died in war...except it didn't.
Theobald pointed out that many of these myths were perpetuated by guides of walking tours, ghost tours, carriage tours and the like.
In other words, tours focusing more on entertainment than education.
One of the most interesting factoids I leaned was about the term "hoe cake," which had been believed to have arisen from slaves cooking corn cakes on their hoes while working out in the field.
And while they may have done that, too, the fact is that hoe is an obsolete word for griddle.
We know that because Martha Washington said so in the cookbook she wrote.
And if you can't trust Martha Washington, who can you trust?
During the Q & A, a woman asked about separate stairs for girls and boys at an old schoolhouse she'd visited, saying the guide had claimed it was so boys wouldn't look up girls' skirts.
Even Theobald had to admit that that was probably no myth.
Plenty of things change over time and others not so much.
An Evening Not Rued
Remember a time when everyone had a favorite poem?
Yea, neither do I.
My Monday night began at Rowland where, when I pulled up, I saw Chef Virginia picking herbs from her many herb beds outside the restaurant. Does a person good to see a chef picking fresh sage and rosemary. She followed me inside with her handful of herbs, asking what I'd like to drink, even suggesting something organic.
I'm as groovy as the next person, so I said yes to the Musaragno organic Pinot Grigio, a lovely crisp yet rich white, ideal for this beach-like weather day.
To go with it, I ordered lamb meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce over cous cous, one of the happy hour specials where you get way more flavor than you should for the price. I had to scarf them down in order to go pick up one of my favorite literati for the James River Film Festival.
We took seats behind a row of what looked like students, a surprise since I expected to find the audience full of poetry lovers of (ahem) a certain age. And there were some of those, too, for "Robert Frost: A Lover's Quarrel with the World," an Academy Award-winning documentary from 1963.
The title comes from what he wanted written on his tombstone, "I had a lover's quarrel with the world." Now that's seriously poetic.
The beautiful black and white film showed Frost on his Vermont farm during the year before he died, along with several clips of readings and events he attended. First of all, my mental image of Frost was that of the man who Kennedy had asked to read at his inauguration (something no president had ever done).
In other words, old.
So I was completely unprepared to see pictures of him as a young, handsome man. I mean seriously handsome. My girlfriend and I were both shocked to learn that he'd been born in 1874, since we'd both thought of him as a twentieth-century man.
There were many scenes of a reading Frost was doing at Sarah Lawrence College, with him surrounded by scads of young female college students, none of whom wore a lick of makeup. As the camera panned the girls watching and reacting to Frost, it was obvious how engaged they were in every word the man uttered.
Their eyes never left his face, they laughed at every witticism he uttered and not a one seemed the least bit bored. I couldn't help but wonder if it'd be the same if a poet read at a college today. In another scene, people were asked their favorite poem and many of them cited Frost's "Birches."
Again, I posit that if you stopped 100 people on the street and asked them their favorite poem, most would be unable to name one. And, yet, in 1963, poetry still mattered enough that random people could name their favorite.
There were several shots with JKF, not surprising since Frost was an early advocate of the candidate.
"I was born and raised and stayed a Democrat, but, oh my, I've been worried since 1896," he said.
Watching him putter around his rustic house and surrounding farmland at 88-years old was impressive for how self-sufficient he was, but also fascinating because of his solitude at a ripe old age. But it was clear how much he enjoyed the talks he gave ("Hell is a half-filled auditorium") and how sharp he still was when students questioned him or challenged him.
One poem, "Dust of Snow" he not only read but then recited, the better to make his point that sometimes a poem is just a poem.
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of the day I rued
Forget black birds and hemlock, it's just a poem about the beauty of the random.
By the end of the documentary, I was totally charmed by the man, as no doubt people had been for years before me. "You work on your poetry and your life," he says. "And love for a season."
Sigh, the man couldn't open his mouth without sounding poetic. No wonder those girls were enthralled. I'm with them.
Meanwhile, of the three students sitting in front of us, one was sleeping, one was texting the entire film and the third looked bored out of his mind as he kept twisting in his seat.
Try asking them what their favorite poem is.
My only hope is that eventually they'll rue the day they had a chance to see a giant of a poet filmed while he was still alive in a beautifully-shot film. I know it gave my heart a change of mood - an appreciation for a time when poetry still mattered.
Or as Frost said, "A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom." My evening began in delight and moved right through to wisdom.
I'm just working on my life.
Yea, neither do I.
My Monday night began at Rowland where, when I pulled up, I saw Chef Virginia picking herbs from her many herb beds outside the restaurant. Does a person good to see a chef picking fresh sage and rosemary. She followed me inside with her handful of herbs, asking what I'd like to drink, even suggesting something organic.
I'm as groovy as the next person, so I said yes to the Musaragno organic Pinot Grigio, a lovely crisp yet rich white, ideal for this beach-like weather day.
To go with it, I ordered lamb meatballs in a spicy tomato sauce over cous cous, one of the happy hour specials where you get way more flavor than you should for the price. I had to scarf them down in order to go pick up one of my favorite literati for the James River Film Festival.
We took seats behind a row of what looked like students, a surprise since I expected to find the audience full of poetry lovers of (ahem) a certain age. And there were some of those, too, for "Robert Frost: A Lover's Quarrel with the World," an Academy Award-winning documentary from 1963.
The title comes from what he wanted written on his tombstone, "I had a lover's quarrel with the world." Now that's seriously poetic.
The beautiful black and white film showed Frost on his Vermont farm during the year before he died, along with several clips of readings and events he attended. First of all, my mental image of Frost was that of the man who Kennedy had asked to read at his inauguration (something no president had ever done).
In other words, old.
So I was completely unprepared to see pictures of him as a young, handsome man. I mean seriously handsome. My girlfriend and I were both shocked to learn that he'd been born in 1874, since we'd both thought of him as a twentieth-century man.
There were many scenes of a reading Frost was doing at Sarah Lawrence College, with him surrounded by scads of young female college students, none of whom wore a lick of makeup. As the camera panned the girls watching and reacting to Frost, it was obvious how engaged they were in every word the man uttered.
Their eyes never left his face, they laughed at every witticism he uttered and not a one seemed the least bit bored. I couldn't help but wonder if it'd be the same if a poet read at a college today. In another scene, people were asked their favorite poem and many of them cited Frost's "Birches."
Again, I posit that if you stopped 100 people on the street and asked them their favorite poem, most would be unable to name one. And, yet, in 1963, poetry still mattered enough that random people could name their favorite.
There were several shots with JKF, not surprising since Frost was an early advocate of the candidate.
"I was born and raised and stayed a Democrat, but, oh my, I've been worried since 1896," he said.
Watching him putter around his rustic house and surrounding farmland at 88-years old was impressive for how self-sufficient he was, but also fascinating because of his solitude at a ripe old age. But it was clear how much he enjoyed the talks he gave ("Hell is a half-filled auditorium") and how sharp he still was when students questioned him or challenged him.
One poem, "Dust of Snow" he not only read but then recited, the better to make his point that sometimes a poem is just a poem.
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of the day I rued
Forget black birds and hemlock, it's just a poem about the beauty of the random.
By the end of the documentary, I was totally charmed by the man, as no doubt people had been for years before me. "You work on your poetry and your life," he says. "And love for a season."
Sigh, the man couldn't open his mouth without sounding poetic. No wonder those girls were enthralled. I'm with them.
Meanwhile, of the three students sitting in front of us, one was sleeping, one was texting the entire film and the third looked bored out of his mind as he kept twisting in his seat.
Try asking them what their favorite poem is.
My only hope is that eventually they'll rue the day they had a chance to see a giant of a poet filmed while he was still alive in a beautifully-shot film. I know it gave my heart a change of mood - an appreciation for a time when poetry still mattered.
Or as Frost said, "A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom." My evening began in delight and moved right through to wisdom.
I'm just working on my life.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Vamp and Punk
Without birthdays, there can be no death.
The birthday was my aunt's and it required me to drive up to Maryland for a luncheon.
Don't get me wrong, I love my aunt, a woman who was a role model for me in terms of her abiding passion for books and travel when I was a kid.
But having to spend my morning driving up soul-sucking I-95 is a lot to ask of me.
The luncheon was fine and to soothe my soul, I came home via Route 301 so I could avoid the aggressive drivers and speed demons than distract me from my road trip music.
By the time I meandered back down the back roads (it took 45 minutes longer than I-95), it was time to get on with the night.
It was a night of film, starting at Gallery 5.
The Silent Music Revival was breaking form and showing a long film tonight, Charlie Chaplin's "The Kid," billed as a "comedy with a smile and perhaps a tear."
Wolf//Goat was providing the soundtrack from behind the screen, a presence heard but unseen.
Organizer Jameson introduced the movie as a significant because it was Chaplin's first feature-length film and because it was made just after Chaplin's own baby son died.
No there was a poignant fact to contemplate and no doubt the source of the "tear" possibility.
He also said Chaplin had done everything for this film - directed, produced starred and even written the score- "But you won;t hear that tonight," Jameson reminded us.
As "The Kid" began, local band Wolf//Goat started with a rendition of "Amazing Grace" and the marriage of film and improvised score began.
The story of an orphan brought up by Chaplin's little tramp showed a man thrust into fatherhood (he found the baby in an alley) who handled it well.
I loved a scene of the adorable five-year old boy making pancakes for the two of them while Chaplin laid in bed reading the paper.
That was only way being a kid sucked in 1921, though; lots of other less than sterling things happened to the kid, from his real mother leaving him in a car to the welfare authorities trying to cart him off to the workhouse to his two-bit life of crime with the tramp.
I'll give Jameson credit; once again, he'd chosen the ideal band to match the film.
Wolf//Goat played much tighter tonight than the first time I'd seen them and their "score" was a terrific match for the movie's action.
One of my favorite moments came during the little tramp's dream sequence when a devil advises a woman to tempt him, instructing, "Vamp him!"
Haven't we all wanted to vamp someone at one time or another?
The minute the kid and the tramp found their happy ending, I was out of my seat and off to the Visual Arts Center for more James River Film Festival.
Tonight they were showing another documentary and since in my world you can never have too many docs, I'd gotten my ticket almost a week ago at Steady Sounds, who was co-sponsoring the event.
The room was nearly full of people of all ages when a fellow music-lover and I got there, with lots of musicians in attendance.
It was the story of three teen-aged black brothers from Detroit who'd started a band in the early seventies, which would've been no big deal if it had been a funk or disco band, but it wasn't.
It was proto-punk, which if it had gotten any attention at the time (it didn't), would have been a sea change in the music scene.
It would have been the first punk band.
But when black guys tried to do rock and roll in Motown in 1973 with a name like "Death," nobody much wanted to listen.
One guy at a record company believed in their sound, so they recorded an album's worth of material and released a single.
But no radio station was willing to play it, so the story basically ended there.
And even if it hadn't one of the three brothers, David, the leader and the one who refused to change the band's name to garner more of a shot at fame, died young of lung cancer.
And that's what was great to see, how the filmmakers documented when a few rabid record collectors got wind of the single thirty years alter and tracked down a few copies, leading to the son of Death's bass player getting wind of the band via a friend who'd heard the single and called it the best thing she'd ever heard.
You can imagine his surprise when he discovered that his Dad and two uncles had been that band.
To paraphrase one of the sons, how cool is that?
You can also see how a story like this would have never happened in the pre-Internet days.
The sons formed a tribute band and began doing shows of Death's music.
The old master tapes from the recording session were found in the family attic and the album mastered and put out.
And, best of all, the two remaining members of Death found a worthy guitar player to replace their brother and started playing shows to packed houses.
You can only imagine the fanatical interest of what is now multiple generations of punk fans getting to hear a band that was capturing that sound and energy, even that tinniness due to the era, before anyone else.
The diversity of the people at Death's shows roughly mirrored the diversity of the people at tonight's JRFF sold-out screening of "A Band called Death."
Like the son of Death said, how cool is that?
The birthday was my aunt's and it required me to drive up to Maryland for a luncheon.
Don't get me wrong, I love my aunt, a woman who was a role model for me in terms of her abiding passion for books and travel when I was a kid.
But having to spend my morning driving up soul-sucking I-95 is a lot to ask of me.
The luncheon was fine and to soothe my soul, I came home via Route 301 so I could avoid the aggressive drivers and speed demons than distract me from my road trip music.
By the time I meandered back down the back roads (it took 45 minutes longer than I-95), it was time to get on with the night.
It was a night of film, starting at Gallery 5.
The Silent Music Revival was breaking form and showing a long film tonight, Charlie Chaplin's "The Kid," billed as a "comedy with a smile and perhaps a tear."
Wolf//Goat was providing the soundtrack from behind the screen, a presence heard but unseen.
Organizer Jameson introduced the movie as a significant because it was Chaplin's first feature-length film and because it was made just after Chaplin's own baby son died.
No there was a poignant fact to contemplate and no doubt the source of the "tear" possibility.
He also said Chaplin had done everything for this film - directed, produced starred and even written the score- "But you won;t hear that tonight," Jameson reminded us.
As "The Kid" began, local band Wolf//Goat started with a rendition of "Amazing Grace" and the marriage of film and improvised score began.
The story of an orphan brought up by Chaplin's little tramp showed a man thrust into fatherhood (he found the baby in an alley) who handled it well.
I loved a scene of the adorable five-year old boy making pancakes for the two of them while Chaplin laid in bed reading the paper.
That was only way being a kid sucked in 1921, though; lots of other less than sterling things happened to the kid, from his real mother leaving him in a car to the welfare authorities trying to cart him off to the workhouse to his two-bit life of crime with the tramp.
I'll give Jameson credit; once again, he'd chosen the ideal band to match the film.
Wolf//Goat played much tighter tonight than the first time I'd seen them and their "score" was a terrific match for the movie's action.
One of my favorite moments came during the little tramp's dream sequence when a devil advises a woman to tempt him, instructing, "Vamp him!"
Haven't we all wanted to vamp someone at one time or another?
The minute the kid and the tramp found their happy ending, I was out of my seat and off to the Visual Arts Center for more James River Film Festival.
Tonight they were showing another documentary and since in my world you can never have too many docs, I'd gotten my ticket almost a week ago at Steady Sounds, who was co-sponsoring the event.
The room was nearly full of people of all ages when a fellow music-lover and I got there, with lots of musicians in attendance.
It was the story of three teen-aged black brothers from Detroit who'd started a band in the early seventies, which would've been no big deal if it had been a funk or disco band, but it wasn't.
It was proto-punk, which if it had gotten any attention at the time (it didn't), would have been a sea change in the music scene.
It would have been the first punk band.
But when black guys tried to do rock and roll in Motown in 1973 with a name like "Death," nobody much wanted to listen.
One guy at a record company believed in their sound, so they recorded an album's worth of material and released a single.
But no radio station was willing to play it, so the story basically ended there.
And even if it hadn't one of the three brothers, David, the leader and the one who refused to change the band's name to garner more of a shot at fame, died young of lung cancer.
And that's what was great to see, how the filmmakers documented when a few rabid record collectors got wind of the single thirty years alter and tracked down a few copies, leading to the son of Death's bass player getting wind of the band via a friend who'd heard the single and called it the best thing she'd ever heard.
You can imagine his surprise when he discovered that his Dad and two uncles had been that band.
To paraphrase one of the sons, how cool is that?
You can also see how a story like this would have never happened in the pre-Internet days.
The sons formed a tribute band and began doing shows of Death's music.
The old master tapes from the recording session were found in the family attic and the album mastered and put out.
And, best of all, the two remaining members of Death found a worthy guitar player to replace their brother and started playing shows to packed houses.
You can only imagine the fanatical interest of what is now multiple generations of punk fans getting to hear a band that was capturing that sound and energy, even that tinniness due to the era, before anyone else.
The diversity of the people at Death's shows roughly mirrored the diversity of the people at tonight's JRFF sold-out screening of "A Band called Death."
Like the son of Death said, how cool is that?
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Lemon Curd and Pet Cemeteries
I put the reins in a friend's hands and reaped the benefits.
With no real plan until 10:30, I forced my company on a friend who was getting a late start on her evening due to taxes.
Before we could meet up, though, she needed to shower because being abused by the government made her feel dirty.
Choices are limited at 8:00 on a Saturday night so I let her choose the destination and she wanted Magpie.
The door was wide open and every table was taken but bar stools were available.
I couldn't convince her to go Greek with me, so I enjoyed a glass of Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero without her.
The amuse bouche was one perfect fava bean with blood orange and shaved sea truffle.
The chalkboard outside was full of new dishes, so we chose from that.
A smoked rabbit terrine with house crackers and orange marmalade was an addictive cream-cheese-based marvel.
Housemade pheasant sausage with a bit of heat came with the poetically labeled Night Sky chevre and pear butter to cool it down.
As if those two weren't enough to knock our socks off, we then had pan-seared duck breast with Easter egg radishes, avocado, orange segments and sea truffle.
The variety of beautiful colors explained the name, Easter egg radishes, and maybe even the taste, highly desirable.
Over our feast, she regaled me with a day spent with her Dad, a character if ever there was one.
They began by trying to find a marina whose location he'd long since forgotten.
From there, they went to Costco (his first time) where when they saw a buy one, get one deal on Preparation H, he began to do the hemorrhoid dance, much to her mortification.
A trip to his library followed (a library, she said, that had a cafe, wtf?) where she attempted to teach him how to do a keyword search.
But the high point of the afternoon, she said, was when he took her to a secret pet cemetery he'd discovered that necessitated them climbing down a ravine and over a creek to access it.
One of them might have ended up with wet feet making the trek.
The reward was a field of headstones devoted to Fluffy and Snookums, may they rest in peace.
By this time, I was laughing so hard I was worried "Feast" was going to come out of my nose.
We calmed down with dessert, an incredibly dark and dense chocolate mousse with rosemary pound cake and lemon curd, leading to another laugh attack when she asked me in all seriousness if I'd ever made lemon curd.
Well, there was the time when I took those lemons and...no, I have definitely never even thought about making lemon curd.
Why would I when people far more qualified than me can do it so much better?
