I heard from yet another friend that she'd been laid off, joining the ever-growing group of us among the unemployed masses. She's the first of my friends in the restaurant business to bite the dust, though, so it was a bit more surprising. She's got an outstanding skill set, though, so I expect she'll have faster luck getting rehired than me. She's understandably nervous at the moment; I guess only time will tell.
We met up last night at Mekong to commiserate about the unfairness of life, the coldness of our former employers and other borderline whiny topics. But the complaining quickly gave way to appreciation for excellent beer and food; I won't bore you with all we ordered (there were six of us) but we had a great selection of beef, pork, chicken and tofu dishes and way too much food to finish. The beer, however, was a different story.
Because so many of the women in the group worked in restaurants, there was loads of gossip and storytelling, some new to me (Enoteca Sogno closing, for example), some confirming previously-held assumptions. Every single person at the table has a mate or close friend who has lost hours or even their job altogether. We all agreed that the absolute worst may be over, but it will take a while to climb out of this very deep recessionary hole we seem to be in.
Until then, luckily there's places like Mekong with big tables, plenty of libations and really good food to distract us from the problems of the real world. And then there's my fortune cookie prediction: If you have a job without aggravations, you don't have a job.
You could substitute a number of other words for "job" and the sentiment would be just as true.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Barrel Thief for Beaujolais Nouveau
It being the third Thursday of November and all, Theater Goddess and I met up at the Barrel Thief at Patterson and Libbie to drink some just-released young, fruity wine, like far too many other people probably did today.
It was as good an excuse as any to celebrate the harvest, in this case, that of Domaine Vissoux Beaujolais Primeur.
No fancy yeasts or added sugar, this Beaujolais Nouveau was clean and ripe tasting and would undoubtedly be a nice addition to the Thanksgiving meal. But neither of us is in charge of bringing the wine to Turkey day, so the sipping was purely for our own enjoyment.
Meanwhile, we asked the kitchen for a variety of dishes that would work well together and would complement our Green and Red Zinfandel "Chiles Mill Vineyard" Estate and were rewarded with an array of smoked salmon, cheeses, olives and a balsamic reduction dipping oil with bread.
Assorted chocolate truffles had to follow.
Conversation on the shelf life of unhappiness and the possibilities of happy endings ensued, while the bottle of wine was emptied.
So now that the Beaujolais Nouveau has been released, we can welcome the coming of colder weather and the upcoming holidays.
In theory anyway, since, while walking the beagle upon my arrival home just now, the temperature in J-Ward was a balmy 65 degrees.
Not that I'm complaining.
I'm just saying, I, for one, will be sleeping with my bedroom windows open tonight.
It was as good an excuse as any to celebrate the harvest, in this case, that of Domaine Vissoux Beaujolais Primeur.
No fancy yeasts or added sugar, this Beaujolais Nouveau was clean and ripe tasting and would undoubtedly be a nice addition to the Thanksgiving meal. But neither of us is in charge of bringing the wine to Turkey day, so the sipping was purely for our own enjoyment.
Meanwhile, we asked the kitchen for a variety of dishes that would work well together and would complement our Green and Red Zinfandel "Chiles Mill Vineyard" Estate and were rewarded with an array of smoked salmon, cheeses, olives and a balsamic reduction dipping oil with bread.
Assorted chocolate truffles had to follow.
Conversation on the shelf life of unhappiness and the possibilities of happy endings ensued, while the bottle of wine was emptied.
So now that the Beaujolais Nouveau has been released, we can welcome the coming of colder weather and the upcoming holidays.
In theory anyway, since, while walking the beagle upon my arrival home just now, the temperature in J-Ward was a balmy 65 degrees.
Not that I'm complaining.
I'm just saying, I, for one, will be sleeping with my bedroom windows open tonight.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
An Evening at Gallery 5
I have absolutely no musical talent, so my role is to be an appreciative audience for those who do.
Like my friend Jameson and his girlfriend Laney, who played at Gallery 5 tonight.
They just got back from nine months in South America and while working their way around the continent, wrote some music together.
As Lobo Marino, he plays guitar and she plays accordion; they both sing.
The music was impressive; his guitar showed a lot of Spanish guitar influences and the songs were funny and happy, as if they were having a great time when they wrote them and that came through as their voices blended.
The Hellblinki Sextet (three musicians and a puppeteer) performed their psycho cabaret next.
Part music show, part puppet show and part video montage, H.S. provided a lot to look and listen to.
I'd seen them at last year's Carnival of 5 Fires and remembered just how offbeat this Asheville, N.C. group was. A
nd I mean that in the best possible way.
Last up was two thirds of Arise, Sweet Donkey!
This time Laney was performing with Alison Self and her magnificent voice (and ukulele playing), doing their unique blend of Americana and folk music, those two voices harmonizing perfectly; there was even some a Capella singing.
Such beautiful vocal abilities.
Allow me to clap the loudest in appreciation for so many kinds of talent heard tonight.
Like my friend Jameson and his girlfriend Laney, who played at Gallery 5 tonight.
They just got back from nine months in South America and while working their way around the continent, wrote some music together.
As Lobo Marino, he plays guitar and she plays accordion; they both sing.
The music was impressive; his guitar showed a lot of Spanish guitar influences and the songs were funny and happy, as if they were having a great time when they wrote them and that came through as their voices blended.
The Hellblinki Sextet (three musicians and a puppeteer) performed their psycho cabaret next.
Part music show, part puppet show and part video montage, H.S. provided a lot to look and listen to.
I'd seen them at last year's Carnival of 5 Fires and remembered just how offbeat this Asheville, N.C. group was. A
nd I mean that in the best possible way.
Last up was two thirds of Arise, Sweet Donkey!
This time Laney was performing with Alison Self and her magnificent voice (and ukulele playing), doing their unique blend of Americana and folk music, those two voices harmonizing perfectly; there was even some a Capella singing.
Such beautiful vocal abilities.
Allow me to clap the loudest in appreciation for so many kinds of talent heard tonight.
The RVA Landscape
I'm a big fan of the Virginia Center for Architecture, a.k..a. The Branch House, on Monument Avenue at Davis. I
've seen every exhibit they've mounted and frequently attend the lectures and talks they put on.
It doesn't hurt that the audiences for these events tend to be predominately male.
Not that I'm anywhere close to ready to date, but there's an outside chance that that might potentially change.
Someday.
Maybe.
Okay, highly doubtful.
So, at tonight's lecture, "The Richmond Landscape," I was surprised to see a very different demographic.
There was an entire VCU class, mostly female, and quite a few couples, which I can totally appreciate, shared interests and all that good stuff.
Still, it wasn't the usual lecture landscape.
The slide lecture itself was really quite interesting because of the wonderful historic images we got to see.
There were old city plot maps, diagrams of the layers of sedimentary rock in RVA, downtown Main Street looking like something out of the wild, wild west.
And the urban core of Richmond, then and now, is exactly what you would expect: Powhite to Fulton Bottom, Cary to Broad.
But enough of that demographic geekiness.
It's time for some music.
've seen every exhibit they've mounted and frequently attend the lectures and talks they put on.
It doesn't hurt that the audiences for these events tend to be predominately male.
