There are many things one can do to assuage loss; eating and drinking have got to be two of the most common. That may explain how my recently laid-off friend and I found ourselves at Bin 22 this evening for their cheap date night. We even held hands while we placed our order to convince our waitress we were in the mood for a romantic dinner for two; okay, we cracked up all the while, but we made the attempt.
I'm sure you know the deal; for $40 you get a bottle of wine (Entrada Cabernet Sauvignon), a choice of soup or salad (we took the mixed green salad), pasta (we had the penne with chunky house made tomato sauce, basil , Pecorino and thick-sliced Belmont Butchery pork sausage. Oh, my god, such amazing pig!) and, for dessert, the ice cream sandwich made with brownies. The meal was truly lovely from start to finish, but that sausage was to die for and we found our Argentinian wine to be exactly what our red wine-starved hearts were calling for.
As a veteran of laid off longevity, it was my mission to convince my recently unemployed friend that life will go on despite her current feelings to the contrary. She's still working through anger and fear of the future, two obstacles I worked through months ago. She's got plenty of marketable skills, so I have high hopes for her re-employment, but she's understandably a bit less confident.
On top of all that, there are, of course, male issues so I offered my take on that side of her life, as she did mine. I'm a great example of "come on, how much worse can things get?" so reminding her to keep a stiff upper lip was second nature. On the plus side, discussing the mess that our lives are provided the evening's entertainment and there's a lot to be said for laughing in the face of adversity while Elvis Costello plays in the background.
Not to mention, a great deal of a meal for those of us on laid-off budgets. Bin 22 provided a hearty dinner we could afford without feeling like we were settling for the sake of saving. I would think even the employed could get into that.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Bedroom as Art
I'm always been intrigued by how the twentieth century brought about a public discussion of what constitutes art.
Marcel Duchamp's "ready-mades" pretty much established that art takes many everyday forms; his display of a urinal he dubbed "Fountain" forever changed the popular perception of art.
The VMFA has acquired an 1880s bedroom which might well fit into that expanded definition of art.
The elaborate Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom contains seventy objects, including a massive chandelier, a rug that repeats the pattern of the ceiling. a Turkish niche for seating and the repeated use of ebonized wood.
It is the bedroom of a long bygone era.
It is the kind of detail-filled room that would take some time to fully take in.
At today's lecture at the VMFA, the focus was on the remarkable woman whose rags to riches story began in RVA, namely Arabella Worsham.
Her slow rise after the Civil War from a fatherless child to the owner of the magnificent Italianate house on W. 54th Street in NYC and the accompanying high-profile relationships, would have been fascinating even if she had not taken on the creation of a house interior that was, without a doubt, a work of art.
The lecture explored how the VMFA came to receive the bedroom from the Museum of the City of New York.
Because Arabella was originally a Richmond girl, there was a compelling reason to move the bedroom here once the MOTCONY could no longer accommodate it.
Fortunately, when the negotiations began, VMFA's renovation was not so far along that they couldn't plan for inclusion of the bedroom.
When the VMFA reopens (finally!) in May, one of the new masterpieces on view will be the Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom.
Neither Duchamp nor I would question its merit as art.
Marcel Duchamp's "ready-mades" pretty much established that art takes many everyday forms; his display of a urinal he dubbed "Fountain" forever changed the popular perception of art.
The VMFA has acquired an 1880s bedroom which might well fit into that expanded definition of art.
The elaborate Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom contains seventy objects, including a massive chandelier, a rug that repeats the pattern of the ceiling. a Turkish niche for seating and the repeated use of ebonized wood.
It is the bedroom of a long bygone era.
It is the kind of detail-filled room that would take some time to fully take in.
At today's lecture at the VMFA, the focus was on the remarkable woman whose rags to riches story began in RVA, namely Arabella Worsham.
Her slow rise after the Civil War from a fatherless child to the owner of the magnificent Italianate house on W. 54th Street in NYC and the accompanying high-profile relationships, would have been fascinating even if she had not taken on the creation of a house interior that was, without a doubt, a work of art.
The lecture explored how the VMFA came to receive the bedroom from the Museum of the City of New York.
Because Arabella was originally a Richmond girl, there was a compelling reason to move the bedroom here once the MOTCONY could no longer accommodate it.
Fortunately, when the negotiations began, VMFA's renovation was not so far along that they couldn't plan for inclusion of the bedroom.
When the VMFA reopens (finally!) in May, one of the new masterpieces on view will be the Worsham-Rockefeller bedroom.
Neither Duchamp nor I would question its merit as art.
Whose Legs Are Those Anyhow?
I understand that we don't see ourselves as others do.
Intellectually, I get that a two-dimensional image in a mirror bears limited resemblance to a three-dimensional image in space. And yet my reaction when I saw the results of my recent profile shoot with my very talented photographer friend, Thomas was, do I know those legs?
I am especially familiar with this syndrome because of all the years I worked as an audio and video producer. Inevitably, people would react with horror when they first heard/saw their voice/self recorded; part of my job was to reassure them.