By that time, we were two of the only four people left in the restaurant, meaning it was time for us to get out and let the staff go home and sleep before coming back tomorrow for brunch.
My next stop was a rare Saturday night edition of Live at Ipanema, curated by the Cheats Movement.
Crossing the patio, a friend spotted me and smirked. "I beat you here," he bragged before getting realistic. "That'll never happen again."
You can almost always count on Live at Ipanema starting around 10:45 and yet tonight I walked in at 10:30 and Sam Reed was already singing.
The band, fronted by dynamic Photosynthesizer front woman Sam, sounded great and did a bunch of covers (Coldplay, Radiohead, Chaka Khan) that showed off the range of her voice.
The crowd was especially lively for a Live at Ipanema event, but as a musician friend observed, "It is Saturday night after all."
I ran into plenty of friends who'd seen a James River Film Fest film today, along with a lot of the festival's organizers coming over for a drink after the last screening.
In yet another reminder of what a small place Richmond is, I officially met a girl I'd seen Monday at a house show and Wednesday at a poetry reading.
We concluded that we have a lot of the same (good) taste.
The Low Branches played next and I have to say it was the loudest audience I've ever seen at a Low Branches show.
The sound of the music in the room was amazing, crystalline and clear (thanks to Allen), so many of us focused on what we could hear while the rest of the Saturday night revelers chatted on.
The band finished up with a cover of "Jolene" that finally quieted the room down with its sheer brilliance as done by singer Christina.
Or, as a musician friend put it, "I worked all day and got home and was going to stay in. Then I listened to Low Branches' Bandcamp and I thought, I need to hear this girls' voice live tonight."
As many times as I've heard Christina's voice, I still feel that way.
Add in Josh's superb bass playing (another bass player observed, "Sometimes he just plays one note and just holds it. Man!"), Matt's distinctive guitar parts and the invaluable Blasco on drums (their sound has grown so much since he joined the group), and they should be a must-see no matter what kind of day you've had.
Mine was pretty great - a vintage silent film, gardening with a novice and dinner dishing with a favorite girlfriend- but so was the final chapter.
That'll happen again.
With no real plan until 10:30, I forced my company on a friend who was getting a late start on her evening due to taxes.
Before we could meet up, though, she needed to shower because being abused by the government made her feel dirty.
Choices are limited at 8:00 on a Saturday night so I let her choose the destination and she wanted Magpie.
The door was wide open and every table was taken but bar stools were available.
I couldn't convince her to go Greek with me, so I enjoyed a glass of Semeli "Feast" Moschofilero without her.
The amuse bouche was one perfect fava bean with blood orange and shaved sea truffle.
The chalkboard outside was full of new dishes, so we chose from that.
A smoked rabbit terrine with house crackers and orange marmalade was an addictive cream-cheese-based marvel.
Housemade pheasant sausage with a bit of heat came with the poetically labeled Night Sky chevre and pear butter to cool it down.
As if those two weren't enough to knock our socks off, we then had pan-seared duck breast with Easter egg radishes, avocado, orange segments and sea truffle.
The variety of beautiful colors explained the name, Easter egg radishes, and maybe even the taste, highly desirable.
Over our feast, she regaled me with a day spent with her Dad, a character if ever there was one.
They began by trying to find a marina whose location he'd long since forgotten.
From there, they went to Costco (his first time) where when they saw a buy one, get one deal on Preparation H, he began to do the hemorrhoid dance, much to her mortification.
A trip to his library followed (a library, she said, that had a cafe, wtf?) where she attempted to teach him how to do a keyword search.
But the high point of the afternoon, she said, was when he took her to a secret pet cemetery he'd discovered that necessitated them climbing down a ravine and over a creek to access it.
One of them might have ended up with wet feet making the trek.
The reward was a field of headstones devoted to Fluffy and Snookums, may they rest in peace.
By this time, I was laughing so hard I was worried "Feast" was going to come out of my nose.
We calmed down with dessert, an incredibly dark and dense chocolate mousse with rosemary pound cake and lemon curd, leading to another laugh attack when she asked me in all seriousness if I'd ever made lemon curd.
Well, there was the time when I took those lemons and...no, I have definitely never even thought about making lemon curd.
Why would I when people far more qualified than me can do it so much better?
By that time, we were two of the only four people left in the restaurant, meaning it was time for us to get out and let the staff go home and sleep before coming back tomorrow for brunch.
My next stop was a rare Saturday night edition of Live at Ipanema, curated by the Cheats Movement.
Crossing the patio, a friend spotted me and smirked. "I beat you here," he bragged before getting realistic. "That'll never happen again."
You can almost always count on Live at Ipanema starting around 10:45 and yet tonight I walked in at 10:30 and Sam Reed was already singing.
The band, fronted by dynamic Photosynthesizer front woman Sam, sounded great and did a bunch of covers (Coldplay, Radiohead, Chaka Khan) that showed off the range of her voice.
The crowd was especially lively for a Live at Ipanema event, but as a musician friend observed, "It is Saturday night after all."
I ran into plenty of friends who'd seen a James River Film Fest film today, along with a lot of the festival's organizers coming over for a drink after the last screening.
In yet another reminder of what a small place Richmond is, I officially met a girl I'd seen Monday at a house show and Wednesday at a poetry reading.
We concluded that we have a lot of the same (good) taste.
The Low Branches played next and I have to say it was the loudest audience I've ever seen at a Low Branches show.
The sound of the music in the room was amazing, crystalline and clear (thanks to Allen), so many of us focused on what we could hear while the rest of the Saturday night revelers chatted on.
The band finished up with a cover of "Jolene" that finally quieted the room down with its sheer brilliance as done by singer Christina.
Or, as a musician friend put it, "I worked all day and got home and was going to stay in. Then I listened to Low Branches' Bandcamp and I thought, I need to hear this girls' voice live tonight."
As many times as I've heard Christina's voice, I still feel that way.
Add in Josh's superb bass playing (another bass player observed, "Sometimes he just plays one note and just holds it. Man!"), Matt's distinctive guitar parts and the invaluable Blasco on drums (their sound has grown so much since he joined the group), and they should be a must-see no matter what kind of day you've had.
Mine was pretty great - a vintage silent film, gardening with a novice and dinner dishing with a favorite girlfriend- but so was the final chapter.
That'll happen again.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
I Couldn't Believe My Eyes
If I was going to see my first Harold Lloyd movie, the Byrd was the place to do it.
We were seeing a new restoration of "Safety Last" in a digitized format, as so many vintage films are now, done so that they can be shown in theaters which no longer have projectors.
When that fact was mentioned, From the front row, the Byrd's manager Todd called out, "They'll take the 35 mm projector out of the Byrd over my dead body!"
The laughter and applause were immediate.
We were also told that this was the very first screening in the country of this restored print.
I'm not ashamed to say I like being first.
In the grand tradition of the Byrd, the screening began with the legendary litter promo, although without the sound, so the crowd provided it.
Somebody needs parental guidance.
The credits were a study in simplicity.
The boy, the girl, the pal, the law. Who needs names?
The love story concerned the boy going off to the big city to earn enough money to marry and support the girl (who would not doubt become the wife).
He finds a job selling fabric in a department store.
This was a guy devoted to his mission, or as the screen said, "He couldn't have given more to his job if it was a position."
I found it an interesting cultural commentary that in 1923 we were still making the distinction between jobs and positions.
Another cultural observation was when the boy got in trouble for having his jacket off and gets called into the big cheese's office.
He is rebuked for having been on the sales floor in his short sleeves, thereby offending the female customers sense of refinement.
Boy, that sense has been dead in the water for a while now, hasn't it?
Even the language came across as arcane, as when the boss lamented that, "Something is very wrong with our exploitation," and wants to find a way to bring attention to the store.
Exploitation?
I think we call that branding or image now.
The boy suggests a way to exploit the store by having his pal, a skilled climber, scale the department store facade.
As it turns out, the pal is trying to elude a cop bent on arresting him for punching him earlier, so the boy has to make the ascent himself, and he's no skilled climber.
Using recessed bricks to gain a foot and handhold, he begins to slowly climb the store while hundreds of customers watch.
Naturally there are comedic bits like the iconic shot of the boy hanging onto the hands of a giant clock on the building.
But there's also a scene of a mouse running up his pants leg, making him do a dance on the ledge to try to get it out.
With each floor up that he makes it, another obstacle meets him and he's hanging from a rope, or has his foot caught in a coil or gets hit in the head and gets dizzy.
And with each new problem, he teeters precariously close to the ledge and a fall to certain death.
It was scene after scene of suspense to see if he'd make it to the top, get the money for doing so and be able to marry the girl.
But what quickly became apparent to me was how poorly I was handling all these scenes of him leaning backwards over the streetscape below.
Really poorly, that's how.
My palms began to sweat.
I had to look away more than once.
Maybe it's my own phobias, but I couldn't keep watching the boy almost fall to his death.
Meanwhile, all around me , I heard adults and children giggling madly at the action.
I'd dry my hands on my shirt and by the next scene, they were moist again as I cringed at the angle of the boy this time.
Sure, my rational mind told me it was only a movie and a romantic comedy at that, but watching a man (whom we'd been told did his own stunts) hover on the edge of ledges, windows and a roof, was a little too close to some personal fears apparently.
On the plus side, I found the bespectacled Harold Lloyd far more handsome than Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton.
I'm just hoping the next Harold Lloyd film I see won't upset my women's sense of refinement quite as much.
We were seeing a new restoration of "Safety Last" in a digitized format, as so many vintage films are now, done so that they can be shown in theaters which no longer have projectors.
When that fact was mentioned, From the front row, the Byrd's manager Todd called out, "They'll take the 35 mm projector out of the Byrd over my dead body!"
The laughter and applause were immediate.
We were also told that this was the very first screening in the country of this restored print.
I'm not ashamed to say I like being first.
In the grand tradition of the Byrd, the screening began with the legendary litter promo, although without the sound, so the crowd provided it.
Somebody needs parental guidance.
The credits were a study in simplicity.
The boy, the girl, the pal, the law. Who needs names?
The love story concerned the boy going off to the big city to earn enough money to marry and support the girl (who would not doubt become the wife).
He finds a job selling fabric in a department store.
This was a guy devoted to his mission, or as the screen said, "He couldn't have given more to his job if it was a position."
I found it an interesting cultural commentary that in 1923 we were still making the distinction between jobs and positions.
Another cultural observation was when the boy got in trouble for having his jacket off and gets called into the big cheese's office.
He is rebuked for having been on the sales floor in his short sleeves, thereby offending the female customers sense of refinement.
Boy, that sense has been dead in the water for a while now, hasn't it?
Even the language came across as arcane, as when the boss lamented that, "Something is very wrong with our exploitation," and wants to find a way to bring attention to the store.
Exploitation?
I think we call that branding or image now.
The boy suggests a way to exploit the store by having his pal, a skilled climber, scale the department store facade.
As it turns out, the pal is trying to elude a cop bent on arresting him for punching him earlier, so the boy has to make the ascent himself, and he's no skilled climber.
Using recessed bricks to gain a foot and handhold, he begins to slowly climb the store while hundreds of customers watch.
Naturally there are comedic bits like the iconic shot of the boy hanging onto the hands of a giant clock on the building.
But there's also a scene of a mouse running up his pants leg, making him do a dance on the ledge to try to get it out.
With each floor up that he makes it, another obstacle meets him and he's hanging from a rope, or has his foot caught in a coil or gets hit in the head and gets dizzy.
And with each new problem, he teeters precariously close to the ledge and a fall to certain death.
It was scene after scene of suspense to see if he'd make it to the top, get the money for doing so and be able to marry the girl.
But what quickly became apparent to me was how poorly I was handling all these scenes of him leaning backwards over the streetscape below.
Really poorly, that's how.
My palms began to sweat.
I had to look away more than once.
Maybe it's my own phobias, but I couldn't keep watching the boy almost fall to his death.
Meanwhile, all around me , I heard adults and children giggling madly at the action.
I'd dry my hands on my shirt and by the next scene, they were moist again as I cringed at the angle of the boy this time.
Sure, my rational mind told me it was only a movie and a romantic comedy at that, but watching a man (whom we'd been told did his own stunts) hover on the edge of ledges, windows and a roof, was a little too close to some personal fears apparently.
On the plus side, I found the bespectacled Harold Lloyd far more handsome than Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton.
I'm just hoping the next Harold Lloyd film I see won't upset my women's sense of refinement quite as much.
Wet and Wild
It was a night of unbridled enthusiasm.
I'd spent the week finishing several big assignments, so by the time 5:00 rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to get out and about.
I was barely six blocks from home and I saw a familiar face, Myron, a sculptor I know and whom I'd written about in this week's Style Weekly.
I called to him and we enjoyed a raucous conversation in the parking lot about the article.
He was especially tickled that I'd included his intended wording for his tombstone ("He was a fucking asshole"), saying he'd already heard from an out of town friend, bemused by it.
The night was off to a great start.
Driving down Main Street toward Carytown, it looked like everyone on the street was happy.
Once in Secco, one of the bartenders said as much. "You can practically feel people's energy on a Friday like this," he observed.
Let's just say it was so nice that I decided to turn the page to rose, kicking off the season with Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence rose, a pale salmon charmer with my name all over it.
I'd heard that they had a new menu and took suggestions from my server on what to eat.
He spoke highly of the roasted beets, dill creme fraiche, trout roe and rye crisps, so I said yes.
The guy two stools down was already eating the same dish and we compared raves about the complementary and satisfying flavors.
He went on to recommend the grilled octopus, roasted marbled potatoes, jalapeno and mint, a dish that knocked my socks off with its unexpected heat and toothsome seafood.
As my meal was winding down, I encountered a friend looking for a partner in crime, so I succumbed to her siren song and we enjoyed a springtime walk down to Acacia for a glass and some girltalk.
Both of us must have needed it because one would tell a story (often about our mother or sibling), which would remind the other of a story she needed to tell and then an anecdote from childhood (or worse, our teen years) followed ad nauseum.
While she tried cocktails, I stayed pink with Stolpman Rose, mainly because it was a Sangiovese and Grenache blend and I'm a sucker for both.
Our girl date came to an end when I needed to get to Strange Matter for a show and she needed to go crash after a long day.
Walking into Strange Matter was like walking into a sauna.
The place was packed and Warren Hixson, a local surf rock outfit, had the crowd in their thrall.
Front and center was Nelly Kate, a favorite of mine for her lovely voice and looping abilities, but I hadn't known she was in this band, so a bonus.
I found a friend and a big cup of water to ward off fainting in a room that felt dangerously bereft of air.
But, hey, that's rock and roll, right?
Given the size and sweatiness of the crowd, I wasted no time in finding a place on the wooden banquette where I could stand and see over the crowd.
I gestured for a sweaty-looking friend to join me and he climbed up, too, maybe eager Io escape the crowd, many of whom had a large X on their hand.
Beach Fossils began their set with a jolt, taking no prisoners and inciting the crowd into a dancing frenzy in no time.
My friend observed that he liked how they combined chillwave and new wave, but the emphasis was more on new than chill.
Bandleader (and formerly the only one in the band) Dustin said tonight was the kick-off of their tour, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one thrilled to be catching them both at a small venue and early on in the tour.
"We haven't slept much, so we might be kind of out of it," he said preemptively.
The insane heat in the room ensured that his guitar never stayed tuned for long, a fact which he kept apologizing for ("Sorry to have to tune in between every song"), though he was no doubt as hot as we were.
"I gotta apologize when I hit a sour note," he grinned. "AKA, the whole set."
If his guitar was occasionally out of tune, his aching and appealing voice more than made up for it.
They did songs from their new album, "Clash the Truth" and their older albums, so everybody was happy.
As they got geared up to fever pitch, the knot of people dancing in the center of the room (where the temperature had to be even hotter than it was against the concrete walls) grew larger with people unable to resist the lo-fi garage pop onslaught of Beach Fossils.
Guitars jangled, the bass was melodic and the drums pounded away so that we couldn't lose the beat.
It was Friday night fun with a capital "F."
Dustin suggested we could expend even more energy, but it was all I could do to maintain my place on the banquette while my clothes became soggier and soggier.
And yet the girl next to me said she'd gone outside and been cold. Cold sounded awfully appealing by then.
"This is our fake last song," Dustin said. "Instead of pretending this is our last and we're doing an encore, we're just going to do a few more."
That was the license for the audience to start crowd-surfing and before long, Dustin threw himself on top of eager fans.
Within moments, they dropped him, but he managed to scramble back on stage where they did "Daydream," a crowd favorite.
I didn't want the show to end, but I felt like I was melting against the people around me, so when Dustin climbed up on the bass drum to play his guitar, I knew the end was near.
I'd guess that the band's energy had to be near its end too, after an energetic set that left even my hair damp and all I'd done was dance in place.
The only logical thing to do was head out and hope to find some of that cold air I'd been hearing about.
Like my rose earlier, it had been a fine spring kick-off. AKA the whole set.
I'd spent the week finishing several big assignments, so by the time 5:00 rolled around, I was chomping at the bit to get out and about.
I was barely six blocks from home and I saw a familiar face, Myron, a sculptor I know and whom I'd written about in this week's Style Weekly.
I called to him and we enjoyed a raucous conversation in the parking lot about the article.
He was especially tickled that I'd included his intended wording for his tombstone ("He was a fucking asshole"), saying he'd already heard from an out of town friend, bemused by it.
The night was off to a great start.
Driving down Main Street toward Carytown, it looked like everyone on the street was happy.
Once in Secco, one of the bartenders said as much. "You can practically feel people's energy on a Friday like this," he observed.
Let's just say it was so nice that I decided to turn the page to rose, kicking off the season with Bieler Pere et Fils Coteaux Aix-en-Provence rose, a pale salmon charmer with my name all over it.
I'd heard that they had a new menu and took suggestions from my server on what to eat.
He spoke highly of the roasted beets, dill creme fraiche, trout roe and rye crisps, so I said yes.
The guy two stools down was already eating the same dish and we compared raves about the complementary and satisfying flavors.