Not that I'm anywhere close to ready to date, but there's an outside chance that that might potentially change.
Someday.
Maybe.
Okay, highly doubtful.
So, at tonight's lecture, "The Richmond Landscape," I was surprised to see a very different demographic.
There was an entire VCU class, mostly female, and quite a few couples, which I can totally appreciate, shared interests and all that good stuff.
Still, it wasn't the usual lecture landscape.
The slide lecture itself was really quite interesting because of the wonderful historic images we got to see.
There were old city plot maps, diagrams of the layers of sedimentary rock in RVA, downtown Main Street looking like something out of the wild, wild west.
And the urban core of Richmond, then and now, is exactly what you would expect: Powhite to Fulton Bottom, Cary to Broad.
But enough of that demographic geekiness.
It's time for some music.
Shut Up and Listen Up!
I hate going to a music show and having to listen to people around me shout, argue or even just converse while I'm trying to listen to the musicians.
Many is the time I wished my first grade teacher Mrs. Bixler, would happen by and give them THAT look, putting fear in their hearts and shutting them up.
Last night, I enjoyed a jabber-free evening of live music, thanks to the new free series, The Listening Room.
The show was held at the Michaux House on Franklin Street and while the organizers were expecting about 30 people, they easily had double that.
The set was simple and beautiful; there were four handmade wooden and fabric panels, with a plant and lamp in front and several Oriental-style rugs on the floor, creating an inviting ambiance.
The chairs were curved around this area for a cozy proximity to the audience.
There were three groups: Ferdinand Thomas, Englishman (from Lexington, KY) and The Low Branches.
All three bands played beautiful acoustic folky music and everyone in the audience observed the "No talking during performances please" rule stated on the program.
People arrived between 8 and 8:30, milled about socializing and at 8:29, as if on cue, sat down and just stopped talking. It was a beautiful thing.
Ferdinand Thomas' lyrics leaned toward the dark, with violin, keyboard and drum fleshing out the guitarist's vocals.
Englishman's vocal harmonies were a thing of beauty, very simple with just a guitar and keyboard.
The Low Branches, the only group I'd seen before, have the ethereal voice of Christina to anchor their haunting sound.
All three were ideal for a listening room setting and a rapt audience.
The Listening Room at the Michaux House is a concept overdue in Richmond.
We have so many fine musicians and the creation of an atmosphere in which they can be best appreciated is a gift to the music lovers of the city.
The kind of people who don't need a Mrs. Bixler to shut them up during the music portion of the evening.
The kind who want to shut up and listen.
Many is the time I wished my first grade teacher Mrs. Bixler, would happen by and give them THAT look, putting fear in their hearts and shutting them up.
Last night, I enjoyed a jabber-free evening of live music, thanks to the new free series, The Listening Room.
The show was held at the Michaux House on Franklin Street and while the organizers were expecting about 30 people, they easily had double that.
The set was simple and beautiful; there were four handmade wooden and fabric panels, with a plant and lamp in front and several Oriental-style rugs on the floor, creating an inviting ambiance.
The chairs were curved around this area for a cozy proximity to the audience.
There were three groups: Ferdinand Thomas, Englishman (from Lexington, KY) and The Low Branches.
All three bands played beautiful acoustic folky music and everyone in the audience observed the "No talking during performances please" rule stated on the program.
People arrived between 8 and 8:30, milled about socializing and at 8:29, as if on cue, sat down and just stopped talking. It was a beautiful thing.
Ferdinand Thomas' lyrics leaned toward the dark, with violin, keyboard and drum fleshing out the guitarist's vocals.
Englishman's vocal harmonies were a thing of beauty, very simple with just a guitar and keyboard.
The Low Branches, the only group I'd seen before, have the ethereal voice of Christina to anchor their haunting sound.
All three were ideal for a listening room setting and a rapt audience.
The Listening Room at the Michaux House is a concept overdue in Richmond.
We have so many fine musicians and the creation of an atmosphere in which they can be best appreciated is a gift to the music lovers of the city.
The kind of people who don't need a Mrs. Bixler to shut them up during the music portion of the evening.
The kind who want to shut up and listen.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Save the (Jewish) Delis!
I don't want to alarm you, but we've got a Jewish deli crisis. To give you an idea of the scale of the problem, in 1930 there were 1500 kosher delis in NYC; today there are two dozen. The cultural institution known as the corner deli is on the brink of extinction. This means the places that serve the best brisket, corned beef and pastrami will be no more. Are you concerned yet?
Well, luckily author David Sax was and after much research, has written a book, "Saving the Deli: In Search of Perfect Pastrami, Crusty Rye and the Heart of Jewish Deli." Sax was at the JCC tonight for a deli dinner and to talk about the rise and fall of delis and what we'll lose if they do all go away, namely the properly seasoned and cured meats they are known for, along with chopped liver, knishes and matzoh ball soup. Sax called delis the best ambassadors for Jewish culture in the U.S.
In addition to Sax's talk, we enjoyed a delicious meal of homemade corned beef sandwiches, sliced thick, on freshly baked rye bread. Along side that we had potato knishes, cole slaw, potato salad, a relish tray (sauerkraut, deli pickles and pickled tomatoes) and, for desert, apple strudel. Any good Jewish mother would have approved of the meal; she would also have beamed at me eating every bite and going back for seconds on the potato salad. The corned beef was sublime, the rye bread had a wonderful flavor and even New Yorker Sax had only raves for the knishes.
Sax asked if we had a Chinatown in RVA and the audience said no. "What's a large ethnic group you have here then?" he asked. A quick member of the audience answered, "WASPs," which was a group not much represented at this event (they did let a lapsed Catholic heathen like me in, though). The crowd had a very high percentage of people from Brooklyn and they knew from delis. When asked about the nearest real Jewish deli for Richmonders, Sax said it was Route 58 Deli in Virginia Beach and enough people in the audience nodded approvingly to sanction his opinion.
We're going to have to move the whales to the back burner, I'm afraid and get busy saving the delis before meals like I just had don't exist any more. A pastrami sandwich from Subway is not a pastrami sandwich. Or, to paraphrase Milton Berle, "Every time someone puts corned beef on white bread, somewhere a Jew dies."
Well, luckily author David Sax was and after much research, has written a book, "Saving the Deli: In Search of Perfect Pastrami, Crusty Rye and the Heart of Jewish Deli." Sax was at the JCC tonight for a deli dinner and to talk about the rise and fall of delis and what we'll lose if they do all go away, namely the properly seasoned and cured meats they are known for, along with chopped liver, knishes and matzoh ball soup. Sax called delis the best ambassadors for Jewish culture in the U.S.
In addition to Sax's talk, we enjoyed a delicious meal of homemade corned beef sandwiches, sliced thick, on freshly baked rye bread. Along side that we had potato knishes, cole slaw, potato salad, a relish tray (sauerkraut, deli pickles and pickled tomatoes) and, for desert, apple strudel. Any good Jewish mother would have approved of the meal; she would also have beamed at me eating every bite and going back for seconds on the potato salad. The corned beef was sublime, the rye bread had a wonderful flavor and even New Yorker Sax had only raves for the knishes.