So I should have known better.
I looked at the photo he sent me with limited recognition. Oh, sure, the Berlin tights are mine; who else would wear them?
But those calves? I had no idea. And that vague hint of athleticism which I know for a fact doesn't exist in real life?
Not really there.
Seems I need an entire mental adjustment about what I'm walking around on. That said, I do think it's a great picture
I'll just have to deal with my acceptance issues.
Intellectually, I get that a two-dimensional image in a mirror bears limited resemblance to a three-dimensional image in space. And yet my reaction when I saw the results of my recent profile shoot with my very talented photographer friend, Thomas was, do I know those legs?
I am especially familiar with this syndrome because of all the years I worked as an audio and video producer. Inevitably, people would react with horror when they first heard/saw their voice/self recorded; part of my job was to reassure them.
So I should have known better.
I looked at the photo he sent me with limited recognition. Oh, sure, the Berlin tights are mine; who else would wear them?
But those calves? I had no idea. And that vague hint of athleticism which I know for a fact doesn't exist in real life?
Not really there.
Seems I need an entire mental adjustment about what I'm walking around on. That said, I do think it's a great picture
I'll just have to deal with my acceptance issues.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
A Bit Spotty at Six Burner
My head has been in turmoil lately and it's manifested itself with a lovely teenage-like break-out or, as my Scottish friend would say, "A bit spotty, aren't we?" Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am (of course, as another friend pointed out, it could just be the absence of a sex life). I figured it would help to share what's been on my mind and solicit an opinion from a good friend and expert in the "WTF?" school of life.
So while a good portion of RVA was apparently staying warm and dry at home, we met up at Six Burner to clear up my face. I'd warned her that my emotional state had both great and tragic roots, a statement to which she concurred after hearing it all. Given the circumstances, it was fortuitous that it was half-priced wine night (French Malbec, that's all you need to know).
We shared the black plums, arugula, goat cheese, candied spicy cashews with balsamic vinaigrette salad and were treated to not baby arugula, but big, bold, peppery leaves that asserted their flavor beautifully, but not delicately. Then, too, I could have eaten a bowl of those sweet and spicy cashews if they'd been offered to me.
What balances the healthiness of greens and fruit but house made charcuterie? We had salami toscano and gentile, prosciutto and lardo. Sliced thinly, but with that wonderful combination of fat and salt that caused us to swoon with every bite, we reveled in our meat treat. As my saga unfolded, I was gratified to hear that my take on things wasn't skewed at all and while it probably won't clear up my skin anytime soon, I now at least feel like I've released some of the tension I was feeling by having an empathetic ear.
The final necessary piece of the puzzle tonight was the red velvet cupcake with hazelnut and chocolate sauce. Tonight's version was particularly statuesque due to the cupcake being a bit shorter than usual; as a result, mine was actually two cupcakes, each split in two for four layers of red velvetness.
I could almost feel my equilibrium being restored after sharing such good victuals and conversation with the Queen of WTF? What happens with my face remains to be seen.
So while a good portion of RVA was apparently staying warm and dry at home, we met up at Six Burner to clear up my face. I'd warned her that my emotional state had both great and tragic roots, a statement to which she concurred after hearing it all. Given the circumstances, it was fortuitous that it was half-priced wine night (French Malbec, that's all you need to know).
We shared the black plums, arugula, goat cheese, candied spicy cashews with balsamic vinaigrette salad and were treated to not baby arugula, but big, bold, peppery leaves that asserted their flavor beautifully, but not delicately. Then, too, I could have eaten a bowl of those sweet and spicy cashews if they'd been offered to me.
What balances the healthiness of greens and fruit but house made charcuterie? We had salami toscano and gentile, prosciutto and lardo. Sliced thinly, but with that wonderful combination of fat and salt that caused us to swoon with every bite, we reveled in our meat treat. As my saga unfolded, I was gratified to hear that my take on things wasn't skewed at all and while it probably won't clear up my skin anytime soon, I now at least feel like I've released some of the tension I was feeling by having an empathetic ear.
The final necessary piece of the puzzle tonight was the red velvet cupcake with hazelnut and chocolate sauce. Tonight's version was particularly statuesque due to the cupcake being a bit shorter than usual; as a result, mine was actually two cupcakes, each split in two for four layers of red velvetness.
I could almost feel my equilibrium being restored after sharing such good victuals and conversation with the Queen of WTF? What happens with my face remains to be seen.
Getting Intimate and Fresh at Momotaro Sushi
A friend of mine is a big sushi fan and always interested in trying new places, so he frequently calls me up when he wants a dining partner. Last night, our destination was Momotaro Sushi at the end of Carytown after a couple of his friends had recommended it highly to him. I hadn't even realized the place was there, tucked into a tiny space just before the Boulevard. It was Monday night, so there was only one other couple in there, but the atmospheric music set the tone the minute we walked in.