He went on to recommend the grilled octopus, roasted marbled potatoes, jalapeno and mint, a dish that knocked my socks off with its unexpected heat and toothsome seafood.
As my meal was winding down, I encountered a friend looking for a partner in crime, so I succumbed to her siren song and we enjoyed a springtime walk down to Acacia for a glass and some girltalk.
Both of us must have needed it because one would tell a story (often about our mother or sibling), which would remind the other of a story she needed to tell and then an anecdote from childhood (or worse, our teen years) followed ad nauseum.
While she tried cocktails, I stayed pink with Stolpman Rose, mainly because it was a Sangiovese and Grenache blend and I'm a sucker for both.
Our girl date came to an end when I needed to get to Strange Matter for a show and she needed to go crash after a long day.
Walking into Strange Matter was like walking into a sauna.
The place was packed and Warren Hixson, a local surf rock outfit, had the crowd in their thrall.
Front and center was Nelly Kate, a favorite of mine for her lovely voice and looping abilities, but I hadn't known she was in this band, so a bonus.
I found a friend and a big cup of water to ward off fainting in a room that felt dangerously bereft of air.
But, hey, that's rock and roll, right?
Given the size and sweatiness of the crowd, I wasted no time in finding a place on the wooden banquette where I could stand and see over the crowd.
I gestured for a sweaty-looking friend to join me and he climbed up, too, maybe eager Io escape the crowd, many of whom had a large X on their hand.
Beach Fossils began their set with a jolt, taking no prisoners and inciting the crowd into a dancing frenzy in no time.
My friend observed that he liked how they combined chillwave and new wave, but the emphasis was more on new than chill.
Bandleader (and formerly the only one in the band) Dustin said tonight was the kick-off of their tour, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one thrilled to be catching them both at a small venue and early on in the tour.
"We haven't slept much, so we might be kind of out of it," he said preemptively.
The insane heat in the room ensured that his guitar never stayed tuned for long, a fact which he kept apologizing for ("Sorry to have to tune in between every song"), though he was no doubt as hot as we were.
"I gotta apologize when I hit a sour note," he grinned. "AKA, the whole set."
If his guitar was occasionally out of tune, his aching and appealing voice more than made up for it.
They did songs from their new album, "Clash the Truth" and their older albums, so everybody was happy.
As they got geared up to fever pitch, the knot of people dancing in the center of the room (where the temperature had to be even hotter than it was against the concrete walls) grew larger with people unable to resist the lo-fi garage pop onslaught of Beach Fossils.
Guitars jangled, the bass was melodic and the drums pounded away so that we couldn't lose the beat.
It was Friday night fun with a capital "F."
Dustin suggested we could expend even more energy, but it was all I could do to maintain my place on the banquette while my clothes became soggier and soggier.
And yet the girl next to me said she'd gone outside and been cold. Cold sounded awfully appealing by then.
"This is our fake last song," Dustin said. "Instead of pretending this is our last and we're doing an encore, we're just going to do a few more."
That was the license for the audience to start crowd-surfing and before long, Dustin threw himself on top of eager fans.
Within moments, they dropped him, but he managed to scramble back on stage where they did "Daydream," a crowd favorite.
I didn't want the show to end, but I felt like I was melting against the people around me, so when Dustin climbed up on the bass drum to play his guitar, I knew the end was near.
I'd guess that the band's energy had to be near its end too, after an energetic set that left even my hair damp and all I'd done was dance in place.
The only logical thing to do was head out and hope to find some of that cold air I'd been hearing about.
Like my rose earlier, it had been a fine spring kick-off. AKA the whole set.
Friday, April 12, 2013
A Fine Film Frenzy, No Toilets
For the next week, my life revolves around film.
Tonight was the kick-off of the James River Film Festival, the annual festival "for the independent-minded."
I've been called many things and that happens to be one of them.
Candela Gallery was the site of tonight's festivities, conveniently four blocks from home.
I never watch movies at home because I believe film is meant to be a shared public experience, so I was looking forward to experiencing a couple of diverse films with a bunch of strangers reacting right along with me.
Food was provided courtesy of Comfort, Kuba Kuba and Proper Pie, meaning pimento cheese and chocolate chess pie were present and accounted for.
James Parrish of the JRFF got things rolling by saying, "All theaters have ghosts and although this isn't a theater, Amie of Candela asked me if we brought a ghost with us. Because both toilets are stopped up."
I immediately stopped drinking.
Kicking off the festival was "The Projectionist," a short film about a retired projectionist's lifelong love of movie theaters.
The story was told by the man himself, Gordon, old and bent over, but funny as hell and with a memory that went back to his youthful fascination with moving pictures.
Gordon, who worshiped the old-school movie places (like the Byrd), bemoaned the multiplexes ("cheap-looking affairs"), saying how they'd taken the beauty and magic of old time theaters away.
To feed his obsession, first he made drawings of imagined theaters, then small models and that got him by until the advent of TV and the decline of movie-going.
That's when his basement theater was born.
The miniature version of a grand movie palace, right down to the stage curtains, working organ and nine seats, was the site of many of the interviews in the film.
There were so many times I laughed out loud (he called his projectors "the girls") as Gordon recalled his army days and the outdoor "theater" he'd created while stationed in China.
Consisting of a piece of sailcloth he got from the Navy, he fashioned stage curtains, a marquee and touted it (with a guffaw) as "air conditioned."
Afterwards, director Kendall Messick did a Q & A, telling us he'd first seen Gordon's theater as a child and not again for 25 years, when he realized that he needed to document this slice of theater history.
The best part was hearing that he'd saved Gordon's theater, removing it from the house so it could be reconstructed at museums (it's currently at an American history museum in Delaware) where "The Projectionist" could be shown.
Fortunately, Gordon lived long enough to see his beloved theater saved and moved by Kendall, something that had worried him greatly in his later years.
James asked of the crowd if we'd like to see Kendall's theater come to Richmond, getting a boisterous affirmative from us.
Since we've already seen "The projectionist," which usually shows in it, James suggested "Cinema Paradiso" instead.
Brilliant.
Kendall's film had been a worthy, feel-good and funny start to the festival.
My fellow film-lover and I quickly scored some pizza from Tarrant's during the break, fortification for the punk scene that was to come.
The crowd was much smaller and younger for the second feature of the night, "Autoluminescent: Rowland S. Howard," about a Melbourne musician.
Jeff Roll introduced the film, saying, "Broken toilets, how punk rock is that?"
Probably more than I needed, but it was also funny.
Like the previous documentary, this one was also about a man now dead, albeit at a much younger age.
In fact, one of the early shots was of Howard being asked what he hoped to be doing when he was 60.
His answer involved loud feedback coming out of his house at 3 a.m., so kids walking by would find him rude.
Early footage of him as a teenager in bands showed a sensitive, talented kid often overshadowed by his band mate, Nick Cave.
The first fifteen minutes of the film required adjusting to some rather thick Australian accents (and occasionally, bad teeth) before settling into an absolutely compelling story of a guy I'd never heard of who was in a band I had (Birthday Party).
About his first important songwriting success, a song called "Shivers", the band's singer Nick Cave admitted, "It was difficult to sing because it had a melody and stuff."
Funny that memory, since several other people including Howard remember that they all thought Howard should sing his own song but Cave's ego prevailed.
Lots of musicians who came after Howard praised his groundbreaking guitar work, people like Thurston Moore, Nick Zinner and Henry Rollins, saying things like, "Two notes in and you knew it was Roland Howard. No one else sounded like that."
Being the documentary dork that I am, I loved how much archival footage the film used, both interviews and show footage, as well as present day interviews with band mates and Howard's old friends/girlfriends.
Seeing the skinny Howard dressed up like a romantic '70s-era dandy, writing passionate songs while waiting for life to happen to him, was both heartbreaking and compelling.
Every woman who spoke of him in the movie did so in the fondest way, with a genuine appreciation for a sweet soul who'd poured out his heart in songs and writings.
By the end of the film when it's clear Howard is deadly ill (liver cancer after finally getting off years of heroin use), all I could think of was what a shame it was that this talented man who'd finally gotten his act together, found a loving woman and was again making stellar music, died at age 50.
Now I need to go explore his music.
Well, not now now, because I still have six more days of movies to watch with people I don't know.
But after the festival, for sure.
That's the beauty of the JRFF. It's just keeps on giving.
Tonight was the kick-off of the James River Film Festival, the annual festival "for the independent-minded."
I've been called many things and that happens to be one of them.
Candela Gallery was the site of tonight's festivities, conveniently four blocks from home.
I never watch movies at home because I believe film is meant to be a shared public experience, so I was looking forward to experiencing a couple of diverse films with a bunch of strangers reacting right along with me.
Food was provided courtesy of Comfort, Kuba Kuba and Proper Pie, meaning pimento cheese and chocolate chess pie were present and accounted for.
James Parrish of the JRFF got things rolling by saying, "All theaters have ghosts and although this isn't a theater, Amie of Candela asked me if we brought a ghost with us. Because both toilets are stopped up."
I immediately stopped drinking.
Kicking off the festival was "The Projectionist," a short film about a retired projectionist's lifelong love of movie theaters.
The story was told by the man himself, Gordon, old and bent over, but funny as hell and with a memory that went back to his youthful fascination with moving pictures.
Gordon, who worshiped the old-school movie places (like the Byrd), bemoaned the multiplexes ("cheap-looking affairs"), saying how they'd taken the beauty and magic of old time theaters away.
To feed his obsession, first he made drawings of imagined theaters, then small models and that got him by until the advent of TV and the decline of movie-going.
That's when his basement theater was born.
The miniature version of a grand movie palace, right down to the stage curtains, working organ and nine seats, was the site of many of the interviews in the film.
There were so many times I laughed out loud (he called his projectors "the girls") as Gordon recalled his army days and the outdoor "theater" he'd created while stationed in China.
Consisting of a piece of sailcloth he got from the Navy, he fashioned stage curtains, a marquee and touted it (with a guffaw) as "air conditioned."
Afterwards, director Kendall Messick did a Q & A, telling us he'd first seen Gordon's theater as a child and not again for 25 years, when he realized that he needed to document this slice of theater history.
The best part was hearing that he'd saved Gordon's theater, removing it from the house so it could be reconstructed at museums (it's currently at an American history museum in Delaware) where "The Projectionist" could be shown.
Fortunately, Gordon lived long enough to see his beloved theater saved and moved by Kendall, something that had worried him greatly in his later years.
James asked of the crowd if we'd like to see Kendall's theater come to Richmond, getting a boisterous affirmative from us.
Since we've already seen "The projectionist," which usually shows in it, James suggested "Cinema Paradiso" instead.
Brilliant.
Kendall's film had been a worthy, feel-good and funny start to the festival.
My fellow film-lover and I quickly scored some pizza from Tarrant's during the break, fortification for the punk scene that was to come.
The crowd was much smaller and younger for the second feature of the night, "Autoluminescent: Rowland S. Howard," about a Melbourne musician.
Jeff Roll introduced the film, saying, "Broken toilets, how punk rock is that?"
Probably more than I needed, but it was also funny.
Like the previous documentary, this one was also about a man now dead, albeit at a much younger age.
In fact, one of the early shots was of Howard being asked what he hoped to be doing when he was 60.
His answer involved loud feedback coming out of his house at 3 a.m., so kids walking by would find him rude.
Early footage of him as a teenager in bands showed a sensitive, talented kid often overshadowed by his band mate, Nick Cave.
The first fifteen minutes of the film required adjusting to some rather thick Australian accents (and occasionally, bad teeth) before settling into an absolutely compelling story of a guy I'd never heard of who was in a band I had (Birthday Party).
About his first important songwriting success, a song called "Shivers", the band's singer Nick Cave admitted, "It was difficult to sing because it had a melody and stuff."
Funny that memory, since several other people including Howard remember that they all thought Howard should sing his own song but Cave's ego prevailed.
Lots of musicians who came after Howard praised his groundbreaking guitar work, people like Thurston Moore, Nick Zinner and Henry Rollins, saying things like, "Two notes in and you knew it was Roland Howard. No one else sounded like that."
Being the documentary dork that I am, I loved how much archival footage the film used, both interviews and show footage, as well as present day interviews with band mates and Howard's old friends/girlfriends.
Seeing the skinny Howard dressed up like a romantic '70s-era dandy, writing passionate songs while waiting for life to happen to him, was both heartbreaking and compelling.
Every woman who spoke of him in the movie did so in the fondest way, with a genuine appreciation for a sweet soul who'd poured out his heart in songs and writings.
By the end of the film when it's clear Howard is deadly ill (liver cancer after finally getting off years of heroin use), all I could think of was what a shame it was that this talented man who'd finally gotten his act together, found a loving woman and was again making stellar music, died at age 50.
Now I need to go explore his music.
Well, not now now, because I still have six more days of movies to watch with people I don't know.
But after the festival, for sure.
That's the beauty of the JRFF. It's just keeps on giving.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
On a Thin, Lavender Evening
Few things rival poetry on a sunny April afternoon.
Today's came courtesy of Chop Suey Books and since they were holding the reading downstairs, I made sure to get there early to get a seat.
Pulling a book (musings on artist Degas, written in 1927) off the shelf to enjoy until things got started, people began to filter in around me.
The trombone player and his main squeeze. Several other poets. A DJ.
Sliding in next to me was the man whose name has been on everyone's lips lately, Evrim of Sub Rosa bakery.
I mentioned what a pleasure it was and yet how odd it seemed to be seeing him out so much this week.
Almost like he was on vacation.
He smiled and said that some aspects felt very vacation-like.
Like eating breakfast sitting down. And sleeping two and a half hours later than normal...until (gasp!) 7:30.
Clearly bakers are born, not made.
Reading first was Tarfia Faizullah, whose spirit animal, we were told, is a panther.
I'd heard her read before, so I knew to expect heartbreaking and evocative poetry about the atrocities women experienced in what became Bangladesh.
Introducing her poem, "1971," she promised that it would be the longest poem she read.
It's 1971 and the entire world is unraveling.
Two poems of the same name bookend her new book, "Seam," and she read from the first, "En Route to Bangladesh: Another Crises of Faith."
Here at the narrow mouth of this long human corridor.
One poem involved the interviews Tarfia had done with Bangladeshi women who'd experienced the horrors of living through that period.
On a thin, lavender evening like this.
The final poem of the book, the other "En Route" closed out her reading.
Until that narrow band of life is the only belief yet.
Sometimes the poems were difficult to hear, reminding the audience of the gulf between that world and this one, but always compelling.
Tarfia was followed by Rebecca Lindenberg, a poet from New York with an incredibly sad story who began with humor.
"I had to disturb Wonton the cat to come up here," she said of Chop Suey's feline-in-residence.
Then the sad.
Her partner Craig, also a poet, had gone off on a five-moth hike through Japan and disappeared one day. The book of poetry about family she'd been working on then found a focus.
Dealing with the loss of her beloved became the basis of her new book, "Love, An Index."
She began with "Litany" and moved on to "Catalog of Ephemera," with its allusions to what she had lost.
You give me seduction and you allow me to give it back to you.
You give me 24 across.
You give me grief and how to grieve.
Rebecca talked about how "Writing radically is a humiliating thing to do," a truth if ever there was one. "I realized I didn't want to get it right. I have a right to facts and to give just enough."
She read us excerpts of "Love, An Index," skipping around between letters until we exhausted the alphabet.
A, ache, broken things healing.
Rome, 5B, stone floors
People need acts of attention from each other.
I suppose you cannot appreciate something until you have seen it move.
Forgive, we did a lot.
Q, quandary, a problem with no solution. See desire.
I'd have sat there while she read every single line of that poem, for the sake of hearing just enough of what she chose to share.
"I'm going to read two more, maybe three, but one is really short, so you can pace your attention."
I only hope that I never feel the need to pace myself when listening to poetry.
"Status Update" was her love letter to Facebook, apparently a lifeline for her as she dealt with the loss and loneliness of her life.
Rebecca Lindenberg thinks of poetry as the practice of overhearing herself.
She told us not to hate on Facebook before finishing with "Marblehead."
The audience took a half second to collect itself and then applauded long and hard for the words we'd just heard.
On the way out, I stopped to talk with a friend and, like with most conversations this week, we marveled at this weather.
She admitted that all she wanted to do was sit on a porch and drink beer in the sunshine, something I've seen countless neighbors doing the past few days.
"I love that I can do a cultural thing and be done and it's not even 7:00," she marveled.
She was on her way out to dinner, with poets probably, and I was off to eat for a living, so we hugged and parted ways.
As for dinner, well, don't ask.
But after that bit of work was over, I took my partner in crime and went for dessert.
Well, not to eat it there but to score it and take it home to eat on the balcony along with some General's Nightcap, a dessert wine I'd gotten while, visiting the Chesapeake bay Wine Trail last week.
Walking into Garnett's, my favorite server was already busy cutting cake for a customer when she saw us.
I explained our intent- grab and go- and she paused with her big knife in the air, smiling.
"Are you going to want this chocolate coconut cake?" she said, looking right at me.
I'm so easy to read.
Once on the balcony where it may (or may not) have been a degree or two cooler than my 87-degree apartment, I enjoyed the singular pleasure of cake and Virginia wine under the softest of spring skies.
I love that I can do a cultural thing, a work thing and be outside on the porch with wine by 11:00.
And, just for the record, my spirit animal is a hawk.
Today's came courtesy of Chop Suey Books and since they were holding the reading downstairs, I made sure to get there early to get a seat.
Pulling a book (musings on artist Degas, written in 1927) off the shelf to enjoy until things got started, people began to filter in around me.
The trombone player and his main squeeze. Several other poets. A DJ.
Sliding in next to me was the man whose name has been on everyone's lips lately, Evrim of Sub Rosa bakery.
I mentioned what a pleasure it was and yet how odd it seemed to be seeing him out so much this week.
Almost like he was on vacation.
He smiled and said that some aspects felt very vacation-like.
Like eating breakfast sitting down. And sleeping two and a half hours later than normal...until (gasp!) 7:30.