Sax asked if we had a Chinatown in RVA and the audience said no. "What's a large ethnic group you have here then?" he asked. A quick member of the audience answered, "WASPs," which was a group not much represented at this event (they did let a lapsed Catholic heathen like me in, though). The crowd had a very high percentage of people from Brooklyn and they knew from delis. When asked about the nearest real Jewish deli for Richmonders, Sax said it was Route 58 Deli in Virginia Beach and enough people in the audience nodded approvingly to sanction his opinion.
We're going to have to move the whales to the back burner, I'm afraid and get busy saving the delis before meals like I just had don't exist any more. A pastrami sandwich from Subway is not a pastrami sandwich. Or, to paraphrase Milton Berle, "Every time someone puts corned beef on white bread, somewhere a Jew dies."
Horses in the 'Hood
Nothing in the world sounds like horse hooves.
So when I'm in front of my house raking leaves today and I hear that peculiar sound on a beautiful November afternoon, it makes me ridiculously happy.
Not like falling in love happy or winning the lottery happy, but just happy that I live in a city where mounted police officers (in this case, one male, one female) have been patrolling the streets for over a century.
Happy that horses are still walking Clay Street decades after motorized transportation replaced them in the name of speed and cleanliness.
And it's not just me who is so taken.
A schoolboy walking home from the bus stop is riveted in his tracks.
A young woman walking a dog freezes as she turns the corner and spots them; her dog keeps going and she doesn't.
My raking is completely forgotten.
The only jarring moment is when the police radio squawks.
And then they're off down the street, clopping that wonderful horse hoof sound.
J-Ward, I love you.
So when I'm in front of my house raking leaves today and I hear that peculiar sound on a beautiful November afternoon, it makes me ridiculously happy.
Not like falling in love happy or winning the lottery happy, but just happy that I live in a city where mounted police officers (in this case, one male, one female) have been patrolling the streets for over a century.
Happy that horses are still walking Clay Street decades after motorized transportation replaced them in the name of speed and cleanliness.
And it's not just me who is so taken.
A schoolboy walking home from the bus stop is riveted in his tracks.
A young woman walking a dog freezes as she turns the corner and spots them; her dog keeps going and she doesn't.
My raking is completely forgotten.
The only jarring moment is when the police radio squawks.
And then they're off down the street, clopping that wonderful horse hoof sound.
J-Ward, I love you.
Dinner at Mas and Stargazing, Too
I don't know about you, but I think weather like this is practically an invitation for a road trip.
I asked Beer Geek Friend to join me tonight, but he already had beer dinner plans (no surprise, really, some weeks he has two, once three in one week!).
He did, however, counter with a suggestion that we do an afternoon trip today to a couple of wineries.
But, alas, I had a late afternoon appointment.
Not wanting to give up the road trip dream, I asked P.B. Friend to join me and he was game for a drive to Charlottesville for dinner at Mas.
There are so many pleasures to Mas really: the low-light ambiance, the long, wide bar and comfortable stools, the superior tapas and, tonight, Al Green on the sound system.
I knew I loved the place, but it was P.B.F.'s first time there and he said he thought it was terrific.
We took our time eating through courses, cheese and bread here, Chorizo there, bacon-wrapped dates, olives of all kinds, spreads, meats and more bread.
So many distinctive flavors called for a big, earthy wine, which led to choosing the Bodegas Alvarez y Diez Valmoro Crianza.
I really liked this wine.
For dessert, we each got the flourless chocolate torte made with Venezuelan chocolate, with a lovely, creamy mouth feel and a dark, dark chocolate flavor.
We were so full and quite content by this time, so we sat and chatted for a good, long time while I drank wine and he sipped cappuccino, just savoring the meal.
P.B.F. is such a sweet guy and he understands exactly where my head and heart are, so he's a great one to discuss life with.
The other benefit of the trip, besides the excellent meal, was being far enough out to see plenty of stars for the Leonidid meteor showers tonight.
Filmy cloud layer aside, the view was much better out that way than here.
Besides, star gazing aids digestion, I've heard.
And, if not, it certainly put a fine finish on a delicious meal.
I asked Beer Geek Friend to join me tonight, but he already had beer dinner plans (no surprise, really, some weeks he has two, once three in one week!).
He did, however, counter with a suggestion that we do an afternoon trip today to a couple of wineries.
But, alas, I had a late afternoon appointment.
Not wanting to give up the road trip dream, I asked P.B. Friend to join me and he was game for a drive to Charlottesville for dinner at Mas.
There are so many pleasures to Mas really: the low-light ambiance, the long, wide bar and comfortable stools, the superior tapas and, tonight, Al Green on the sound system.
I knew I loved the place, but it was P.B.F.'s first time there and he said he thought it was terrific.
We took our time eating through courses, cheese and bread here, Chorizo there, bacon-wrapped dates, olives of all kinds, spreads, meats and more bread.
So many distinctive flavors called for a big, earthy wine, which led to choosing the Bodegas Alvarez y Diez Valmoro Crianza.
I really liked this wine.
For dessert, we each got the flourless chocolate torte made with Venezuelan chocolate, with a lovely, creamy mouth feel and a dark, dark chocolate flavor.
We were so full and quite content by this time, so we sat and chatted for a good, long time while I drank wine and he sipped cappuccino, just savoring the meal.
P.B.F. is such a sweet guy and he understands exactly where my head and heart are, so he's a great one to discuss life with.
The other benefit of the trip, besides the excellent meal, was being far enough out to see plenty of stars for the Leonidid meteor showers tonight.
Filmy cloud layer aside, the view was much better out that way than here.
Besides, star gazing aids digestion, I've heard.
And, if not, it certainly put a fine finish on a delicious meal.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Eating at 8 1/2, Seeing Pirate Radio
I have never been the slavish fan of Mama Zu's and Edo's Squid that most of Richmond is. Chalk it up to my compromised palate or perhaps my lack of appreciation for good Italian, but I would not put either restaurant on my top 5 list, nor tell an out-of-towner that they were required eating. Since I'm in the minority on this, clearly I am the misguided one.
But I'd never eaten at 8 1/2 and not because of anything to do with the other restaurants; it's just not often I'm over on Strawberry Street. I corrected that tonight and ended up quite pleased with my simple meal. I got the Italian Hero, which was served on a proper crusty roll and loaded with peppers and more meat than anyone needs on one sandwich; the accompanying potato wedge was an unexpected treat. To justify my meat feast, I got an order of broccoletti, which was divine. I'd have ordered a dessert, too, but they were sold out of everything. Ah, the perils of going for takeout on a Sunday evening. Now I need to go back and try their white pizza... and I will definitely go back.
After stuffing myself, I was looking for a lazy way to spend my evening. I'm an admitted documentary dork and "Pirate Radio" is not a documentary, but I very much wanted to see it anyway. It's based on real events, it has a huge and talented cast and the soundtrack contained dozens of songs, albeit ones I've heard a million times at this point in my life, but which serve the movie well. I went, too, because of Philip Seymour Hoffman and while he was great, as always, the ensemble cast was the true highlight of the film. The idiosyncratic characters came alive with strong performances by every single member of the cast.