Clearly bakers are born, not made.
Reading first was Tarfia Faizullah, whose spirit animal, we were told, is a panther.
I'd heard her read before, so I knew to expect heartbreaking and evocative poetry about the atrocities women experienced in what became Bangladesh.
Introducing her poem, "1971," she promised that it would be the longest poem she read.
It's 1971 and the entire world is unraveling.
Two poems of the same name bookend her new book, "Seam," and she read from the first, "En Route to Bangladesh: Another Crises of Faith."
Here at the narrow mouth of this long human corridor.
One poem involved the interviews Tarfia had done with Bangladeshi women who'd experienced the horrors of living through that period.
On a thin, lavender evening like this.
The final poem of the book, the other "En Route" closed out her reading.
Until that narrow band of life is the only belief yet.
Sometimes the poems were difficult to hear, reminding the audience of the gulf between that world and this one, but always compelling.
Tarfia was followed by Rebecca Lindenberg, a poet from New York with an incredibly sad story who began with humor.
"I had to disturb Wonton the cat to come up here," she said of Chop Suey's feline-in-residence.
Then the sad.
Her partner Craig, also a poet, had gone off on a five-moth hike through Japan and disappeared one day. The book of poetry about family she'd been working on then found a focus.
Dealing with the loss of her beloved became the basis of her new book, "Love, An Index."
She began with "Litany" and moved on to "Catalog of Ephemera," with its allusions to what she had lost.
You give me seduction and you allow me to give it back to you.
You give me 24 across.
You give me grief and how to grieve.
Rebecca talked about how "Writing radically is a humiliating thing to do," a truth if ever there was one. "I realized I didn't want to get it right. I have a right to facts and to give just enough."
She read us excerpts of "Love, An Index," skipping around between letters until we exhausted the alphabet.
A, ache, broken things healing.
Rome, 5B, stone floors
People need acts of attention from each other.
I suppose you cannot appreciate something until you have seen it move.
Forgive, we did a lot.
Q, quandary, a problem with no solution. See desire.
I'd have sat there while she read every single line of that poem, for the sake of hearing just enough of what she chose to share.
"I'm going to read two more, maybe three, but one is really short, so you can pace your attention."
I only hope that I never feel the need to pace myself when listening to poetry.
"Status Update" was her love letter to Facebook, apparently a lifeline for her as she dealt with the loss and loneliness of her life.
Rebecca Lindenberg thinks of poetry as the practice of overhearing herself.
She told us not to hate on Facebook before finishing with "Marblehead."
The audience took a half second to collect itself and then applauded long and hard for the words we'd just heard.
On the way out, I stopped to talk with a friend and, like with most conversations this week, we marveled at this weather.
She admitted that all she wanted to do was sit on a porch and drink beer in the sunshine, something I've seen countless neighbors doing the past few days.
"I love that I can do a cultural thing and be done and it's not even 7:00," she marveled.
She was on her way out to dinner, with poets probably, and I was off to eat for a living, so we hugged and parted ways.
As for dinner, well, don't ask.
But after that bit of work was over, I took my partner in crime and went for dessert.
Well, not to eat it there but to score it and take it home to eat on the balcony along with some General's Nightcap, a dessert wine I'd gotten while, visiting the Chesapeake bay Wine Trail last week.
Walking into Garnett's, my favorite server was already busy cutting cake for a customer when she saw us.
I explained our intent- grab and go- and she paused with her big knife in the air, smiling.
"Are you going to want this chocolate coconut cake?" she said, looking right at me.
I'm so easy to read.
Once on the balcony where it may (or may not) have been a degree or two cooler than my 87-degree apartment, I enjoyed the singular pleasure of cake and Virginia wine under the softest of spring skies.
I love that I can do a cultural thing, a work thing and be outside on the porch with wine by 11:00.
And, just for the record, my spirit animal is a hawk.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Over Easy
So it seemed like a good evening to go low-key.
Gone all day, all I wanted was an easy meal and an early night.
Enter Olio, where a Springtime salad of mixed greens, roasted red peppers, walnuts, dried cranberries, red onion, Parmesan cheese and apple slices in balsamic vinaigrette was delivered to my outside table by a server who acknowledged, "That looks so good I'm gonna have to have one of those myself today."
Go for it, man.
Eating at one of the little tables in front of Olio provided some stellar street theater to distract us from the cars tearing up Main Street at way more than the posted 25 miles per hour.
I love seeing old guys on bikes with radios attached to their handlebars.
With Olio's door propped wide open, I noticed that everyone who went in came out looking much happier, no doubt a tribute to the tasty and economical meal they'd just had.
Properly fortified, it was time to return the car to Jackson Ward and wander over to Gallery 5 for some music.
Not sure how long I'd want to stay, I knew I needed to get there in time for the first band, the Colloquial Orchestra, a group I first saw in February 2010 at the Listening Room.
Little did I know at that time what this project was about.
That night it had been a three-piece and over the past three years, I've seen it as grow to as many as eleven.
And it's different every single time.
The constant is the remarkable Dave Watkins and tonight he had assembled nine others to join him in epic music-making.
Let's see, there were four drummers, two bassists (and one of them, P.J., also playing things like a bell and megaphone), two guitarists, two saxophones, a harmonium player and, ta-da, Dave on electric dulcitar and drums.
Dave begins playing, others join in and before long, it's a dense layering of musical sounds creating a soundscape so magical, so complex, that it's hard to believe it's improvised.
Except it is.
Tonight was unique for me because of the addition of the two saxes, adding a whole new dimension to the music, not to mention having Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino back in town to add their wailing, whistling and chanting to the mix.
There were a lot of new faces in the audience at tonight's show, so I just sat back listening to the Colloquial Orchestra and watching first-timers' minds being blown.
Which, I happen to know, is exactly what Dave sets out to do every time he puts an eclectic bunch together.
By the time their set (one long piece) finished, the room felt like it was 95 degrees in there and I wasn't even doing anything.
Luckily for the musicians who were doing a lot, the air conditioning seemed to kick in during the break.
Next up was Gainesville's Peace Arrow, a guy named Mitch, who had video projections going behind him.
Good start.
Saying, "The Colloquial Orchestra was amazing and there's no way I can follow nine musicians, but I'll try," he did just that.
He began by bowing a banjo and worked his way through songs comprised of pre-recorded music, over which he played banjo, guitar, melodica and sang.
His lyrics were revelatory with bits of melody underneath and an emotional delivery that made it seem a bit like we were in his bedroom listening to his innermost thoughts.
Saying he was thrilled to be part of the tour and grateful to Gallery 5 for having him perform, he said he had CDs for free and t-shirts he'd made himself available for donation.
In other words, he was the best kind of DIY artist, sincere, hard-working and appreciative of every opportunity he was given.
I always enjoy hearing musicians when they're still early on enough to savor the experience of being out on tour and not going through the motions of touring because as a necessary evil.
It was a fine ending for an abbreviated night and walking out outside afterwards, the rush of still-75-degree weather felt like an unexpected Spring gift.
And the perfect reason to go sit on my porch and enjoy it.
Gone all day, all I wanted was an easy meal and an early night.
Enter Olio, where a Springtime salad of mixed greens, roasted red peppers, walnuts, dried cranberries, red onion, Parmesan cheese and apple slices in balsamic vinaigrette was delivered to my outside table by a server who acknowledged, "That looks so good I'm gonna have to have one of those myself today."
Go for it, man.
Eating at one of the little tables in front of Olio provided some stellar street theater to distract us from the cars tearing up Main Street at way more than the posted 25 miles per hour.
I love seeing old guys on bikes with radios attached to their handlebars.
With Olio's door propped wide open, I noticed that everyone who went in came out looking much happier, no doubt a tribute to the tasty and economical meal they'd just had.
Properly fortified, it was time to return the car to Jackson Ward and wander over to Gallery 5 for some music.
Not sure how long I'd want to stay, I knew I needed to get there in time for the first band, the Colloquial Orchestra, a group I first saw in February 2010 at the Listening Room.
Little did I know at that time what this project was about.
That night it had been a three-piece and over the past three years, I've seen it as grow to as many as eleven.
And it's different every single time.
The constant is the remarkable Dave Watkins and tonight he had assembled nine others to join him in epic music-making.
Let's see, there were four drummers, two bassists (and one of them, P.J., also playing things like a bell and megaphone), two guitarists, two saxophones, a harmonium player and, ta-da, Dave on electric dulcitar and drums.
Dave begins playing, others join in and before long, it's a dense layering of musical sounds creating a soundscape so magical, so complex, that it's hard to believe it's improvised.
Except it is.
Tonight was unique for me because of the addition of the two saxes, adding a whole new dimension to the music, not to mention having Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino back in town to add their wailing, whistling and chanting to the mix.
There were a lot of new faces in the audience at tonight's show, so I just sat back listening to the Colloquial Orchestra and watching first-timers' minds being blown.
Which, I happen to know, is exactly what Dave sets out to do every time he puts an eclectic bunch together.
By the time their set (one long piece) finished, the room felt like it was 95 degrees in there and I wasn't even doing anything.
Luckily for the musicians who were doing a lot, the air conditioning seemed to kick in during the break.
Next up was Gainesville's Peace Arrow, a guy named Mitch, who had video projections going behind him.
Good start.
Saying, "The Colloquial Orchestra was amazing and there's no way I can follow nine musicians, but I'll try," he did just that.
He began by bowing a banjo and worked his way through songs comprised of pre-recorded music, over which he played banjo, guitar, melodica and sang.
His lyrics were revelatory with bits of melody underneath and an emotional delivery that made it seem a bit like we were in his bedroom listening to his innermost thoughts.
Saying he was thrilled to be part of the tour and grateful to Gallery 5 for having him perform, he said he had CDs for free and t-shirts he'd made himself available for donation.
In other words, he was the best kind of DIY artist, sincere, hard-working and appreciative of every opportunity he was given.
I always enjoy hearing musicians when they're still early on enough to savor the experience of being out on tour and not going through the motions of touring because as a necessary evil.
It was a fine ending for an abbreviated night and walking out outside afterwards, the rush of still-75-degree weather felt like an unexpected Spring gift.
And the perfect reason to go sit on my porch and enjoy it.
Sunny Delight
Another day where I love what I do.
Today's work involved driving to the northern neck to interview a winery owner.
Given the glorious, warm weather, I'd have been willing to drive out there just to taste wine, much less earn a living.
So for the first time this year, I pulled out a summer dress and sandals, despite my whiter shade of pale legs and hit the road.
When I arrived at the winery's courtyard, I found a woman busy planting annuals and asked her where the bathroom was.
She looked at me, cocked her head and said, "Weren't you at the Hague Winery last week?"
Why, yes, I was, but how in the world had she remembered a random stranger?
"I recognized your beautiful hair," she said, making for a rare compliment about my head, before pointing me in the direction of the loo.
Then it was back to work.
After interviewing one of the winery owners in the shade of the garden, we moved inside for a tasting.
There I met a writer for Virginia Wine Lover magazine doing some research of his own but also providing some lively conversation.
Since he, like me, does restaurant reviews, the two of us got off on a tangent about restaurants who claim local sourcing and have no Virginia wines on their list.
As you'd expect, this got major support from the winery staff pouring for us.
As I began my tasting, I discovered the primary benefit of doing a tasting after a wine writer: wines not usually available for pouring are miraculously already open and available for tasting.
So it was that I got to taste Ingleside's crisp and fruity Pinot Grigio (this is the first year they've had one), the Petit Verdot Reserve 2007, a beautiful red that cried out for a steak, and their Virginia Brut, creamy with fine beads, which had won a silver at the 2012 L.A. wine competition.
I also found a lot to like about their Sangiovese, a medium-bodied red that I hadn't realized was being cultivated much in Virginia, and the 2007 Syrah, which would be divine with lamb.
Midway through, a man came into the winery and before long we were all knee-deep in a discussion of oysters and local wine while the newcomer began his tasting and mine wound down.
Seems he owns an oyster company and was planning a luncheon pairing local seafood and wine and was there to decide which wines.
When he made a comment about how a particular wine would pair well with ostrich carpaccio, I did a double take.
My favorite ostrich carpaccio pairing happened in Stellenbosch, South Africa, I told him.
It immediately became clear that we had loads to talk about, and it was suggested that I enjoy a glass of wine while he did his tasting and the talk continued to flow.
A sunny afternoon, a winery offering me wine and a stranger eager to talk about one of my favorite wine vacations ever, South Africa?
I'll stay as long as you want me to.
Turns out this guy lived in South Africa for eight years, so we had all kinds of things to talk about as far as their food and wine scene goes.
It's rare I can talk springbok carpaccio and appropriate pairings with a random stranger, but this guy delivered.
And while he tried to convince me I should return to the northern neck yet again tomorrow for the luncheon, after driving to the Neck and back four times in the last twelve days, I had to politely decline.
Still, it's always nice to be asked.
Just like it's nice to get to taste wines that aren't usually poured for the hoi polloi.
And nice to be remembered for your beautiful hair.
Come to think of it, maybe I do need to visit the northern neck more often.
I can call it work all I want, but it's feeling an awful lot like pleasure.
Today's work involved driving to the northern neck to interview a winery owner.
Given the glorious, warm weather, I'd have been willing to drive out there just to taste wine, much less earn a living.
So for the first time this year, I pulled out a summer dress and sandals, despite my whiter shade of pale legs and hit the road.
When I arrived at the winery's courtyard, I found a woman busy planting annuals and asked her where the bathroom was.
She looked at me, cocked her head and said, "Weren't you at the Hague Winery last week?"
Why, yes, I was, but how in the world had she remembered a random stranger?
"I recognized your beautiful hair," she said, making for a rare compliment about my head, before pointing me in the direction of the loo.
Then it was back to work.
After interviewing one of the winery owners in the shade of the garden, we moved inside for a tasting.
There I met a writer for Virginia Wine Lover magazine doing some research of his own but also providing some lively conversation.
Since he, like me, does restaurant reviews, the two of us got off on a tangent about restaurants who claim local sourcing and have no Virginia wines on their list.
As you'd expect, this got major support from the winery staff pouring for us.
As I began my tasting, I discovered the primary benefit of doing a tasting after a wine writer: wines not usually available for pouring are miraculously already open and available for tasting.
So it was that I got to taste Ingleside's crisp and fruity Pinot Grigio (this is the first year they've had one), the Petit Verdot Reserve 2007, a beautiful red that cried out for a steak, and their Virginia Brut, creamy with fine beads, which had won a silver at the 2012 L.A. wine competition.
I also found a lot to like about their Sangiovese, a medium-bodied red that I hadn't realized was being cultivated much in Virginia, and the 2007 Syrah, which would be divine with lamb.
Midway through, a man came into the winery and before long we were all knee-deep in a discussion of oysters and local wine while the newcomer began his tasting and mine wound down.
Seems he owns an oyster company and was planning a luncheon pairing local seafood and wine and was there to decide which wines.
When he made a comment about how a particular wine would pair well with ostrich carpaccio, I did a double take.
My favorite ostrich carpaccio pairing happened in Stellenbosch, South Africa, I told him.
It immediately became clear that we had loads to talk about, and it was suggested that I enjoy a glass of wine while he did his tasting and the talk continued to flow.
A sunny afternoon, a winery offering me wine and a stranger eager to talk about one of my favorite wine vacations ever, South Africa?
I'll stay as long as you want me to.
Turns out this guy lived in South Africa for eight years, so we had all kinds of things to talk about as far as their food and wine scene goes.
It's rare I can talk springbok carpaccio and appropriate pairings with a random stranger, but this guy delivered.
And while he tried to convince me I should return to the northern neck yet again tomorrow for the luncheon, after driving to the Neck and back four times in the last twelve days, I had to politely decline.
Still, it's always nice to be asked.
Just like it's nice to get to taste wines that aren't usually poured for the hoi polloi.
And nice to be remembered for your beautiful hair.
Come to think of it, maybe I do need to visit the northern neck more often.
I can call it work all I want, but it's feeling an awful lot like pleasure.
Dine and Dyad
What a beautiful night of community!
It began with the benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery at the Roosevelt, where chefs from Pasture, Secco, Julep, Aziza, Magpie, Heritage and, of course, the Roosevelt's own chef Lee made enough food for an army.
Knowing that between the very worthy cause and a buffet made by this crew, this was going to be major draw, I wisely arrived at 5:33 for the 5:30 event.
Foolish me.
They'd opened the doors at 5:27 and the line was already out the door with people lined up (a line lasting the next hour and a half) to pay $20 and wait as long as it took to go through the chow line.
Not me.
I paid and went to find a bar stool and glass of water.
Doing so, a server with an enormous tray of Chef Lee's fried chicken made her way through the mob, headed for the buffet table.
Without even thinking about it, I leaned in to her, inquired if I could grab a piece and got a smiling nod.
Forget that I didn't have a plate, or flatware, I was thrilled.
Sitting in my stool, I made do with bev naps as I tore into the steaming fried chicken.
Licking my fingers afterwards, I spotted Aziza's cream puffs sitting at the end of the bar and making my way there, made off with one of those.
The room was so warm with April and people that the ganache was melting on my fingers.
Yum.
When I returned to my seat, I noticed the guy now in the stool next to me busy with dinner.
Clearly he was doing things the right way with a full plate of food and not individual items eaten out of hand.
But I didn't hold that against him and he turned out to be a great conversationalist, a treat for me.
He got high points for telling me that I didn't have a cell phone.
I thought him terribly astute, but he corrected me, "It's not laying on the bar. Look around here. If you had one, it'd be out."
That may have been the point when he mentioned that I was odd.
He was there because of Sub Rosa's owner Evrim because they share a Turkish descent and the occasional conversation where he can exercise his pidgin Turkish.
So there was his reason for being at the benefit and I'm sure every other person there had their own reason, whether neighbors, customers and or just eager to help out.
The sense of community in the room was almost palpable.
Someone had donated two kegs of handcrafted beer - an Earl Grey brown ale and a black IPA- and the bartenders were wisely pouring it as fast as they could so as to have cups of it ready when people ordered it.
At one point, they were doing the equivalent of firemen passing buckets of water from team to team, with one bartender handing off two cups to the next bartender who then passed them off to a server for delivery.
Team work par excellence.
Chef Randy from Julep had stopped by and been sucked into the madness, helping Lee in the kitchen when the onslaught arrived en masse.
It wasn't long before the food began running out, a fact politely explained to latecomers, most of whom took it well.
There was the one group who copped an attitude, complaining that they'd driven in from the West end and even using the f-word to express their displeasure, but complaining because a benefit runs out of food seems incredibly petty, not to mention overly-entitled.
But for the other 98% of the attendees, there was much smiling, laughing, talking to Evrim and support for both his bakery and making sure the tenants above him are taken care of.
It was a beautiful thing to behold.
I lingered till the staff began eating, just in case they needed help with anything, but they seemed to have everything under control once the eaters left.
From there I moved on to another community, the musical one, at Bainbridge Collective.
The house show was called Dyad: A Night of Wine and Acoustic Music for Two and featured three bands, each comprised of a man and a woman.
The wine was all from Virginia, something I've never once seen in all my years of show-going, so there was Jefferson, Trump, St. Michele and Horton, among many others.
In a nod to the evening's theme, I went with Horton Norton, as indigenous as it gets.
We began on the back porch of the house with conversation and shared pleasure about the warm, spring weather.
Pittsburgh duo Broken Fences were the reason for the evening as they made a stop in Richmond on their current tour and they were happily sitting on a porch couch talking about how much they like Richmond.
Eventually, the show began in the main room and we took seats so that locals Dalliance could start.
He played guitar and they both sang, a delight because they both had such incredible voices for the literate songs they sang.
I was sorry when they got to their last song "Near" so quickly but laughed when guitarist Kendall said in a martyred voice, "I like this song with lots of reverb, but I guess I can do it acoustic."
He could, they did and I was sorry to see them go.
The reason for the evening, Broken Fences, was next, and I hadn't seen them since June 2011, back at the now-defunct Sprout.
They began by saying they'd arrived early to our fair city, allowing time to rework an old song they hadn't played in a while and half-apologizing in advance for it.
All I heard was two more amazing voices combined in ethereal harmonies for gentle folk songs.
Afterwards, they promised they'd go back to singing songs they knew better.
On "Song for You," Dalliance's Kendall added in foot stomping while Lobo Marino's Laney did thigh slapping, causing Broken Fence's Guy to thank them for the percussion when the song finished.
They mentioned that for a change they were getting to spend two nights in Richmond instead of rising at the crack of dawn to make it to the next city, so they had plans to go to Belle Isle tomorrow.
Boy, if they think they like Richmond now, they're never going to want to leave after a sunny day on the river.
They said the next song was begun before their dog got sick and finished the day before they had to put him down.
It was exquisite, heartbreaking and when it was over, someone said, "I'm sad," while someone else said, "Must be the wine's making me a little teary, too."
I know I was sitting there choking up thinking about the beloved beagle I'd had to put down a few years ago.
Saying, "Let's have some levity," they launched into a newer song, "The Glass is Gone" before finishing with "Stormy Clouds," as evocative as you'd imagine with that title and their voices.
Now that we're older
Can we stand still
And let the world unfurl?
We certainly can.
The other thing we can (and should) do is get this duo to play the Listening Room so dozens of people can hear their intense-sounding songs and incredible voices.
Last up was Lobo Marino playing their usual eastern-influenced tribal music, only this time in front of a black and white wall hanging with flashing colored Christmas lights underneath it.
Way cool.
Everyone in the room was having a blast as Jameson and Laney rolled through some of their songs, including one in Spanish and the much-requested, "Celebrate."
Banging on a jug, squeezing a harmonium, or wailing, these two put every bit of their travels into their music.
Laney's effort was so energetic that when the song ended, she looked at the audience and said, "That's it! We're finished."
But she wasn't finished reminding the audience to go buy Broken Fence's CDs and put some gas money in the jar to help them along on their travels.
"Cause Richmond does the right thing when musicians come through this town," Jameson said, stating the obvious.
We do the right thing whether it's out-of-towners or one of our own.
It's what makes this such a fine community.
It began with the benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery at the Roosevelt, where chefs from Pasture, Secco, Julep, Aziza, Magpie, Heritage and, of course, the Roosevelt's own chef Lee made enough food for an army.
Knowing that between the very worthy cause and a buffet made by this crew, this was going to be major draw, I wisely arrived at 5:33 for the 5:30 event.
Foolish me.
They'd opened the doors at 5:27 and the line was already out the door with people lined up (a line lasting the next hour and a half) to pay $20 and wait as long as it took to go through the chow line.
Not me.
I paid and went to find a bar stool and glass of water.
Doing so, a server with an enormous tray of Chef Lee's fried chicken made her way through the mob, headed for the buffet table.
Without even thinking about it, I leaned in to her, inquired if I could grab a piece and got a smiling nod.
Forget that I didn't have a plate, or flatware, I was thrilled.
Sitting in my stool, I made do with bev naps as I tore into the steaming fried chicken.
Licking my fingers afterwards, I spotted Aziza's cream puffs sitting at the end of the bar and making my way there, made off with one of those.
The room was so warm with April and people that the ganache was melting on my fingers.
Yum.
When I returned to my seat, I noticed the guy now in the stool next to me busy with dinner.
Clearly he was doing things the right way with a full plate of food and not individual items eaten out of hand.
But I didn't hold that against him and he turned out to be a great conversationalist, a treat for me.
He got high points for telling me that I didn't have a cell phone.
I thought him terribly astute, but he corrected me, "It's not laying on the bar. Look around here. If you had one, it'd be out."
That may have been the point when he mentioned that I was odd.
He was there because of Sub Rosa's owner Evrim because they share a Turkish descent and the occasional conversation where he can exercise his pidgin Turkish.
So there was his reason for being at the benefit and I'm sure every other person there had their own reason, whether neighbors, customers and or just eager to help out.
The sense of community in the room was almost palpable.
Someone had donated two kegs of handcrafted beer - an Earl Grey brown ale and a black IPA- and the bartenders were wisely pouring it as fast as they could so as to have cups of it ready when people ordered it.
At one point, they were doing the equivalent of firemen passing buckets of water from team to team, with one bartender handing off two cups to the next bartender who then passed them off to a server for delivery.
Team work par excellence.
Chef Randy from Julep had stopped by and been sucked into the madness, helping Lee in the kitchen when the onslaught arrived en masse.
It wasn't long before the food began running out, a fact politely explained to latecomers, most of whom took it well.
There was the one group who copped an attitude, complaining that they'd driven in from the West end and even using the f-word to express their displeasure, but complaining because a benefit runs out of food seems incredibly petty, not to mention overly-entitled.
But for the other 98% of the attendees, there was much smiling, laughing, talking to Evrim and support for both his bakery and making sure the tenants above him are taken care of.
It was a beautiful thing to behold.
I lingered till the staff began eating, just in case they needed help with anything, but they seemed to have everything under control once the eaters left.
From there I moved on to another community, the musical one, at Bainbridge Collective.
The house show was called Dyad: A Night of Wine and Acoustic Music for Two and featured three bands, each comprised of a man and a woman.
The wine was all from Virginia, something I've never once seen in all my years of show-going, so there was Jefferson, Trump, St. Michele and Horton, among many others.
In a nod to the evening's theme, I went with Horton Norton, as indigenous as it gets.
We began on the back porch of the house with conversation and shared pleasure about the warm, spring weather.
Pittsburgh duo Broken Fences were the reason for the evening as they made a stop in Richmond on their current tour and they were happily sitting on a porch couch talking about how much they like Richmond.
Eventually, the show began in the main room and we took seats so that locals Dalliance could start.
He played guitar and they both sang, a delight because they both had such incredible voices for the literate songs they sang.
I was sorry when they got to their last song "Near" so quickly but laughed when guitarist Kendall said in a martyred voice, "I like this song with lots of reverb, but I guess I can do it acoustic."
He could, they did and I was sorry to see them go.
The reason for the evening, Broken Fences, was next, and I hadn't seen them since June 2011, back at the now-defunct Sprout.
They began by saying they'd arrived early to our fair city, allowing time to rework an old song they hadn't played in a while and half-apologizing in advance for it.
All I heard was two more amazing voices combined in ethereal harmonies for gentle folk songs.
Afterwards, they promised they'd go back to singing songs they knew better.
On "Song for You," Dalliance's Kendall added in foot stomping while Lobo Marino's Laney did thigh slapping, causing Broken Fence's Guy to thank them for the percussion when the song finished.
They mentioned that for a change they were getting to spend two nights in Richmond instead of rising at the crack of dawn to make it to the next city, so they had plans to go to Belle Isle tomorrow.
Boy, if they think they like Richmond now, they're never going to want to leave after a sunny day on the river.
They said the next song was begun before their dog got sick and finished the day before they had to put him down.
It was exquisite, heartbreaking and when it was over, someone said, "I'm sad," while someone else said, "Must be the wine's making me a little teary, too."
I know I was sitting there choking up thinking about the beloved beagle I'd had to put down a few years ago.
Saying, "Let's have some levity," they launched into a newer song, "The Glass is Gone" before finishing with "Stormy Clouds," as evocative as you'd imagine with that title and their voices.
Now that we're older
Can we stand still
And let the world unfurl?
We certainly can.
The other thing we can (and should) do is get this duo to play the Listening Room so dozens of people can hear their intense-sounding songs and incredible voices.
Last up was Lobo Marino playing their usual eastern-influenced tribal music, only this time in front of a black and white wall hanging with flashing colored Christmas lights underneath it.
Way cool.
Everyone in the room was having a blast as Jameson and Laney rolled through some of their songs, including one in Spanish and the much-requested, "Celebrate."
Banging on a jug, squeezing a harmonium, or wailing, these two put every bit of their travels into their music.
Laney's effort was so energetic that when the song ended, she looked at the audience and said, "That's it! We're finished."
But she wasn't finished reminding the audience to go buy Broken Fence's CDs and put some gas money in the jar to help them along on their travels.
"Cause Richmond does the right thing when musicians come through this town," Jameson said, stating the obvious.
We do the right thing whether it's out-of-towners or one of our own.
It's what makes this such a fine community.
Monday, April 8, 2013
To the Birdhouse in Your Soul
The Ghost Light afterparty that had been postponed because of snow had no excuse tonight.
It was "Back to Basics" so the plan was to do old-school Broadway songs for a change.
But you have to understand that for this crowd, "Hair" is old-school and that's exactly where we started with our golden-throated host Matt doing "Going Down," as in, with Lucifer.
In other words, there was nowhere to go but up.
And yet, the next thing we heard was about Audra's hair, which led to an announcement that, "Audra shaved her pussy today."
The crowd reaction showed some variety - snickers and gasps- but once she came onstage and told the story, it was a rated G version about some found kittens and one's matted hair.
Sitting onstage was a guy with a guitar who was soon introduced as Evan's brother and as he took the stage, an audience member called out, "I've seen his butt twice," no doubt a reference to Evan's current role in "The Pride" as a Nazi sex master.
Brother Chris wasn't impressed, responding, "Me, too!"
Translation: we weren't fifteen minutes into the Ghost Light afterparty and we'd already touched on going down, pussies and butts.
Is this a great way to spend a Sunday night or what?
Chris played a mashup of "My Girl" and "Ignition" and made it work hysterically ("What you gonna do with all that junk...my girl?").
Hostess Maggie did a beautiful, sad song, only forgetting lines twice and finishing by saying, "Well, that was depressing," and admitting that she'd been forgetting the words to the song since high school.
Three guys in jeans, members of Hanover Tavern's production of "Cotton Patch Gospel" came up with upright bass, guitar and threir voices.
Their first song went off flawlessly and the second required three starts before the guitarist ended it saying, "Let's get Jesus more vodka."
Yes, let's, shall we?
Kristin, an actress from D.C., is new to Richmond and she was making her GLAP debut tonight singing an exquisite song she said was written for her by Joey Contreras.
With a guest star in the house came the return of the Mad Lib, practically a GLAP tradition, but for the benefit of newbies, there was an explanation of the process to gather words for it.
We were instructed to come up with funny or dirty nouns and verbs for the Mad Lib.
"Be creative, penis gets boring," Maggie, the Mad Libber explained.
"Excuse me, penis does not get boring," host Matt clarified. "Quit making those blanket statements."
So you see how back to basics we were at this point.
Chris did his best to get us back on track with Nat King Cole's standard, "L-O-V-E."
We took another tangent, this time with Paul, who did a sweet version of the Beatles' "Blackbird," tellingly from a music book entitled, "The Groovy Years."
And, really, aren't those the years we all want to have?
Two of the "Cotton Patch" gents returned to entertain us, with Lucas doing his best to get through a song before sharing, "Hi, I learned banjo eleven weeks ago."
He got the gold star of the night for playing a new instrument and on a song that he doesn't even play in the production.
Guest star Kirstin returned for a poignant song called "The Portrait," which she introduced by saying, "It's another sad one but I figured I'd be funny in the Mad Lib."
True that, since it was set to "My Favorite Things" and she apologized to Julie Andrews after singing the insane and smutty lyrics.
Tonight's moment when time stood still came courtesy of Nick, whom I'd just seen in "The Pride," when he sang a moving version of "The Impossible Dream" in his magnificent voice.
Now, that felt old school.
We were treated to an impromptu medley of They Might Be Giants songs because uber-fans Matt and Maggie were sad they were missing the TMBG show at the National tonight.
Hannah did "Isn't This Better?" from "Funny Lady," a heartbreaking song and a personal favorite I'd never have expected to hear.
The reliably funny Maggie Boop got up and announced she was doing a dramatic reading and then proceeded to read Kreashawn's "Gucci, Gucci" with the unforgettable lyric, "Bitch, you ain't no Barbie, I see you work at Arby's."
No, really, and she did it with Matt alternating between playing bongo beats and snapping his fingers overhead, beatnik-style.
And without ever losing her poise.
The crowd, however, was rolling on the floor.
The only way to follow that was with Sarah singing "The Wizard and I" while Maggie held a lamp in mid-air to aid her lyrics-reading while doing justice to a shaker ball in the other hand.
After that, we broke for pizza and to give our faces a break from non-stop smiling.
After the break, Chris was called on yet gain, prompting him to say, "I'm the one who came in with no music and I keep getting called up on stage."
And with good reason, young man.
Evan's little brother had everyone in hysterics as he did "Life in the Slaw Lane," a tribute to the plant world.
I'm the kinda guy that works hard for his celery and I don't mind telling you I was feeling a bit wilted.
But I didn't carrot all. 'Cause, otherwise, things were vine.
I try never to disparagus and I don't sweat the truffles.
I'm outstanding in my field and I know something good will turnip eventually.
A bunch of things were going grape, and soon, I'd be top banana.
At least, that's my peeling
Brilliant, right?
For the classic "The Weight," Chris had Maggie singing back-up and audience members doing impromptu harmony...for all five verses.
By the time the song finished, everyone had the hang of it and it sounded pretty great.
The vocal co-mingling of the crowd with the performers inspired the final song of the night, a group singalong to "Tomorrow" from "Annie" and a song most people in the audience knew.
Chins were stuck out, grins were seen and the lovefest ended with one big, sloppy promise that tomorrow is only a day away.
Golly, gee whiz, you couldn't ask for much groovier years than these.
It was "Back to Basics" so the plan was to do old-school Broadway songs for a change.
But you have to understand that for this crowd, "Hair" is old-school and that's exactly where we started with our golden-throated host Matt doing "Going Down," as in, with Lucifer.
In other words, there was nowhere to go but up.
And yet, the next thing we heard was about Audra's hair, which led to an announcement that, "Audra shaved her pussy today."
The crowd reaction showed some variety - snickers and gasps- but once she came onstage and told the story, it was a rated G version about some found kittens and one's matted hair.
Sitting onstage was a guy with a guitar who was soon introduced as Evan's brother and as he took the stage, an audience member called out, "I've seen his butt twice," no doubt a reference to Evan's current role in "The Pride" as a Nazi sex master.
Brother Chris wasn't impressed, responding, "Me, too!"
Translation: we weren't fifteen minutes into the Ghost Light afterparty and we'd already touched on going down, pussies and butts.
Is this a great way to spend a Sunday night or what?
Chris played a mashup of "My Girl" and "Ignition" and made it work hysterically ("What you gonna do with all that junk...my girl?").
Hostess Maggie did a beautiful, sad song, only forgetting lines twice and finishing by saying, "Well, that was depressing," and admitting that she'd been forgetting the words to the song since high school.
Three guys in jeans, members of Hanover Tavern's production of "Cotton Patch Gospel" came up with upright bass, guitar and threir voices.
Their first song went off flawlessly and the second required three starts before the guitarist ended it saying, "Let's get Jesus more vodka."
Yes, let's, shall we?
Kristin, an actress from D.C., is new to Richmond and she was making her GLAP debut tonight singing an exquisite song she said was written for her by Joey Contreras.
With a guest star in the house came the return of the Mad Lib, practically a GLAP tradition, but for the benefit of newbies, there was an explanation of the process to gather words for it.
We were instructed to come up with funny or dirty nouns and verbs for the Mad Lib.
"Be creative, penis gets boring," Maggie, the Mad Libber explained.
"Excuse me, penis does not get boring," host Matt clarified. "Quit making those blanket statements."
So you see how back to basics we were at this point.
Chris did his best to get us back on track with Nat King Cole's standard, "L-O-V-E."
We took another tangent, this time with Paul, who did a sweet version of the Beatles' "Blackbird," tellingly from a music book entitled, "The Groovy Years."
And, really, aren't those the years we all want to have?
Two of the "Cotton Patch" gents returned to entertain us, with Lucas doing his best to get through a song before sharing, "Hi, I learned banjo eleven weeks ago."
He got the gold star of the night for playing a new instrument and on a song that he doesn't even play in the production.
Guest star Kirstin returned for a poignant song called "The Portrait," which she introduced by saying, "It's another sad one but I figured I'd be funny in the Mad Lib."