The movie is a tribute to music lovers and especially the die hard DJ's who made Radio Rock possible back in 1966, when the BBC was refusing to play the "new" music, even as 25 million people were tuning in every day to the pirate radio ship. The movie is raucous and fun, women definitely play all secondary roles and it's impossible not to get caught up in the story. And the 60s costumes are way cooler than I can describe; they alone are worth seeing.
I'd recommend 8 1/2, but I'm undoubtedly the only person in rva who doesn't already know and love it. So, instead, I'll recommend "Pirate Radio" as a excellent amusement and a fascinating glimpse at a brief but shining time in radio history.
But I'd never eaten at 8 1/2 and not because of anything to do with the other restaurants; it's just not often I'm over on Strawberry Street. I corrected that tonight and ended up quite pleased with my simple meal. I got the Italian Hero, which was served on a proper crusty roll and loaded with peppers and more meat than anyone needs on one sandwich; the accompanying potato wedge was an unexpected treat. To justify my meat feast, I got an order of broccoletti, which was divine. I'd have ordered a dessert, too, but they were sold out of everything. Ah, the perils of going for takeout on a Sunday evening. Now I need to go back and try their white pizza... and I will definitely go back.
After stuffing myself, I was looking for a lazy way to spend my evening. I'm an admitted documentary dork and "Pirate Radio" is not a documentary, but I very much wanted to see it anyway. It's based on real events, it has a huge and talented cast and the soundtrack contained dozens of songs, albeit ones I've heard a million times at this point in my life, but which serve the movie well. I went, too, because of Philip Seymour Hoffman and while he was great, as always, the ensemble cast was the true highlight of the film. The idiosyncratic characters came alive with strong performances by every single member of the cast.
The movie is a tribute to music lovers and especially the die hard DJ's who made Radio Rock possible back in 1966, when the BBC was refusing to play the "new" music, even as 25 million people were tuning in every day to the pirate radio ship. The movie is raucous and fun, women definitely play all secondary roles and it's impossible not to get caught up in the story. And the 60s costumes are way cooler than I can describe; they alone are worth seeing.
I'd recommend 8 1/2, but I'm undoubtedly the only person in rva who doesn't already know and love it. So, instead, I'll recommend "Pirate Radio" as a excellent amusement and a fascinating glimpse at a brief but shining time in radio history.
A Walking Tour of the Boulevard
I'll admit I was just as beguiled by the sun today as everyone else in Richmond was. So when a friend asked me to spend the afternoon seeing a play, I declined. Instead, I went on a walking tour of the Boulevard area with Richmond landscape historian Tyler Potterfield (and, oh, is there a story from my past there) to tie in with the publication of his new book, Nonesuch Place; A History of the Richmond Landscape.
The tour group gathered at Black Swan Books, munching on ginger snaps provided by the store ( a fellow tour-goer and I discussed our inability to eat just one). I had run into an old friend from my radio days only yesterday and she was there, as was my delightful landlord/friend Bill and Suzanne Hall, she of the VA Museum, with her little dog accompanying her. We were undoubtedly a geeky group, all sincerely interested in learning more about the planning and design of Richmond's urban landscape. The absolutely perfect weather didn't hurt any, either; what could be better than a two-hour stroll on an afternoon like this?
It was a meandering sort of a tour, taking us up the Boulevard, into the Museum District and back into the Fan and onto Monument Avenue. Along the way, we learned about tenements (no negative connotation; the term refers to rental properties), the uses of different kinds of brick for front and sides of houses, the shame of porch removal and the absence of spires in rva. It was all fascinating stuff, if you care about such and this group did.
As for other people's sunny day activities, I saw sunbathers, a lemonade stand with a line, bikers in shorts, people chilling on and on top of porches and plenty of people just doing a walkabout. And, sure, I could have done any of that, but why, when I could walk around with a big geeky group instead?
The tour group gathered at Black Swan Books, munching on ginger snaps provided by the store ( a fellow tour-goer and I discussed our inability to eat just one). I had run into an old friend from my radio days only yesterday and she was there, as was my delightful landlord/friend Bill and Suzanne Hall, she of the VA Museum, with her little dog accompanying her. We were undoubtedly a geeky group, all sincerely interested in learning more about the planning and design of Richmond's urban landscape. The absolutely perfect weather didn't hurt any, either; what could be better than a two-hour stroll on an afternoon like this?
It was a meandering sort of a tour, taking us up the Boulevard, into the Museum District and back into the Fan and onto Monument Avenue. Along the way, we learned about tenements (no negative connotation; the term refers to rental properties), the uses of different kinds of brick for front and sides of houses, the shame of porch removal and the absence of spires in rva. It was all fascinating stuff, if you care about such and this group did.
As for other people's sunny day activities, I saw sunbathers, a lemonade stand with a line, bikers in shorts, people chilling on and on top of porches and plenty of people just doing a walkabout. And, sure, I could have done any of that, but why, when I could walk around with a big geeky group instead?
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Bin 22 on a Saturday Night
My evening was spent at Bin 22 in Carytown, drinking, grazing and enjoying the never-ending promenade of people outside. I hadn't bothered to make plans with anyone for my Saturday night and by about 8:30, I was starting to think it was time to eat. I had missed the recent Matthew Broadbent wine dinner at Bin 22 because of a music show, so I decided that it should be my destination.
When I arrived, the place was empty, but the music was good and Interpol was blaring. I was pleased to see that owner Greg now offers wine by the quartino and settled in with a South African Cabernet Sauvignon. My intent was to to eat a little something, but my taste buds weren't screaming for anything in particular, so I began with the roasted red pepper and tomato soup.
For me, tomato soup means Halloween because, growing up, my mom always made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for our pre-trick or treating meal. I suppose she purposely planned a light meal knowing we'd over indulge on candy later. Tonight's soup bore no resemblance to the can of Campbell's we ate dressed in costume. This was a thick and rich soup initially tasting of pure fresh tomato and ending with that lovely roasted red pepper taste on the end. The basil and Parmesan on top were a nice touch.
I followed that with the Pepper and Sea Salt Toasts with Artichoke Hearts and Goat Cheese Spread. The oil-brushed bread had just enough salt and pepper on its crust to complement the savory spread. I finished just over half of the creamy goodness and had to quit.
Taking a break to enjoy more wine, I noticed a couple come in and lay claim to the couch. They were being very cozy, lots of PDAs, so I focused on my wine and my reading. Not long after, another couple arrived and asked to sit on the patio. The waitress and I agreed that temperatures in the mid-fifties would be a tad brisk for us, but she let them sit outside anyway. Turns out he was wearing a leather jacket and she was wearing a ski jacket, thus making outdoor sitting more tolerable, if a bit awkward for the business of drinking and eating.
I decided that I was too full for dessert but couldn't resist ordering the Ginger Snap Cookies with Butter Pecan Ice Cream. The bowl was over-sized, the ice cream was full of big chunks of pecan and the cookies, well, they were ginger snaps. I'm one of those people who could eat half a bag of ginger snaps without even thinking about it; that ginger taste is addictive and always leaves me reaching for another. I did what I could with the dessert and finally threw in the towel. I had more than taken care of my hunger.