True that, since it was set to "My Favorite Things" and she apologized to Julie Andrews after singing the insane and smutty lyrics.
Tonight's moment when time stood still came courtesy of Nick, whom I'd just seen in "The Pride," when he sang a moving version of "The Impossible Dream" in his magnificent voice.
Now, that felt old school.
We were treated to an impromptu medley of They Might Be Giants songs because uber-fans Matt and Maggie were sad they were missing the TMBG show at the National tonight.
Hannah did "Isn't This Better?" from "Funny Lady," a heartbreaking song and a personal favorite I'd never have expected to hear.
The reliably funny Maggie Boop got up and announced she was doing a dramatic reading and then proceeded to read Kreashawn's "Gucci, Gucci" with the unforgettable lyric, "Bitch, you ain't no Barbie, I see you work at Arby's."
No, really, and she did it with Matt alternating between playing bongo beats and snapping his fingers overhead, beatnik-style.
And without ever losing her poise.
The crowd, however, was rolling on the floor.
The only way to follow that was with Sarah singing "The Wizard and I" while Maggie held a lamp in mid-air to aid her lyrics-reading while doing justice to a shaker ball in the other hand.
After that, we broke for pizza and to give our faces a break from non-stop smiling.
After the break, Chris was called on yet gain, prompting him to say, "I'm the one who came in with no music and I keep getting called up on stage."
And with good reason, young man.
Evan's little brother had everyone in hysterics as he did "Life in the Slaw Lane," a tribute to the plant world.
I'm the kinda guy that works hard for his celery and I don't mind telling you I was feeling a bit wilted.
But I didn't carrot all. 'Cause, otherwise, things were vine.
I try never to disparagus and I don't sweat the truffles.
I'm outstanding in my field and I know something good will turnip eventually.
A bunch of things were going grape, and soon, I'd be top banana.
At least, that's my peeling
Brilliant, right?
For the classic "The Weight," Chris had Maggie singing back-up and audience members doing impromptu harmony...for all five verses.
By the time the song finished, everyone had the hang of it and it sounded pretty great.
The vocal co-mingling of the crowd with the performers inspired the final song of the night, a group singalong to "Tomorrow" from "Annie" and a song most people in the audience knew.
Chins were stuck out, grins were seen and the lovefest ended with one big, sloppy promise that tomorrow is only a day away.
Golly, gee whiz, you couldn't ask for much groovier years than these.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Stepping Out
It was a low-key night to stay in the neighborhood and see old friends.
Deciding to start at Bistro 27 because I hadn't yet heard Chef Carlos' tales of his recent trip to Paris, I was regaled with details about a dish of pig stomach wrapped in prosciutto and deep-fried.
Be still, my heart.
While he told me of drinking endless Cahors while there (well, he is Brazilian so Malbec's practically in his blood), I went with a Pinot Noir.
I was surprised (although apparently not as surprised as the Parisians) to hear that they'd had snow while he was there.
While hearing his recounting of exquisite sculpture, the tiniest of French bistros and a side trip to Dusseldorf, my companion and I moved on to eating.
There was halibut bobo, a take-off on his mother's recipe for shrimp bobo, delivering succulent, perfectly-cooked halibut in the distinctive sauce of yucca root puree, coconut milk and palm oil, a dish with a decided African influence.
I reveled in the oil and garlic-cooked broccolini, along with bacon-wrapped scallops and lentils (easily my favorite lentils in town) and a taste or two of pappardelle bolognese ("Close your eyes and pretend you're in Italy," the fork's owner instructed me).
Finishing with a one-two punch of panna cotta and chocolate mousse, all of a sudden it was show time.
And not only a show for music's sake, but a benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery, so a very worthy cause.
Fortunately, the show was only two blocks away at Gallery 5, where we walked in to find Patrick Bates playing his second song.
I'd seen the quintet not long ago at the Listening Room and really gotten into their sound, but tonight there were so many talkers in the room that I was glad I already knew what they sounded like.
And I wasn't the only one, since two other people also commented to me that it was a shame people didn't shut up so they could hear the nuances of the music.
Later even drummer Kevin said he was reluctant to use the brushes he'd used last time for fear they wouldn't be heard.
One thing I like about this band (besides Patrick's songs, the bass player's sense of humor and Kevin's drumming), is that the other two people have enough talent between them to play accordion, keyboards, cello and sax.
Now that's versatility.
I ran into a few friends (two drummers, a man-about-town, several former Mermaid Skeletons and a gallerist wearing the grooviest '70s tunic ever) between sets and then the sextet the Clair Morgans took the stage.
I'd listened online to get a feel for their sound and from the first song heard the same energetic indie music live that the MP3s had promised.
Patrick Bates was also in this band playing guitar, bongos and something that looked like a xylophone.
We got a dose of humor when a song began before Clair stopped it, looking sheepish.
"The show was going great until Clair put his capo on the wrong fret," Clair deadpanned, making the capo correction and finishing the song as it was meant to sound.
Damn fine.
One of my favorite moments came when one of the guitarists pulled out a drum as Patrick pulled out his bongos, meaning along with drummer Michael, fully half the band was beating on something.
Since a drummer friend had only a few minutes earlier been telling me about his idea for an all-drum music project, I couldn't resist nudging him and getting a big grin in return.
Headlining was Hens, a quintet I'd recently seen for the first time, and one full of big guitar sounds and big talent.
After a few songs, guitarist/singer Josh Hryciak said they'd been jamming on a new song and would go ahead and play it now.
But before that began, he moved center stage and gave us a pelvic wiggle for the ages before returning to play the song.
The man is a showman par excellence.
"That's a baby song," guitarist/singer David Shultz made sure we knew when the song wound down unceremoniously.
Guitarist/singer Marcus Shrock took over vocals for one song, indirectly reminding the crowd what a super-group these guys are with so much talent from time spent in former bands.
The last song was one big extended soundscape, with all of them looking like they were having a blast making music together.
And what could be better than friends (and employees - Josh worked at Sub Rosa) and fans getting together to make and hear music to support the worthiest of causes, a local business?
Knowing that Sub Roa is one step closer to re-opening, that's what.
Deciding to start at Bistro 27 because I hadn't yet heard Chef Carlos' tales of his recent trip to Paris, I was regaled with details about a dish of pig stomach wrapped in prosciutto and deep-fried.
Be still, my heart.
While he told me of drinking endless Cahors while there (well, he is Brazilian so Malbec's practically in his blood), I went with a Pinot Noir.
I was surprised (although apparently not as surprised as the Parisians) to hear that they'd had snow while he was there.
While hearing his recounting of exquisite sculpture, the tiniest of French bistros and a side trip to Dusseldorf, my companion and I moved on to eating.
There was halibut bobo, a take-off on his mother's recipe for shrimp bobo, delivering succulent, perfectly-cooked halibut in the distinctive sauce of yucca root puree, coconut milk and palm oil, a dish with a decided African influence.
I reveled in the oil and garlic-cooked broccolini, along with bacon-wrapped scallops and lentils (easily my favorite lentils in town) and a taste or two of pappardelle bolognese ("Close your eyes and pretend you're in Italy," the fork's owner instructed me).
Finishing with a one-two punch of panna cotta and chocolate mousse, all of a sudden it was show time.
And not only a show for music's sake, but a benefit for Sub Rosa Bakery, so a very worthy cause.
Fortunately, the show was only two blocks away at Gallery 5, where we walked in to find Patrick Bates playing his second song.
I'd seen the quintet not long ago at the Listening Room and really gotten into their sound, but tonight there were so many talkers in the room that I was glad I already knew what they sounded like.
And I wasn't the only one, since two other people also commented to me that it was a shame people didn't shut up so they could hear the nuances of the music.
Later even drummer Kevin said he was reluctant to use the brushes he'd used last time for fear they wouldn't be heard.
One thing I like about this band (besides Patrick's songs, the bass player's sense of humor and Kevin's drumming), is that the other two people have enough talent between them to play accordion, keyboards, cello and sax.
Now that's versatility.
I ran into a few friends (two drummers, a man-about-town, several former Mermaid Skeletons and a gallerist wearing the grooviest '70s tunic ever) between sets and then the sextet the Clair Morgans took the stage.
I'd listened online to get a feel for their sound and from the first song heard the same energetic indie music live that the MP3s had promised.
Patrick Bates was also in this band playing guitar, bongos and something that looked like a xylophone.
We got a dose of humor when a song began before Clair stopped it, looking sheepish.
"The show was going great until Clair put his capo on the wrong fret," Clair deadpanned, making the capo correction and finishing the song as it was meant to sound.
Damn fine.
One of my favorite moments came when one of the guitarists pulled out a drum as Patrick pulled out his bongos, meaning along with drummer Michael, fully half the band was beating on something.
Since a drummer friend had only a few minutes earlier been telling me about his idea for an all-drum music project, I couldn't resist nudging him and getting a big grin in return.
Headlining was Hens, a quintet I'd recently seen for the first time, and one full of big guitar sounds and big talent.
After a few songs, guitarist/singer Josh Hryciak said they'd been jamming on a new song and would go ahead and play it now.
But before that began, he moved center stage and gave us a pelvic wiggle for the ages before returning to play the song.
The man is a showman par excellence.
"That's a baby song," guitarist/singer David Shultz made sure we knew when the song wound down unceremoniously.
Guitarist/singer Marcus Shrock took over vocals for one song, indirectly reminding the crowd what a super-group these guys are with so much talent from time spent in former bands.
The last song was one big extended soundscape, with all of them looking like they were having a blast making music together.
And what could be better than friends (and employees - Josh worked at Sub Rosa) and fans getting together to make and hear music to support the worthiest of causes, a local business?
Knowing that Sub Roa is one step closer to re-opening, that's what.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
A Dreadful Affair, A Delightful Walk
Don't try to keep a woman from her carbs and shoes.
That could have been the theme for today's Civil War and Emancipation Day walking tour, which began on the front steps of the State Capital at 11 a.m.
Knowing that the walk was only going to cover two miles in two hours, I walked to the Capital, adding another mile each way to the trek.
I've been on enough walking tours to know that the first rule of them is that most of the people who attend really don't like walking.
The theme was the 1863 Richmond Bread Riot, which, if you don't know, was an uprising by local women who were hungry and tired of their husbands and sons being away at war.
When the large group got divided into thirds, I opted for the only female tour guide, Ashley who was with the National Park Service, because why hear about women from a man?
Since each guide had devised their own notes, I wanted to hear the version told by someone with girl parts.
One of the crowd "herders" was a male volunteer with the Park service and he cracked wise almost at once.
Leaning into a clutch of women, he joked, "Any of you ladies decide to start a riot, here's my Martin's card, you can go get all the bread you want. Or white house rolls."
It was an auspicious day to commemorate the bread riot since it had happened almost exactly 150 years ago, on April 2, 1863.
Ashley talked about how Richmond's population had swollen from 38,000 pre-war to over 100,000 during the war and how food prices had climbed with all the new residents.
Tea went from $1 a pound in 1860 to $8 in 1863, but the most painful jump was in bacon, which went from $1.25 for ten pounds to $10.
Those hucksters and speculators should have known better than to mess with the price of a woman's bacon.
Next thing you know, they got uppity and became political activists, meeting at a church in Oregon Hill and allowing a woman (!) to climb the pulpit and entreat the women to riot.
A woman named Mary Tucker exhorted them, "Don't act like heathens, act like ladies. Unless we don't get what we want."
It was gender anarchy!
Chanting "bread or blood," the women took to the streets on April 2 to appropriate the things they didn't have and needed.
After meeting at the State Capitol, the women headed east (as did we) where Richmond Segway is now and the former site of the first store the women looted, Pollard and Walker Wholesale Market.
To their credit, they focused on looting the stores where hucksters and speculators had been selling necessities at jacked-up prices.
Grabbing everything they could and throwing some on wagons and carrying the rest, they moved on to 14th and Cary, as did we.
"By this time, you could say all hell was breaking loose on the tour, I mean, riot, " Ashley said.
One rioter walked out with a big slab of bacon on her head and a ham in each arm, where a man tried telling her, "Madam, you are forgetting yourself."
She put the hams down and spit in his face.
They also broke into the many shoe stores along Main Street, where now the state parking garage sits, absconding with white satin slippers and cavalry boots.
As we made our way down to the farmer's market, the culmination of the looting, with the group straggling down the block, it occurred to me that even emaciated and starving, the Richmonders of 1863 were in far better shape than this group.
And they hadn't been wearing walking shoes, either, I'm quite sure.
Tour guide Ashley noted something similar, saying, "It's hard enough to get this tour done in two hours, much less a riot."
The winded group was amazed to hear that the women had managed to loot along Cary, Main and the city market in a brief two-hour period, making off with a huge amount of bacon, flour and soap, among other things.
By the second hour of the riot, the Public Guard had been called to suppress the women's riot and it was there that a woman observed, "I couldn't have done this riot with all these hills."
I'm quite sure they considered the geography of their uprising, honey.
Ashley said the only injury of the riot was when a woman put her arm through the glass in a shop window and the shop owner proceeded to cut off four of her fingers.
There's a visual I wish I didn't have.
Near the end of the riot, shop owners wised up and began opening their doors to the women rather than have them destroy the windows and doors of their shops.
Of course, the papers that night were full of stories about the badly-behaving women, labeling them, "Prostitutes, thieves, Irish and Yankee hags."
As both part Irish and a Yankee woman, I resemble that remark.
It didn't take long for the governor to ban the newspapers from writing about the incident, hoping to keep a good face on the southern cause, just in case they could get some European aid.
Besides, no true Richmond lady would have participated in such a thing, right?
Interestingly enough, by the 1880s they'd changed their tune and were far more understanding of the women's actions.
After seeing all the sites where the rioters had taken what was justifiably theirs, we remounted the hill to the Capital for some discussion of the impact of the women's bread riot.
I told Ashley, that in my opinion, the bread riot was a gender issue as much as an historic issue and she agreed.
The idea of genteel Southern women taking control by taking to the streets, looting and defying authority, showed that the war extended far beyond the battlefields.
And while the women got chided for taking things they couldn't eat (dress silks, shoes, jewelry, hats), by the third year of the war, it's easy to imagine how the women just wanted something to make them feel normal again.
By the time I left the group and headed back up Grace Street toward Jackson Ward, all I wanted was a little bread, maybe with some bacon on it.
You know, in honor of those Richmond women who took matters into their own, delicate hands back when that just wasn't done.
Redefining gender norms would have been right up my alley.
I wouldn't have cared about the shoes, but I'd have joined them in a heartbeat for the bacon.
That could have been the theme for today's Civil War and Emancipation Day walking tour, which began on the front steps of the State Capital at 11 a.m.
Knowing that the walk was only going to cover two miles in two hours, I walked to the Capital, adding another mile each way to the trek.
I've been on enough walking tours to know that the first rule of them is that most of the people who attend really don't like walking.
The theme was the 1863 Richmond Bread Riot, which, if you don't know, was an uprising by local women who were hungry and tired of their husbands and sons being away at war.
When the large group got divided into thirds, I opted for the only female tour guide, Ashley who was with the National Park Service, because why hear about women from a man?
Since each guide had devised their own notes, I wanted to hear the version told by someone with girl parts.
One of the crowd "herders" was a male volunteer with the Park service and he cracked wise almost at once.
Leaning into a clutch of women, he joked, "Any of you ladies decide to start a riot, here's my Martin's card, you can go get all the bread you want. Or white house rolls."
It was an auspicious day to commemorate the bread riot since it had happened almost exactly 150 years ago, on April 2, 1863.
Ashley talked about how Richmond's population had swollen from 38,000 pre-war to over 100,000 during the war and how food prices had climbed with all the new residents.
Tea went from $1 a pound in 1860 to $8 in 1863, but the most painful jump was in bacon, which went from $1.25 for ten pounds to $10.
Those hucksters and speculators should have known better than to mess with the price of a woman's bacon.
Next thing you know, they got uppity and became political activists, meeting at a church in Oregon Hill and allowing a woman (!) to climb the pulpit and entreat the women to riot.
A woman named Mary Tucker exhorted them, "Don't act like heathens, act like ladies. Unless we don't get what we want."
It was gender anarchy!
Chanting "bread or blood," the women took to the streets on April 2 to appropriate the things they didn't have and needed.
After meeting at the State Capitol, the women headed east (as did we) where Richmond Segway is now and the former site of the first store the women looted, Pollard and Walker Wholesale Market.
To their credit, they focused on looting the stores where hucksters and speculators had been selling necessities at jacked-up prices.
Grabbing everything they could and throwing some on wagons and carrying the rest, they moved on to 14th and Cary, as did we.
"By this time, you could say all hell was breaking loose on the tour, I mean, riot, " Ashley said.
One rioter walked out with a big slab of bacon on her head and a ham in each arm, where a man tried telling her, "Madam, you are forgetting yourself."
She put the hams down and spit in his face.
They also broke into the many shoe stores along Main Street, where now the state parking garage sits, absconding with white satin slippers and cavalry boots.
As we made our way down to the farmer's market, the culmination of the looting, with the group straggling down the block, it occurred to me that even emaciated and starving, the Richmonders of 1863 were in far better shape than this group.
And they hadn't been wearing walking shoes, either, I'm quite sure.
Tour guide Ashley noted something similar, saying, "It's hard enough to get this tour done in two hours, much less a riot."
The winded group was amazed to hear that the women had managed to loot along Cary, Main and the city market in a brief two-hour period, making off with a huge amount of bacon, flour and soap, among other things.
By the second hour of the riot, the Public Guard had been called to suppress the women's riot and it was there that a woman observed, "I couldn't have done this riot with all these hills."
I'm quite sure they considered the geography of their uprising, honey.
Ashley said the only injury of the riot was when a woman put her arm through the glass in a shop window and the shop owner proceeded to cut off four of her fingers.
There's a visual I wish I didn't have.
Near the end of the riot, shop owners wised up and began opening their doors to the women rather than have them destroy the windows and doors of their shops.
Of course, the papers that night were full of stories about the badly-behaving women, labeling them, "Prostitutes, thieves, Irish and Yankee hags."
As both part Irish and a Yankee woman, I resemble that remark.
It didn't take long for the governor to ban the newspapers from writing about the incident, hoping to keep a good face on the southern cause, just in case they could get some European aid.
Besides, no true Richmond lady would have participated in such a thing, right?
Interestingly enough, by the 1880s they'd changed their tune and were far more understanding of the women's actions.
After seeing all the sites where the rioters had taken what was justifiably theirs, we remounted the hill to the Capital for some discussion of the impact of the women's bread riot.
I told Ashley, that in my opinion, the bread riot was a gender issue as much as an historic issue and she agreed.
The idea of genteel Southern women taking control by taking to the streets, looting and defying authority, showed that the war extended far beyond the battlefields.
And while the women got chided for taking things they couldn't eat (dress silks, shoes, jewelry, hats), by the third year of the war, it's easy to imagine how the women just wanted something to make them feel normal again.
By the time I left the group and headed back up Grace Street toward Jackson Ward, all I wanted was a little bread, maybe with some bacon on it.
You know, in honor of those Richmond women who took matters into their own, delicate hands back when that just wasn't done.
Redefining gender norms would have been right up my alley.
I wouldn't have cared about the shoes, but I'd have joined them in a heartbeat for the bacon.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Chocolate Cheese and Empty Tombs
Give me a reason for a road trip and a new CD and I'm in heaven.
Today I put the pedal to the floor and headed east to Hague, a place I hadn't heard of, but one which is home to three wineries.
Conveniently, I had an assignment to wrote about all three.
Given the sunny skies and open fields, it was an easy drive despite being unfamiliar territory.
Listening to Twin Shadow's "Confess" and passing rural statements like a church sign saying, "Easter surprise! The tomb is empty!" and a gas station marquee with "Come on, Spring!" made for a most pleasurable hour and a half cruise.
My first stop was the Hague Winery where the owner poured for me and told me about all the interesting places to eat and drink in the neighborhood.
I learned about chardonel, a hybrid varietal with which I was not familiar, tasted the 2009 Merlot along with some Old Church Creamery chocolate cheese (yep, that's what it was alright) and a luscious Meritage reserve I'd have bought a case of if I could have afforded it.
Other visitors came in and joined in the conversation about nearby wineries and what there is to do in the area.
One couple from upstate New York was staying at Westmoreland State Park and making a day of winery hopping.
Another came in and didn't bother with a tasting, cutting right to full glasses and a table with a view.
After chatting for a while, the owner offered to show me their guest house, a place they rent out for visitors.
The 19th century building had been converted to a charming space for a 2-4 and, as I pointed out, you can't go wrong with a winery on the premises.
As I was getting ready to leave, one of the couples asked for directions to General's Ridge Winery a few miles away, coincidentally just where I was heading.
I got delayed by the winery dog, a sweet, old thing who wanted nothing more than to walk beside me where ever I went.
Which was to my car to drive the few miles to my next vineyard.
Walking up to General's Ridge tasting room, I spotted one of the couples from The Hague and they waved hello.
"What took you so long?" they laughed.
Um, going the speed limit?
This winery had far more extensive plantings and two tasting rooms, the smaller of which used old doors from the manor house as the counter tops for the tasting bar.
After meeting the owner inside, we headed down to the smaller tasting room to talk, causing one of the women I'd seen at The Hague to say, "You just walk in a winery and grab a man wherever you go!"
Well, yes, when I can, I certainly do.
It was great fun talking to the owners about their decision to start a winery, with the Mrs. telling me, "I told him we'd only do it over my dead body. But I'm still here!"
They told me how they were originally going to build a boys' school there but when their benefactor died, they regrouped.
We lingered so long sharing stories that I didn't have time for a tasting, so I made sure to get some grape to go, scoring a bottle of their General's Nightcap, a petit manseng dessert wine that was delightfully tropical rather than cloying.
"Have some before bed," the owner suggested. "You'll sleep like a baby!"
I usually accomplish that by staying up until 2 or 3 a.m.
My last stop was Vault Fields, who may have had today's smallest tasting room but because they make their wine on the estate, smelled most like a winery.
I had time for a tasting with the friendly pourer, especially enjoying the 2009 Conundrum, a blend of Chardonnay and Vidal Blanc and the 2008 Meritage Reserve, which would be a thing of beauty with lamb or veal.
After chatting up the owner, I had to hit the road toute suite to make it back in time for my evening's plans.
Keeping with today's theme, I came home, cleaned up and immediately headed to the Library of Virginia for a night of Virginia wine.
"Straight from the Vine: The History of Virginia Wine" was part talk and part tasting.
Arriving after the talk starts means standing in the back of the auditorium since it's pretty packed.
Wine guru Richard Leahy, author of "Beyond Jefferson's Vines: The Evolution of Quality Wine in Virginia" is trying to cover a fraction of what is in his book in this brief talk.
Asking if any of us have heard of RdV Winery, I am one of a dozen or so who raise my hand.
"They're so exclusive you have to make an appointment to go and pay to taste and maybe they'll let you buy some," he says, which gets a big laugh.
What's funny is that The Roosevelt carries RdV wines, so it's much easier to head to Church Hill than make a road trip to Fauquier County and pay forty bucks for a tasting.
Leahy talked about how well represented Virginia wines are in London, while few California wines are available there.
I like to think that Londoners remember the Virginia Company of 1606 and have a soft spot for us.
He got another laugh when he said, "More people would rather own wineries than grow grapes," meaning the actual farming aspect of viticulture is far less glamorous.
"It takes $12,00 per acre to develop a wine crop, without the cost of the land. And that's before machinery and supplies."
Well, no wonder people only want the fun, meeting people and drinking part of being an owner.
Who's got that kind of disposable income these days?
But, honestly, after having spoken to three Virginia winery owners today, I know that plenty of people are willing to do both, own and grow, for the sake of producing the best possible grapes.
After the talk, the large group moved to the lobby for the tasting and reception.
While Leahy signed books, people moved from table to table sampling Virginia wines.
I began with James River Cellars' Petit Verdot since they usually only sell that to wine club members.
Over at the Horton table, I was surprised to see they had a pinotage, a favorite South African grape of mine.
I was surprised to learn that Horton had put in pinotage grapes ten years ago and was working on finessing the flavor profile with each harvest.
Keep up the good work, boys.
Moving around the room, I ran into the Frenchman (who, leaving the talk, had whispered, "Let's go drink!"), saw a familiar wine geek and tried more wines.
There was Jefferson Vineyards' Cabernet Franc and, surprisingly, Barboursville's stellar "Octagon."
I overheard a woman tell her husband, "I just had the Williamsburg winery's red and it's so good I would actually buy it!"
With praise like that, how could I not go taste their Claret and inform the pourer of the compliment?
As I moved around the room tasting and nibbling hors d'oeuvres, it was obvious from the conversations I overheard that many people were unfamiliar with Virginia wines.
If they were smart, they'd do like me: get a new CD and head in almost any direction to check out some Virginia wineries.
After a nice drive with new music blaring, they might find a wine so good they actually want to buy it.
It's a lot easier than they think.
Today I put the pedal to the floor and headed east to Hague, a place I hadn't heard of, but one which is home to three wineries.
Conveniently, I had an assignment to wrote about all three.
Given the sunny skies and open fields, it was an easy drive despite being unfamiliar territory.
Listening to Twin Shadow's "Confess" and passing rural statements like a church sign saying, "Easter surprise! The tomb is empty!" and a gas station marquee with "Come on, Spring!" made for a most pleasurable hour and a half cruise.
My first stop was the Hague Winery where the owner poured for me and told me about all the interesting places to eat and drink in the neighborhood.
I learned about chardonel, a hybrid varietal with which I was not familiar, tasted the 2009 Merlot along with some Old Church Creamery chocolate cheese (yep, that's what it was alright) and a luscious Meritage reserve I'd have bought a case of if I could have afforded it.
Other visitors came in and joined in the conversation about nearby wineries and what there is to do in the area.
One couple from upstate New York was staying at Westmoreland State Park and making a day of winery hopping.
Another came in and didn't bother with a tasting, cutting right to full glasses and a table with a view.
After chatting for a while, the owner offered to show me their guest house, a place they rent out for visitors.
The 19th century building had been converted to a charming space for a 2-4 and, as I pointed out, you can't go wrong with a winery on the premises.
As I was getting ready to leave, one of the couples asked for directions to General's Ridge Winery a few miles away, coincidentally just where I was heading.
I got delayed by the winery dog, a sweet, old thing who wanted nothing more than to walk beside me where ever I went.
Which was to my car to drive the few miles to my next vineyard.
Walking up to General's Ridge tasting room, I spotted one of the couples from The Hague and they waved hello.
"What took you so long?" they laughed.
Um, going the speed limit?
This winery had far more extensive plantings and two tasting rooms, the smaller of which used old doors from the manor house as the counter tops for the tasting bar.
After meeting the owner inside, we headed down to the smaller tasting room to talk, causing one of the women I'd seen at The Hague to say, "You just walk in a winery and grab a man wherever you go!"
Well, yes, when I can, I certainly do.
It was great fun talking to the owners about their decision to start a winery, with the Mrs. telling me, "I told him we'd only do it over my dead body. But I'm still here!"
They told me how they were originally going to build a boys' school there but when their benefactor died, they regrouped.
We lingered so long sharing stories that I didn't have time for a tasting, so I made sure to get some grape to go, scoring a bottle of their General's Nightcap, a petit manseng dessert wine that was delightfully tropical rather than cloying.
"Have some before bed," the owner suggested. "You'll sleep like a baby!"
I usually accomplish that by staying up until 2 or 3 a.m.
My last stop was Vault Fields, who may have had today's smallest tasting room but because they make their wine on the estate, smelled most like a winery.
I had time for a tasting with the friendly pourer, especially enjoying the 2009 Conundrum, a blend of Chardonnay and Vidal Blanc and the 2008 Meritage Reserve, which would be a thing of beauty with lamb or veal.
After chatting up the owner, I had to hit the road toute suite to make it back in time for my evening's plans.
Keeping with today's theme, I came home, cleaned up and immediately headed to the Library of Virginia for a night of Virginia wine.
"Straight from the Vine: The History of Virginia Wine" was part talk and part tasting.
Arriving after the talk starts means standing in the back of the auditorium since it's pretty packed.
Wine guru Richard Leahy, author of "Beyond Jefferson's Vines: The Evolution of Quality Wine in Virginia" is trying to cover a fraction of what is in his book in this brief talk.
Asking if any of us have heard of RdV Winery, I am one of a dozen or so who raise my hand.
"They're so exclusive you have to make an appointment to go and pay to taste and maybe they'll let you buy some," he says, which gets a big laugh.
What's funny is that The Roosevelt carries RdV wines, so it's much easier to head to Church Hill than make a road trip to Fauquier County and pay forty bucks for a tasting.
Leahy talked about how well represented Virginia wines are in London, while few California wines are available there.
I like to think that Londoners remember the Virginia Company of 1606 and have a soft spot for us.
He got another laugh when he said, "More people would rather own wineries than grow grapes," meaning the actual farming aspect of viticulture is far less glamorous.
"It takes $12,00 per acre to develop a wine crop, without the cost of the land. And that's before machinery and supplies."
Well, no wonder people only want the fun, meeting people and drinking part of being an owner.
Who's got that kind of disposable income these days?
But, honestly, after having spoken to three Virginia winery owners today, I know that plenty of people are willing to do both, own and grow, for the sake of producing the best possible grapes.
After the talk, the large group moved to the lobby for the tasting and reception.
While Leahy signed books, people moved from table to table sampling Virginia wines.
I began with James River Cellars' Petit Verdot since they usually only sell that to wine club members.
Over at the Horton table, I was surprised to see they had a pinotage, a favorite South African grape of mine.
I was surprised to learn that Horton had put in pinotage grapes ten years ago and was working on finessing the flavor profile with each harvest.
Keep up the good work, boys.
Moving around the room, I ran into the Frenchman (who, leaving the talk, had whispered, "Let's go drink!"), saw a familiar wine geek and tried more wines.
There was Jefferson Vineyards' Cabernet Franc and, surprisingly, Barboursville's stellar "Octagon."
I overheard a woman tell her husband, "I just had the Williamsburg winery's red and it's so good I would actually buy it!"
With praise like that, how could I not go taste their Claret and inform the pourer of the compliment?
As I moved around the room tasting and nibbling hors d'oeuvres, it was obvious from the conversations I overheard that many people were unfamiliar with Virginia wines.
If they were smart, they'd do like me: get a new CD and head in almost any direction to check out some Virginia wineries.
After a nice drive with new music blaring, they might find a wine so good they actually want to buy it.
It's a lot easier than they think.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
The Thought That Counts
The thing to judge in any jazz artist is, does the man project and does he have ideas?
So said Miles Davis and if anyone should have an opinion on the subject, he would be the one.
I'd read in Chris Bopst's "Hear and Now" column that trumpeter Victor Haskins was having his senior recital tomorrow night, but here's the thing.
I already had plans for tomorrow.
So despite Bopst saying that Haskins had a tone reminiscent of Miles' modal explorations of the late '50s and early '60s, his "Kind of Blue" period, I was going to have to miss it.
So you can imagine my delight when I walked into the VMFA's jazz cafe tonight to find the Victor Haskins Quartet tearing it up.
But because we were late to the party, seats were scarce.
First we grabbed one all the way in the back but then another opened up two tables closer to the band.
Just after we moved, I ran into a friend with her baby in a sling and we chatted about the impressive Brazilian group we'd seen in a friend's living room last week, here.
Not long after getting settled there, WRIR's "Mr. Jazz" walked by on his way out, offering us his seats at a front table.
Score.
He was kind enough to introduce us to his table mate, who happened to be one of the forces behind the Richmond Jazz Society, meaning he was a font of information about the local jazz scene.
Since we'd arrived at the break, we listened as he regaled us with stories of jazz musicians the group has brought to town and how often big jazz names came here expecting a small town jazz scene, only to get their butts handed to them by a Richmond master.
He was full of terrific James "Saxsmo" Gates stories, whom I'd seen at, where else, the Richmond Jazz Society five or six years ago.
Soon Victor and his crew - Randall Pharr on bass, Alan Parker on guitar and Billy Williams on drums- went back to the business of music.
Playing original material from his new record, "The Truth" along with original arrangements of covers, we sat there being blown away by this young trumpeter who's about to graduate and probably leave to set the jazz world on fire.
I've seen him before and not just a few times because he usually plays with the RVA Big Band at Balliceaux on Monday nights.
But there he's playing Mingus and standards and tonight we got to hear not just his horn but his own compositions.
Safe to say that Miles would approve; the man projects and clearly he's got ideas.
And that's the truth.
So said Miles Davis and if anyone should have an opinion on the subject, he would be the one.
I'd read in Chris Bopst's "Hear and Now" column that trumpeter Victor Haskins was having his senior recital tomorrow night, but here's the thing.
I already had plans for tomorrow.
So despite Bopst saying that Haskins had a tone reminiscent of Miles' modal explorations of the late '50s and early '60s, his "Kind of Blue" period, I was going to have to miss it.
So you can imagine my delight when I walked into the VMFA's jazz cafe tonight to find the Victor Haskins Quartet tearing it up.
But because we were late to the party, seats were scarce.
First we grabbed one all the way in the back but then another opened up two tables closer to the band.
Just after we moved, I ran into a friend with her baby in a sling and we chatted about the impressive Brazilian group we'd seen in a friend's living room last week, here.
Not long after getting settled there, WRIR's "Mr. Jazz" walked by on his way out, offering us his seats at a front table.
Score.
He was kind enough to introduce us to his table mate, who happened to be one of the forces behind the Richmond Jazz Society, meaning he was a font of information about the local jazz scene.
Since we'd arrived at the break, we listened as he regaled us with stories of jazz musicians the group has brought to town and how often big jazz names came here expecting a small town jazz scene, only to get their butts handed to them by a Richmond master.
He was full of terrific James "Saxsmo" Gates stories, whom I'd seen at, where else, the Richmond Jazz Society five or six years ago.
Soon Victor and his crew - Randall Pharr on bass, Alan Parker on guitar and Billy Williams on drums- went back to the business of music.
Playing original material from his new record, "The Truth" along with original arrangements of covers, we sat there being blown away by this young trumpeter who's about to graduate and probably leave to set the jazz world on fire.
I've seen him before and not just a few times because he usually plays with the RVA Big Band at Balliceaux on Monday nights.
But there he's playing Mingus and standards and tonight we got to hear not just his horn but his own compositions.
Safe to say that Miles would approve; the man projects and clearly he's got ideas.
And that's the truth.
Not a Lackluster Life
If variety is the spice of life, today had some well-seasoned flavor.
The first was Portuguese.
Renowned fado singer Ana Moura was giving a talk and performance at UR this afternoon.
And while you might think only under-employed writers have the time to catch something like that at 3:00 on a weekday, I walked in to all kinds of familiar faces.
In fact, after waiting close to half an hour with no sign of Ana, the musician sitting behind me observed, "Guess we're starting at jazz thirty, huh?"
Seems Ana and her two guitar players (one in distinctive pointy-toed black leather shoes and the other in Chucks, one with a green shoelace and one with a red shoelace) had been delayed in transit, but eventually they appeared.
She began by explaining how the Portuguese are emotional people who like to share their feelings.
"We like to look out at the sea and we have all Europe on our back," she said in her delightfully fractured English.
The laments of the women whose men went off to sea became fado.
We got a lesson in the 12-string Quimbra guitar (as opposed to the Lisbon guitar), a lute-looking instrument that goes hand in hand with fado.
As such, she explained, the voice poses the question and the guitar is the answer.
I'm sure everyone in the room, like me, was looking forward to heating Ana sing after the talk but she begged off, claiming to be exhausted by all her travel.
To be fair, she did have a performance at the Modlin Center tonight, but come on, you can't sing one song for all the people who showed up to see you?