Greg and I chatted for a while and then it was time to leave the affectionate couple to each other and the outside couple to their shivering and walk Carytown. I saw people I knew, but no one I wanted PDAs from or to shiver with, but I had sated my hunger and enjoyed watching the parade of humanity outside the restaurant, so Bin 22 had scored on both counts.
When I arrived, the place was empty, but the music was good and Interpol was blaring. I was pleased to see that owner Greg now offers wine by the quartino and settled in with a South African Cabernet Sauvignon. My intent was to to eat a little something, but my taste buds weren't screaming for anything in particular, so I began with the roasted red pepper and tomato soup.
For me, tomato soup means Halloween because, growing up, my mom always made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for our pre-trick or treating meal. I suppose she purposely planned a light meal knowing we'd over indulge on candy later. Tonight's soup bore no resemblance to the can of Campbell's we ate dressed in costume. This was a thick and rich soup initially tasting of pure fresh tomato and ending with that lovely roasted red pepper taste on the end. The basil and Parmesan on top were a nice touch.
I followed that with the Pepper and Sea Salt Toasts with Artichoke Hearts and Goat Cheese Spread. The oil-brushed bread had just enough salt and pepper on its crust to complement the savory spread. I finished just over half of the creamy goodness and had to quit.
Taking a break to enjoy more wine, I noticed a couple come in and lay claim to the couch. They were being very cozy, lots of PDAs, so I focused on my wine and my reading. Not long after, another couple arrived and asked to sit on the patio. The waitress and I agreed that temperatures in the mid-fifties would be a tad brisk for us, but she let them sit outside anyway. Turns out he was wearing a leather jacket and she was wearing a ski jacket, thus making outdoor sitting more tolerable, if a bit awkward for the business of drinking and eating.
I decided that I was too full for dessert but couldn't resist ordering the Ginger Snap Cookies with Butter Pecan Ice Cream. The bowl was over-sized, the ice cream was full of big chunks of pecan and the cookies, well, they were ginger snaps. I'm one of those people who could eat half a bag of ginger snaps without even thinking about it; that ginger taste is addictive and always leaves me reaching for another. I did what I could with the dessert and finally threw in the towel. I had more than taken care of my hunger.
Greg and I chatted for a while and then it was time to leave the affectionate couple to each other and the outside couple to their shivering and walk Carytown. I saw people I knew, but no one I wanted PDAs from or to shiver with, but I had sated my hunger and enjoyed watching the parade of humanity outside the restaurant, so Bin 22 had scored on both counts.
The Pleasure of Being Read to at Chop Suey
The last time I went to a literary reading at Chop Suey Books, there were four of us in the audience. Not so for today's readings by Michele Young-Stone and and Sheri Reynolds; every seat in that small gallery was taken and there were people standing in the doorway. After listening to these two women read from their new books, it was clear why the room was so full.
Young-Stone's book, "The Handbook for Lightening Strike Survivors," tells the story of two lightening strike survivors and how their their lives unfold until the incidents no longer define them. The author was herself a lightening strike survivor, having been struck at age 11. Interestingly, she told us that the support group for such victims is the same as the support group for electro-shock treatment survivors. Despite one event being intentional and the other accidental, apparently survivors manifest the same sorts of side effects and long-term issues. The first chapter we heard was a compelling start to what sounds like it will be a great read; the book comes out April 13, 2010.
Sheri Reynolds followed, with the first chapter of "The Sweet In-Between," her fifth published novel, although the tenth she's written. Reynolds is originally from South Carolina and her accent was so thick you could cut it with a knife, which was absolutely perfect for a story of a girl on the brink of womanhood and embroiled in endless family and neighborhood drama on the eastern shore of Virginia (Reynolds' current home). With her moonlight and magnolias accent, lines like, "...an ordinary day, as ordinary as butter in grits" enhanced the prose beautifully (and you should have heard her stretch grits into two syllables).
So, yes, I spent my afternoon listening to writers read. What's your point?
Young-Stone's book, "The Handbook for Lightening Strike Survivors," tells the story of two lightening strike survivors and how their their lives unfold until the incidents no longer define them. The author was herself a lightening strike survivor, having been struck at age 11. Interestingly, she told us that the support group for such victims is the same as the support group for electro-shock treatment survivors. Despite one event being intentional and the other accidental, apparently survivors manifest the same sorts of side effects and long-term issues. The first chapter we heard was a compelling start to what sounds like it will be a great read; the book comes out April 13, 2010.
Sheri Reynolds followed, with the first chapter of "The Sweet In-Between," her fifth published novel, although the tenth she's written. Reynolds is originally from South Carolina and her accent was so thick you could cut it with a knife, which was absolutely perfect for a story of a girl on the brink of womanhood and embroiled in endless family and neighborhood drama on the eastern shore of Virginia (Reynolds' current home). With her moonlight and magnolias accent, lines like, "...an ordinary day, as ordinary as butter in grits" enhanced the prose beautifully (and you should have heard her stretch grits into two syllables).
So, yes, I spent my afternoon listening to writers read. What's your point?
Saving Horses/Slurping Soup
I began my evening with the horsey crowd at the Byrd Theater, at a benefit for the Equine Rescue League. Honestly, I didn't know there was a problem of horses being abused and neglected, but I guess I'm not surprised. It was a showing of "National Velvet," the 1945 movies about a 12-year old girl winning England's Grand National. I knew a very young Elizabeth Taylor was in it, as was Mickey Rooney, and I knew it had to do with horses, so I usually caught the pop cultural references to the film, but that's not the same as actually seeing it.
It was lush with the typical Technicolor over-saturation of colors, some of the sets were so obviously painted on as to be embarrassing and you knew from the beginning that she'd win, but it was rated #9 of the ten best sports movies ever made, right before "Jerry McGuire," a movie I have seen. Number one was "Raging Bull," a movie I have not seen. The list is endless.
After I did my part to save the horses, I went to the Belvidere at Broad for a bowl of soup. Tonight's soup was pumpkin, which didn't particularly grab me at first, but I ordered it anyway. Forgive my lack of vocabulary here; this was a bowl of pumpkin mixed with cream and then there was some cognac in there. To me, it tasted like homemade pumpkin ice cream, minus the sugar. It was so creamy, so pumpkin-y and such a perfect blend of savory/sweet as to be difficult to choose to label it only one or the other. For me, it satisfied both my appetizer and dessert needs, no easy feat (a good cheese plate can do the same for me).
Of course I ran into various neighbors, and discovered that many of them have been mopping up water the past few days (hooray for second floor apartments), but I also got to check out Todd Hale's new show hanging on the walls; this is an artist with a bent for the unusual. The music was vintage rock (not my choice, needless to say) but eminently pleasing to many of those around me. You can't always get what you want...you know?
It was lush with the typical Technicolor over-saturation of colors, some of the sets were so obviously painted on as to be embarrassing and you knew from the beginning that she'd win, but it was rated #9 of the ten best sports movies ever made, right before "Jerry McGuire," a movie I have seen. Number one was "Raging Bull," a movie I have not seen. The list is endless.
After I did my part to save the horses, I went to the Belvidere at Broad for a bowl of soup. Tonight's soup was pumpkin, which didn't particularly grab me at first, but I ordered it anyway. Forgive my lack of vocabulary here; this was a bowl of pumpkin mixed with cream and then there was some cognac in there. To me, it tasted like homemade pumpkin ice cream, minus the sugar. It was so creamy, so pumpkin-y and such a perfect blend of savory/sweet as to be difficult to choose to label it only one or the other. For me, it satisfied both my appetizer and dessert needs, no easy feat (a good cheese plate can do the same for me).
Of course I ran into various neighbors, and discovered that many of them have been mopping up water the past few days (hooray for second floor apartments), but I also got to check out Todd Hale's new show hanging on the walls; this is an artist with a bent for the unusual. The music was vintage rock (not my choice, needless to say) but eminently pleasing to many of those around me. You can't always get what you want...you know?
Friday, November 13, 2009
Artists as Collaborators
"Everybody seemed to be interested in other arts- that was probably the thing that was the most exciting."
That sounds very much like something several artists who have moved to rva have told me about our fair city. Actually, it references Black Mountain College, a N.C. university in which the study of art was seen as central to an education; it was open from 1933 through 1957 and an unusually high number of students and faculty went on to become major influential artists of the twentieth century.
"Black Mountain College: Education and the Arts" opened today at the Flippo Gallery at RMC and it was completely worth going to Ashland for the second time in less than 48 hours. The exhibition of photography, collages, paintings, prints and posters is a fascinating cross-section of the artists that came through BMC and influenced one another during that very fertile period in the late 40s.
The Robert Rauschenberg "Jacob Javitz Center" poster looks like an rva graphic designer's dream, with random images floating in the foreground. The Alvin Lustig Design magazine cover on first glance evokes an "Oh, I've seen that a million times" reaction; then you notice the year it was done - 1946- and you realize how influential this man's work was on subsequent generations of designers. Hazel Larsen Archer's photograph of "Merce Cunningham Dancing" is a study of the line of the dancer's body in mid-air, echoed on the ground by his tiny shadow behind him, looking like that of a doll.
Also fascinating was a look at the women who accompanied some of the men to BMC while they taught, but were really artists in their own right, albeit less well-known. There was an etching by Gwendolyn Knight Lawrence, wife of faculty member and Harlem Renaissance painter Jacob Lawrence. Sue Weil, Rauschenberg's wife, had come to BMC as a student and later married the artist; her "Musical Chairs" was like a Chinese puzzle with squares moved to the wrong places, causing a fractured image.
Probably most arresting were the photographs of the artists themselves; the handsome and artistic faces of composer John Cage and artists Rauschenberg, M.C. Richards and Willem de Kooning. We can only hope today's photographers are capturing current artists as meaningfully.
In the meantime, the exhibit is up through early January and it's a terrific reminder of the importance of creative people coming together and influencing each other. Just like what happens right here in River City.
That sounds very much like something several artists who have moved to rva have told me about our fair city. Actually, it references Black Mountain College, a N.C. university in which the study of art was seen as central to an education; it was open from 1933 through 1957 and an unusually high number of students and faculty went on to become major influential artists of the twentieth century.
"Black Mountain College: Education and the Arts" opened today at the Flippo Gallery at RMC and it was completely worth going to Ashland for the second time in less than 48 hours. The exhibition of photography, collages, paintings, prints and posters is a fascinating cross-section of the artists that came through BMC and influenced one another during that very fertile period in the late 40s.
The Robert Rauschenberg "Jacob Javitz Center" poster looks like an rva graphic designer's dream, with random images floating in the foreground. The Alvin Lustig Design magazine cover on first glance evokes an "Oh, I've seen that a million times" reaction; then you notice the year it was done - 1946- and you realize how influential this man's work was on subsequent generations of designers. Hazel Larsen Archer's photograph of "Merce Cunningham Dancing" is a study of the line of the dancer's body in mid-air, echoed on the ground by his tiny shadow behind him, looking like that of a doll.
Also fascinating was a look at the women who accompanied some of the men to BMC while they taught, but were really artists in their own right, albeit less well-known. There was an etching by Gwendolyn Knight Lawrence, wife of faculty member and Harlem Renaissance painter Jacob Lawrence. Sue Weil, Rauschenberg's wife, had come to BMC as a student and later married the artist; her "Musical Chairs" was like a Chinese puzzle with squares moved to the wrong places, causing a fractured image.
Probably most arresting were the photographs of the artists themselves; the handsome and artistic faces of composer John Cage and artists Rauschenberg, M.C. Richards and Willem de Kooning. We can only hope today's photographers are capturing current artists as meaningfully.
In the meantime, the exhibit is up through early January and it's a terrific reminder of the importance of creative people coming together and influencing each other. Just like what happens right here in River City.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Joint Was Jumpin'
I had heard from some friends that "Ain't Misbehavin'" at Theater VCU was worth seeing and since I'd never seen it before (despite it having been around since 1978), we braved the remnants of Ida to check it out. This wasn't challenging or thoughtful theater, this was a very cool set, colorful costumes and the classic music of Fats Waller. In a word, it was fun.
The revue was high energy (you could see it in the heated faces of the dancers), all singing and dancing, at times humorous, at times downright raunchy. The five actors that made up the cast were well suited to playing the talented black musicians and singers that figured so prominently in the Harlem Renaissance of the 20s and 30s. But the production is no history lesson, except perhaps a thoroughly enjoyable one in the history of swing. I recognized more songs than I expected to: "Honeysuckle Rose," "I Can't Give You Anything But Love" and "T'aint Nobody's Business," to name a few. I'm more Fats Waller-literate than I realized.
We loved that there were nightclub tables on the edges of the stage where audience members sat during the show and, from which they were sometimes pulled into the action. And then there was the titillation of the fake marijuana smoking (we didn't inhale). We observed all the fun from a slightly higher perch, but you can't go wrong seeing it from any vantage point.
The revue was high energy (you could see it in the heated faces of the dancers), all singing and dancing, at times humorous, at times downright raunchy. The five actors that made up the cast were well suited to playing the talented black musicians and singers that figured so prominently in the Harlem Renaissance of the 20s and 30s. But the production is no history lesson, except perhaps a thoroughly enjoyable one in the history of swing. I recognized more songs than I expected to: "Honeysuckle Rose," "I Can't Give You Anything But Love" and "T'aint Nobody's Business," to name a few. I'm more Fats Waller-literate than I realized.
We loved that there were nightclub tables on the edges of the stage where audience members sat during the show and, from which they were sometimes pulled into the action. And then there was the titillation of the fake marijuana smoking (we didn't inhale). We observed all the fun from a slightly higher perch, but you can't go wrong seeing it from any vantage point.
Of Punctuality and Punctuation
Here's the problem with being punctual: you do it for a lifetime and people start to expect it from you.
I'm not kidding.
If you're never late meeting up with someone, they assume the worst when you do arrive a bit late.
It happened to me a couple weeks ago when I was supposed to be meeting a friend at 2, but my noon lunch ran long and it was closer to 2:30 when I got there.
Good god, he'd called out the militia and S.W.A.T. teams before the cat dragged me in.
Today I was meeting up with my English teacher friend for happy hour at New York Deli and I was 12 minutes late.
By that point, he'd already tweeted that he was getting worried and wondering if he had the date wrong in his calendar.
Twelve minutes!