Instead, the classical guitarist and the Quimba guitar each sang some fado for us.
If longing is killing me
I have to have a long life to die of longing
That's fado for you.
Of all unlikely sequels, my next stop was Steady Sounds for basement band the Ar-Kaics.
Waiting for them to set up, I revisited the '80s via a bin of 12" singles and talked to an old rocker about Elvis Costello and Todd Rundgren before the music cranked up to 11.
Fortunately, it was soon adjusted, leaving our ears only bleeding slightly and the vocals audible at last.
The trio had a blond-banged girl drummer who added a nice counterpoint to the two guitarists shredding and singing.
I noticed a friend sneak out toward the end of the first song but most of the crowd was enjoying themselves, bopping enthusiastically in place.
They certainly weren't breaking any ground musically or lyrically, but their '60s garage band sound gave my ears a workout after the delicate sounds of fado.
When they finished, the drummer pulled out a peach cardigan to cover her arms now that they weren't getting a workout.
Foul Swoops, the band I'd come to see had, like Ana, gotten stuck in traffic, so we never saw them at all.
Such are the hazards of trying to get to Richmond sometimes, as I'd seen twice in a day.
Because of the late start, by the time the in-store performance was over, it was time to head to Scott's Addition to grab dinner and go to the theater.
Lunch had only one other table occupied when we walked in and 45 minutes later all but one two-top was accounted for.
I usually go for pig at Lunch but after chicken and waffles for lunch, I was in the mood for something else.
The crab nebula sandwich with sriracha mayo on a kaiser roll was just the ticket and after an exhausting afternoon of music, I devoured it in no time.
As always, the soundtrack was exactly right for the moment, in this case vintage R & B, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and I was finally able to remove my sunglasses.
Sadly, there wasn't time for Coca Cola cake because we had a curtain to make.
Richmond Triangle Players was previewing "The Pride" tonight and offering an enticing $10 ticket price.
Even better, the ticket seller asked for my seat preference and when I jokingly said "front row," handed them over like it was no big deal.
And to every theater company in town, I say never doubt the pull of a dirt-cheap ticket to suck in those of us on a limited budget.
"The Pride" was a compelling (and prize-winning) story about the changing attitudes toward sexuality told alternately in 1958 and 2008.
In much the same way that it would have sucked to have been a woman in the pre-birth control era, it clearly sucked to be gay before, say, 1971 when the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its list of mental disorders.
I don't honestly believe there is such a thing as a lackluster life
It was a four-actor play that required strong performances out of all four and did they ever deliver.
I was impressed with Steve Rice's physicality, whether he was drunkenly trying to climb off the floor and onto the couch or being thrown down on the floor by his lover.
My boyfriend broke up with me and this time it's for real. He took his records.
Nicholas Aliff was heartbreaking as the conflicted man afraid to admit his feelings for another man, making it doubly sweet when, at the end, he finally takes the hand of the man he loves.
Coming onstage in a killer red satin dress, Stacie Reardon Hall perfectly nailed the woman who in 1958 is married to a closet gay man as well as the 2008 best friend he turns to when his love life goes south.
Do you believe in change?
And Evan Nasteff, well, where do I start?
Touchingly hurt as a Nazi/S & M role player for hire, hysterical as a journalist talking about his gay uncle and terrifying as a doctor about to use "aversion therapy" to cure a man of his homosexuality, he was a man for all scenes.
And while the themes of the play were heavy, they were leavened with great dialog about gays ("You guys were innovators, what with fashion and outdoor sex"), straights ("They're not bad people, maybe a bit unimaginative") and boyfriends ("He writes his own songs, he has a guitar and he reads!").
The play portrayed such interesting conflicts and human issues that by the end all I could think about was Richmond Triangle Players' motto, "If we didn't do it, who would?"
Who else would have finished off my day with terrific spicy flavor?
And, yes, I believe in change.
The first was Portuguese.
Renowned fado singer Ana Moura was giving a talk and performance at UR this afternoon.
And while you might think only under-employed writers have the time to catch something like that at 3:00 on a weekday, I walked in to all kinds of familiar faces.
In fact, after waiting close to half an hour with no sign of Ana, the musician sitting behind me observed, "Guess we're starting at jazz thirty, huh?"
Seems Ana and her two guitar players (one in distinctive pointy-toed black leather shoes and the other in Chucks, one with a green shoelace and one with a red shoelace) had been delayed in transit, but eventually they appeared.
She began by explaining how the Portuguese are emotional people who like to share their feelings.
"We like to look out at the sea and we have all Europe on our back," she said in her delightfully fractured English.
The laments of the women whose men went off to sea became fado.
We got a lesson in the 12-string Quimbra guitar (as opposed to the Lisbon guitar), a lute-looking instrument that goes hand in hand with fado.
As such, she explained, the voice poses the question and the guitar is the answer.
I'm sure everyone in the room, like me, was looking forward to heating Ana sing after the talk but she begged off, claiming to be exhausted by all her travel.
To be fair, she did have a performance at the Modlin Center tonight, but come on, you can't sing one song for all the people who showed up to see you?
Instead, the classical guitarist and the Quimba guitar each sang some fado for us.
If longing is killing me
I have to have a long life to die of longing
That's fado for you.
Of all unlikely sequels, my next stop was Steady Sounds for basement band the Ar-Kaics.
Waiting for them to set up, I revisited the '80s via a bin of 12" singles and talked to an old rocker about Elvis Costello and Todd Rundgren before the music cranked up to 11.
Fortunately, it was soon adjusted, leaving our ears only bleeding slightly and the vocals audible at last.
The trio had a blond-banged girl drummer who added a nice counterpoint to the two guitarists shredding and singing.
I noticed a friend sneak out toward the end of the first song but most of the crowd was enjoying themselves, bopping enthusiastically in place.
They certainly weren't breaking any ground musically or lyrically, but their '60s garage band sound gave my ears a workout after the delicate sounds of fado.
When they finished, the drummer pulled out a peach cardigan to cover her arms now that they weren't getting a workout.
Foul Swoops, the band I'd come to see had, like Ana, gotten stuck in traffic, so we never saw them at all.
Such are the hazards of trying to get to Richmond sometimes, as I'd seen twice in a day.
Because of the late start, by the time the in-store performance was over, it was time to head to Scott's Addition to grab dinner and go to the theater.
Lunch had only one other table occupied when we walked in and 45 minutes later all but one two-top was accounted for.
I usually go for pig at Lunch but after chicken and waffles for lunch, I was in the mood for something else.
The crab nebula sandwich with sriracha mayo on a kaiser roll was just the ticket and after an exhausting afternoon of music, I devoured it in no time.
As always, the soundtrack was exactly right for the moment, in this case vintage R & B, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and I was finally able to remove my sunglasses.
Sadly, there wasn't time for Coca Cola cake because we had a curtain to make.
Richmond Triangle Players was previewing "The Pride" tonight and offering an enticing $10 ticket price.
Even better, the ticket seller asked for my seat preference and when I jokingly said "front row," handed them over like it was no big deal.
And to every theater company in town, I say never doubt the pull of a dirt-cheap ticket to suck in those of us on a limited budget.
"The Pride" was a compelling (and prize-winning) story about the changing attitudes toward sexuality told alternately in 1958 and 2008.
In much the same way that it would have sucked to have been a woman in the pre-birth control era, it clearly sucked to be gay before, say, 1971 when the American Psychiatric Association removed homosexuality from its list of mental disorders.
I don't honestly believe there is such a thing as a lackluster life
It was a four-actor play that required strong performances out of all four and did they ever deliver.
I was impressed with Steve Rice's physicality, whether he was drunkenly trying to climb off the floor and onto the couch or being thrown down on the floor by his lover.
My boyfriend broke up with me and this time it's for real. He took his records.
Nicholas Aliff was heartbreaking as the conflicted man afraid to admit his feelings for another man, making it doubly sweet when, at the end, he finally takes the hand of the man he loves.
Coming onstage in a killer red satin dress, Stacie Reardon Hall perfectly nailed the woman who in 1958 is married to a closet gay man as well as the 2008 best friend he turns to when his love life goes south.
Do you believe in change?
And Evan Nasteff, well, where do I start?
Touchingly hurt as a Nazi/S & M role player for hire, hysterical as a journalist talking about his gay uncle and terrifying as a doctor about to use "aversion therapy" to cure a man of his homosexuality, he was a man for all scenes.
And while the themes of the play were heavy, they were leavened with great dialog about gays ("You guys were innovators, what with fashion and outdoor sex"), straights ("They're not bad people, maybe a bit unimaginative") and boyfriends ("He writes his own songs, he has a guitar and he reads!").
The play portrayed such interesting conflicts and human issues that by the end all I could think about was Richmond Triangle Players' motto, "If we didn't do it, who would?"
Who else would have finished off my day with terrific spicy flavor?
And, yes, I believe in change.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Sunny and Soulful
It seemed like the right day to support at Church Hill business.
Everyone is understandably distraught about the fire at Sub Rosa Bakery last night and it looks like benefits galore are being planned to help Evrim get the place back up and running.
So when a Church Hill friend suggested lunch at Johnson's Southern Comfort, I headed down and back up the hill.
The door was wide open to the afternoon sunshine with a "J" left from the Jumpin' J's days still embedded right in front of the entrance.
We were both impressed with what a nice-looking space it as, with dark booths and bar and an impressive tin ceiling in half of it.
The ABC application was pasted to the front window, explaining the bar devoid of either spirits or stools.
We needed neither.
I'd come especially for chicken and waffles and my lunch buddy wanted one of the lunch specials with two large pieces of fried lake trout, collards, mac and cheese and a dinner roll.
The batter on the fish alone was worth the visit. When he complimented it our affable server agreed, saying he couldn't share the recipe.
Originally, he'd asked for collards and cabbage but our server suggested the mac and cheese, promising it would be "just like your Mom makes."
My friend clarified that his Mom's mac and cheese came straight out of a box.
"Okay, your grandma's then," he said, cementing the adjusted order.
He'd also hoped for cornbread, but that's only served after 5 p.m.
Despite choices of fancy waffles (cinnamon, blueberry, red velvet), I wanted just a plain waffle with fried chicken on it.
I was offered an array of toppings for my waffle (whipped cream, blueberries, strawberries, bananas or fried apples) but all I wanted was butter and syrup.
My chicken and waffle needs are simple, really.
"You got it!" our server promised as he headed to the kitchen.
On the sound system was a local gospel station, not usually a favorite of mine, but between our server's voice singing along to every word and the inspiring nature of the music on this beautiful day, I listened along happily.
As we ate our soul food lunch, we talked about the shame of a new business like Sub Rosa having such bad luck.
He'd already been by and seen the broken windows and soot-smeared roof, but I hadn't.
And I don't know if I will, but I do know I'll support every fundraiser I find out about to help them get back up and making all those lovely breads and baked goods again.
In the meantime, I enjoyed a nearly perfect lunch with my Nashville-bound friend eating on the Hill.
Everyone is understandably distraught about the fire at Sub Rosa Bakery last night and it looks like benefits galore are being planned to help Evrim get the place back up and running.
So when a Church Hill friend suggested lunch at Johnson's Southern Comfort, I headed down and back up the hill.
The door was wide open to the afternoon sunshine with a "J" left from the Jumpin' J's days still embedded right in front of the entrance.
We were both impressed with what a nice-looking space it as, with dark booths and bar and an impressive tin ceiling in half of it.
The ABC application was pasted to the front window, explaining the bar devoid of either spirits or stools.
We needed neither.
I'd come especially for chicken and waffles and my lunch buddy wanted one of the lunch specials with two large pieces of fried lake trout, collards, mac and cheese and a dinner roll.
The batter on the fish alone was worth the visit. When he complimented it our affable server agreed, saying he couldn't share the recipe.
Originally, he'd asked for collards and cabbage but our server suggested the mac and cheese, promising it would be "just like your Mom makes."
My friend clarified that his Mom's mac and cheese came straight out of a box.
"Okay, your grandma's then," he said, cementing the adjusted order.
He'd also hoped for cornbread, but that's only served after 5 p.m.
Despite choices of fancy waffles (cinnamon, blueberry, red velvet), I wanted just a plain waffle with fried chicken on it.
I was offered an array of toppings for my waffle (whipped cream, blueberries, strawberries, bananas or fried apples) but all I wanted was butter and syrup.
My chicken and waffle needs are simple, really.
"You got it!" our server promised as he headed to the kitchen.
On the sound system was a local gospel station, not usually a favorite of mine, but between our server's voice singing along to every word and the inspiring nature of the music on this beautiful day, I listened along happily.
As we ate our soul food lunch, we talked about the shame of a new business like Sub Rosa having such bad luck.
He'd already been by and seen the broken windows and soot-smeared roof, but I hadn't.
And I don't know if I will, but I do know I'll support every fundraiser I find out about to help them get back up and making all those lovely breads and baked goods again.
In the meantime, I enjoyed a nearly perfect lunch with my Nashville-bound friend eating on the Hill.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Living More
Seeing is not the same as seeing a long-time girlfriend.
So while I'd seen her just this past Friday at the VMFA, we hadn't had a chance to catch up then and it had been far too long since we had.
I picked her up at work and we touched down just in time for happy hour at an uncrowded bar that quickly became a lot more crowded.
It's such an estrogen release to rant and ramble for ninety minutes and then just leave it behind with our empty glasses.
We had time constraints because she had to be back at work, so we had to cherry-pick our topics.
Of course she wanted to hear about my Mom's big birthday bash, mainly because she'd heard so many stories about a couple of my (ahem) "difficult" sisters who were there so she was curious about how it all went down.
I think I may have gotten the biggest laugh of all when I told her the home movies story, but then how often do you see images of you and your sisters opening Christmas presents inter-spliced with random footage of someone doing lines of coke under a "Happy New Year!" banner?
And, I might add, with a soundtrack behind it.
I think the story of how the New Year's tape got mixed in with my parents' home movies, converted to DVD and passed out at my Mom's party might have made her day.
Funny stuff.
We did our usual dissection of our lives, with her making a case for the always challenging "wait and see" method of handling life.
Like Cinderella, all at once she had to be swept away and back to work (although not to sweep out the ashes from the fireplace), our only delay being the Man About Town running after us as we exited the restaurant, wanting to say hello and share an upcoming art event.
Happily, I got her back to work before she turned into a pumpkin.
From there I made a mad dash to catch this week's VCU Cinematheque series offering, "Alexandra."
It was the story of a grandmother who comes to visit her grandson, a Russian army captain, at his military base during the second Chechen war.
Shot in beautiful sepia tones, the 100-degree heat is a palpable thing that Alexandra just can't get used to as she wanders first around the base and then into town to the marketplace to see what she can see.
Naturally, the guards tell her not to leave the base but she wins them over by promising to bring back cigarettes and cookies.
We all have our price.
One very distinctive feature of the film was its slow and deliberate pace, which has the two male VCU students on either side of me shifting non-stop in their seats throughout the movie in an attempt to stay awake.
Just for the record, that's their ADD and not because it wasn't a riveting film.
"Alexandra" was nominated for the Palme d'Or at Cannes and ended up on many critics' best-of list.
But, despite being a war movie, there were no battle scenes, no fighting and no action except an old lady shuffling around a dusty camp and down a dustier dirt road.
And really, the film had as much to do with aging as with war, like when she and her grandson discuss life, she telling him that she wants to live more even though her body is aging quickly.
It's her years of experience talking when she advises the much younger man to use the privilege of changing your mind before it's too late.
Hell, who couldn't stand to be reminded of that lesson?
So while I'd seen her just this past Friday at the VMFA, we hadn't had a chance to catch up then and it had been far too long since we had.
I picked her up at work and we touched down just in time for happy hour at an uncrowded bar that quickly became a lot more crowded.
It's such an estrogen release to rant and ramble for ninety minutes and then just leave it behind with our empty glasses.
We had time constraints because she had to be back at work, so we had to cherry-pick our topics.
Of course she wanted to hear about my Mom's big birthday bash, mainly because she'd heard so many stories about a couple of my (ahem) "difficult" sisters who were there so she was curious about how it all went down.
I think I may have gotten the biggest laugh of all when I told her the home movies story, but then how often do you see images of you and your sisters opening Christmas presents inter-spliced with random footage of someone doing lines of coke under a "Happy New Year!" banner?
And, I might add, with a soundtrack behind it.
I think the story of how the New Year's tape got mixed in with my parents' home movies, converted to DVD and passed out at my Mom's party might have made her day.
Funny stuff.
We did our usual dissection of our lives, with her making a case for the always challenging "wait and see" method of handling life.
Like Cinderella, all at once she had to be swept away and back to work (although not to sweep out the ashes from the fireplace), our only delay being the Man About Town running after us as we exited the restaurant, wanting to say hello and share an upcoming art event.
Happily, I got her back to work before she turned into a pumpkin.
From there I made a mad dash to catch this week's VCU Cinematheque series offering, "Alexandra."
It was the story of a grandmother who comes to visit her grandson, a Russian army captain, at his military base during the second Chechen war.
Shot in beautiful sepia tones, the 100-degree heat is a palpable thing that Alexandra just can't get used to as she wanders first around the base and then into town to the marketplace to see what she can see.
Naturally, the guards tell her not to leave the base but she wins them over by promising to bring back cigarettes and cookies.
We all have our price.
One very distinctive feature of the film was its slow and deliberate pace, which has the two male VCU students on either side of me shifting non-stop in their seats throughout the movie in an attempt to stay awake.
Just for the record, that's their ADD and not because it wasn't a riveting film.
"Alexandra" was nominated for the Palme d'Or at Cannes and ended up on many critics' best-of list.
But, despite being a war movie, there were no battle scenes, no fighting and no action except an old lady shuffling around a dusty camp and down a dustier dirt road.
And really, the film had as much to do with aging as with war, like when she and her grandson discuss life, she telling him that she wants to live more even though her body is aging quickly.
It's her years of experience talking when she advises the much younger man to use the privilege of changing your mind before it's too late.
Hell, who couldn't stand to be reminded of that lesson?
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