He'd also arrived early, so maybe it just felt like a longer wait, but, as he pointed out, I'm usually early, so anything past the fixed time is worrisome.
We moved beyond the social constructs of time and had a most enlightening chat while we scarfed sliders and basket 'o fries.
And since we're both such blogging geeks, we talked numbers and comparisons, lurkers and followers (he has a killer photography blog at: http://blog.punchphoto.com/ ).
We actually talked grammar and spelling.
He shared a story about a short-lived but passionate relationship he'd had at 25.
I shared a story about a newly-single friend having far more luck with the opposite sex more quickly than I am.
By this point, we were surrounded by a gathering of what we think was realtors, drinking and glad-handing each other- our signal that it was time to clear out.
We also noted that we have gone out together more in 2009 than in the first six years of knowing each other.
About damn time we both made room in our lives for someone whose company we so greatly enjoy.
Hey, I'm talking to you.
I'm not kidding.
If you're never late meeting up with someone, they assume the worst when you do arrive a bit late.
It happened to me a couple weeks ago when I was supposed to be meeting a friend at 2, but my noon lunch ran long and it was closer to 2:30 when I got there.
Good god, he'd called out the militia and S.W.A.T. teams before the cat dragged me in.
Today I was meeting up with my English teacher friend for happy hour at New York Deli and I was 12 minutes late.
By that point, he'd already tweeted that he was getting worried and wondering if he had the date wrong in his calendar.
Twelve minutes!
He'd also arrived early, so maybe it just felt like a longer wait, but, as he pointed out, I'm usually early, so anything past the fixed time is worrisome.
We moved beyond the social constructs of time and had a most enlightening chat while we scarfed sliders and basket 'o fries.
And since we're both such blogging geeks, we talked numbers and comparisons, lurkers and followers (he has a killer photography blog at: http://blog.punchphoto.com/ ).
We actually talked grammar and spelling.
He shared a story about a short-lived but passionate relationship he'd had at 25.
I shared a story about a newly-single friend having far more luck with the opposite sex more quickly than I am.
By this point, we were surrounded by a gathering of what we think was realtors, drinking and glad-handing each other- our signal that it was time to clear out.
We also noted that we have gone out together more in 2009 than in the first six years of knowing each other.
About damn time we both made room in our lives for someone whose company we so greatly enjoy.
Hey, I'm talking to you.
How to Watch a Silent Movie
I juts started getting into silent films in the last couple of years.
And even then mainly because of my friend Jameson and his monthly Silent Music Revival, a showing of a silent film with a band providing live music accompaniment.
He's suggested several films for me to check out since then and now I'm quick to take advantage of an opportunity to see a silent film.
The Richmond Moving Image Co-Op (the people who do the Italian Film Fest, the James River Film Fest, Flicker and more) started a 4-part Silent Classics series last week and today I went to see Buster Keaton in "College" at the downtown library's auditorium.
Keaton was just as stone-faced as I'd been told he always was and the film showed off his surprising athletic prowess as he tried to win the most popular girl on campus.
The film was released in 1927, so there were references to colored waiters and girls being expelled for having a boy in their room.
Very quaint.
VCU's film guru Mike Jones spoke before the film and told the audience that we'd be seeing the film on 16mm, a rare treat these days and only because Randolph-Macon College divested itself of all its old 16mm films about seven years ago and VCU was the lucky recipient.
As Jones pointed out, there's a certain retro pleasure to watching a film accompanied by the whirring of the projector.
To a fan of silent movies, it's as enjoyable a part of revisiting the past as the movie itself.
And even then mainly because of my friend Jameson and his monthly Silent Music Revival, a showing of a silent film with a band providing live music accompaniment.
He's suggested several films for me to check out since then and now I'm quick to take advantage of an opportunity to see a silent film.
The Richmond Moving Image Co-Op (the people who do the Italian Film Fest, the James River Film Fest, Flicker and more) started a 4-part Silent Classics series last week and today I went to see Buster Keaton in "College" at the downtown library's auditorium.
Keaton was just as stone-faced as I'd been told he always was and the film showed off his surprising athletic prowess as he tried to win the most popular girl on campus.
The film was released in 1927, so there were references to colored waiters and girls being expelled for having a boy in their room.
Very quaint.
VCU's film guru Mike Jones spoke before the film and told the audience that we'd be seeing the film on 16mm, a rare treat these days and only because Randolph-Macon College divested itself of all its old 16mm films about seven years ago and VCU was the lucky recipient.
As Jones pointed out, there's a certain retro pleasure to watching a film accompanied by the whirring of the projector.
To a fan of silent movies, it's as enjoyable a part of revisiting the past as the movie itself.
SWF ISO Rain Fan
While blogging last night, a friend messaged me to say that this weather had made him think of me. He remembered that I like rainy weather and with it pelting down outside, he said I was the first thing that came to mind. I don't even remember telling him that, but he was right. I tried to convince him that it's comforting to go to sleep hearing rain on the roof or street outside.
Unlike practically everyone, I don't hate the rain; in fact, I like rainy days, even when we have several in a row. It does make walking the dog and doing my daily four miles more challenging, but I'd have that dilemma if I lived in London or Scotland, now wouldn't I? I've got my hot pink rain jacket, my warm lined boots and three sizes of umbrella to suit the downpour. My biggest problem on days like this is flooded streets; I'm not very tall and sometimes my legs just aren't long enough to span the bigger puddles.
I've only known one other person who enjoys rainy days as much as I do, but he lives in Williamsburg, so it's not always convenient to meet up on rainy days. Which is not to say that we haven't in the past; we've walked in it, taken drives in it and chosen restaurants with front window seats to admire it as we ate. But it's been at least a couple of years since we've enjoyed those pleasures together.
I'd enjoy having another rain-loving friend, but I've got no idea how to find one. Standing on a corner under my umbrella trying to solicit one just seems wrong. I'll just keep an eye peeled during my rainy outings for someone else smiling and wet besides me.
Unlike practically everyone, I don't hate the rain; in fact, I like rainy days, even when we have several in a row. It does make walking the dog and doing my daily four miles more challenging, but I'd have that dilemma if I lived in London or Scotland, now wouldn't I? I've got my hot pink rain jacket, my warm lined boots and three sizes of umbrella to suit the downpour. My biggest problem on days like this is flooded streets; I'm not very tall and sometimes my legs just aren't long enough to span the bigger puddles.
I've only known one other person who enjoys rainy days as much as I do, but he lives in Williamsburg, so it's not always convenient to meet up on rainy days. Which is not to say that we haven't in the past; we've walked in it, taken drives in it and chosen restaurants with front window seats to admire it as we ate. But it's been at least a couple of years since we've enjoyed those pleasures together.
I'd enjoy having another rain-loving friend, but I've got no idea how to find one. Standing on a corner under my umbrella trying to solicit one just seems wrong. I'll just keep an eye peeled during my rainy outings for someone else smiling and wet besides me.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
When It's Real Love, You Know You Do It for Free
As I drove through the pouring rain and flooding roads on my way to Ashland Coffee and Tea to see Sarah Borges and the Broken Singles, it occurred to me that a cozy coffeehouse for a show was an ideal destination to wile away such an evening.
The weather and locale also dictated my food choices; I ordered the Brunswick Stew, which was made with pork rather than chicken and loaded with limas and corn. Accompanying it was a warm corn muffin double the size of my fist (really), not too sweet and not too moist or crumbly. When I got down to the last of the stew broth, I emptied all the bits and crumbs from the muffin paper into my bowl and watched the muffin absorb every bit, allowing me to enjoy a sort of deconstructed sopping process, using my soup spoon to scoop up the wet crumbs.
For dessert, I stayed with their strengths and got the homemade cookie trio: white chocolate macadamia, oatmeal craisin and chocolate chip, with a glass of cab. I was satisfied.
As I ate and people took tables around me, the discussions were of musicians like Alison Krause, Jerry Douglas and Brandi Carlisle. The type of fans who refer to Merlefest and South by Southwest by the year, because they've been to so many. I was happily ensconced at my favorite table, one from the stage and next to the bar. Later, when the band left the stage, the bass player came over and thanked me for sitting there.
The band got right to it shortly after 8 and it was probably after the second song that Sarah Borges told the audience, "Okay the trains are a little disconcerting. It's like my whole life just flashed before me." I love how beautifully expressive her voice is, but she was also pretty, smart, witty and flexible (she told us that last part, but she moved awfully well, kicking and sashaying onstage). At one time included in the generic alt-country niche, the band's new CD is more straight on indie rock, plus the band did several covers, including J. Geils' "Cryin' One More Time for You." They're both Boston bands, so it made sense as a choice, at least the way she explained it.
The band was terrific; bass player Binky announced to us all his room number at the "quaint little spot called the Day's Inn," the guitar player used a half-filled bottle of beer instead of his left hand to play one song and the drummer requested that they skip something on the set list because it made his head spin. Sarah provided very clever banter between each song, making up ditties and teasing her band incessantly.
And when it was all over and time to head out into the rainy, windy night, Binky's question to me as we stood in the bathroom line after the show resonated in my head; was there really anything better to do on a rainy night than listen to a live band? Binky had a point.
The weather and locale also dictated my food choices; I ordered the Brunswick Stew, which was made with pork rather than chicken and loaded with limas and corn. Accompanying it was a warm corn muffin double the size of my fist (really), not too sweet and not too moist or crumbly. When I got down to the last of the stew broth, I emptied all the bits and crumbs from the muffin paper into my bowl and watched the muffin absorb every bit, allowing me to enjoy a sort of deconstructed sopping process, using my soup spoon to scoop up the wet crumbs.
For dessert, I stayed with their strengths and got the homemade cookie trio: white chocolate macadamia, oatmeal craisin and chocolate chip, with a glass of cab. I was satisfied.
As I ate and people took tables around me, the discussions were of musicians like Alison Krause, Jerry Douglas and Brandi Carlisle. The type of fans who refer to Merlefest and South by Southwest by the year, because they've been to so many. I was happily ensconced at my favorite table, one from the stage and next to the bar. Later, when the band left the stage, the bass player came over and thanked me for sitting there.
The band got right to it shortly after 8 and it was probably after the second song that Sarah Borges told the audience, "Okay the trains are a little disconcerting. It's like my whole life just flashed before me." I love how beautifully expressive her voice is, but she was also pretty, smart, witty and flexible (she told us that last part, but she moved awfully well, kicking and sashaying onstage). At one time included in the generic alt-country niche, the band's new CD is more straight on indie rock, plus the band did several covers, including J. Geils' "Cryin' One More Time for You." They're both Boston bands, so it made sense as a choice, at least the way she explained it.
The band was terrific; bass player Binky announced to us all his room number at the "quaint little spot called the Day's Inn," the guitar player used a half-filled bottle of beer instead of his left hand to play one song and the drummer requested that they skip something on the set list because it made his head spin. Sarah provided very clever banter between each song, making up ditties and teasing her band incessantly.
And when it was all over and time to head out into the rainy, windy night, Binky's question to me as we stood in the bathroom line after the show resonated in my head; was there really anything better to do on a rainy night than listen to a live band? Binky had a point.
Beer for Art Geeks
If I haven't made it clear in my past posts, I don't drink beer.
I don't like the taste, despite years of beer-swilling friends coaxing me to "just taste this one; it's different" and not liking a single one.
But I did drink an entire beer once.
Oh, yes, I did.
It was at a Cracker show at the Flood Zone back in 1993 and if they had had anything, anything at all, to drink other than beer, I'd have swilled it.
But that night I needed some liquid courage and that one beer was the only way to get it.
I share this as a prelude to trying to describe my pleasure at reading an article in today's Washington Post about cask beers.
Why the sudden interest in a beer topic, you wonder?
Ah, well, it was written by Blake Gopnik, the art critic for the Post and a writer of whom I am inordinately fond.
Granted, he's always writing about art, a topic near and dear to my heart, but I'm also a big fan of his writing.
So when I got to today's Post Food section to find a front page article about cask beers and a new place in Logan Circle that will carry five of them, I read it start to finish and was mildly fascinated.
I don't know that I'm any more likely to like cask beer than I like pasteurized, carbonated beer, but I'm not ruling it out either.
Maybe it was Blake's enthusiasm for the subject or maybe it was the allure of an art geek trying to introduce me to something new.
For all I know, Blake is nothing more than a golden beverage fan and not necessarily qualified to write about beer, but I prefer to think that he's sharing his enthusiasm for cask beer in the hopes of reaching other art geeks like me who wouldn't take the word of anyone else.
Now I'm imagining about sharing some cask beer with Blake whilst discussing art for hours.
And if he wants to throw in some additional beer talk, I'll be all ears.
I might even become a cask convert as his urging.
I don't like the taste, despite years of beer-swilling friends coaxing me to "just taste this one; it's different" and not liking a single one.
But I did drink an entire beer once.
Oh, yes, I did.
It was at a Cracker show at the Flood Zone back in 1993 and if they had had anything, anything at all, to drink other than beer, I'd have swilled it.
But that night I needed some liquid courage and that one beer was the only way to get it.
I share this as a prelude to trying to describe my pleasure at reading an article in today's Washington Post about cask beers.
Why the sudden interest in a beer topic, you wonder?
Ah, well, it was written by Blake Gopnik, the art critic for the Post and a writer of whom I am inordinately fond.
Granted, he's always writing about art, a topic near and dear to my heart, but I'm also a big fan of his writing.
So when I got to today's Post Food section to find a front page article about cask beers and a new place in Logan Circle that will carry five of them, I read it start to finish and was mildly fascinated.
I don't know that I'm any more likely to like cask beer than I like pasteurized, carbonated beer, but I'm not ruling it out either.
Maybe it was Blake's enthusiasm for the subject or maybe it was the allure of an art geek trying to introduce me to something new.
For all I know, Blake is nothing more than a golden beverage fan and not necessarily qualified to write about beer, but I prefer to think that he's sharing his enthusiasm for cask beer in the hopes of reaching other art geeks like me who wouldn't take the word of anyone else.
Now I'm imagining about sharing some cask beer with Blake whilst discussing art for hours.
And if he wants to throw in some additional beer talk, I'll be all ears.
I might even become a cask convert as his urging.
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