Cliched as it is, we started with the steamed dumplings, which were small, but well done. I went on to the Garden of the Sea, an array of thin- sliced shrimp, crab and salmon over seaweed salad and lettuce with a Japanese vinaigrette. It was a a lot like having sushi made with seaweed instead of rice, delicate and fresh. My friend went with the Nigiri Starter: a chef's choice of tuna, tilapia, salmon, crab, tamago with a half dozen spicy tuna rolls. I'd have to say it was the freshest tasting Japanese food I've had in Richmond; the fish was of such a high quality.
And speaking of fish, why are there so often fish tanks in places like this? Do I want to watch brightly colored fish swimming around as I devour their brethren? Not really. Other than that, though, the place had a nice ambiance and the bamboo shade between us and the sushi chef provided a nice sense of privacy as we ate and talked.
We lingered for a while over green tea and sake, discussing some mutual friends and their recent lapses in judgment. He's also got another friend in the process of destroying his own life, a depressing saga to hear updated. As bad as things have been for me, I am frequently reminded that many people have dug themselves a far deeper hole than I can even imagine.
Momotaro may be at the end of Carytown, but it's at the top of my list of sushi places I'd recommend to friends. It could be that good things coming in small packages business.
Cliched as it is, we started with the steamed dumplings, which were small, but well done. I went on to the Garden of the Sea, an array of thin- sliced shrimp, crab and salmon over seaweed salad and lettuce with a Japanese vinaigrette. It was a a lot like having sushi made with seaweed instead of rice, delicate and fresh. My friend went with the Nigiri Starter: a chef's choice of tuna, tilapia, salmon, crab, tamago with a half dozen spicy tuna rolls. I'd have to say it was the freshest tasting Japanese food I've had in Richmond; the fish was of such a high quality.
And speaking of fish, why are there so often fish tanks in places like this? Do I want to watch brightly colored fish swimming around as I devour their brethren? Not really. Other than that, though, the place had a nice ambiance and the bamboo shade between us and the sushi chef provided a nice sense of privacy as we ate and talked.
We lingered for a while over green tea and sake, discussing some mutual friends and their recent lapses in judgment. He's also got another friend in the process of destroying his own life, a depressing saga to hear updated. As bad as things have been for me, I am frequently reminded that many people have dug themselves a far deeper hole than I can even imagine.
Momotaro may be at the end of Carytown, but it's at the top of my list of sushi places I'd recommend to friends. It could be that good things coming in small packages business.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Shooting Below the Belt
A few weeks ago, a blogging friend wrote and told me straight up that I needed a new profile picture and who better to take it than him?
When he's not teaching English to the masses, he is quite the talented photographer, so naturally I took him up on his generous offer.
He already had a concept in mind, one of his strengths being art direction, so we made arrangements to meet at the library and discreetly shoot.
It didn't really matter how big of a hot mess I looked, because the plan was to shoot low, and by that I mean my lower extremities.
Accordingly, I rummaged through my better than average tights collection to find just the thing for my new profile pic and decided on the Berlin tights.
They're funky, they're attention-getters and they're not something a person sees every day in RVA.
How do I know this?
I left the apartment to go to the library and as I crossed my own street, a guy on a bike said hello, followed by, "I LIKE your tights!...A lot!"
Arriving at the library two guys just leaving turned a full 180 degrees as I passed them on my way towards the door.
I couldn't resist turning around and flat out asking them, "It's the tights you're looking at, isn't it?"
One mutely nodded and the other just gave me a goofy grin.
After shooting, we went to Tarrant's for fried food, a requirement of our get-togethers; we quite happily shared fries and fish tacos, dishing all the while.
We were in that limbo time before the dinner rush begins, affording us an opportunity to bounce off the staff.
Our server explained to us why Rhode Island, her home state, is called the Ocean State.
Ron folded napkins like a pro and quoted lines from the movie "Arthur" to our amusement.
We both made a pilgrimage to the other dining room to admire the new carpeting and inhale its new rug smell.
As we were leaving, my friend asked Ron the Napkin-Folder why he hadn't commented on my great tights.
"I didn't want to say something filthy," he claimed.
Or maybe he's just waiting for the picture.
When he's not teaching English to the masses, he is quite the talented photographer, so naturally I took him up on his generous offer.
He already had a concept in mind, one of his strengths being art direction, so we made arrangements to meet at the library and discreetly shoot.
It didn't really matter how big of a hot mess I looked, because the plan was to shoot low, and by that I mean my lower extremities.
Accordingly, I rummaged through my better than average tights collection to find just the thing for my new profile pic and decided on the Berlin tights.
They're funky, they're attention-getters and they're not something a person sees every day in RVA.
How do I know this?
I left the apartment to go to the library and as I crossed my own street, a guy on a bike said hello, followed by, "I LIKE your tights!...A lot!"
Arriving at the library two guys just leaving turned a full 180 degrees as I passed them on my way towards the door.
I couldn't resist turning around and flat out asking them, "It's the tights you're looking at, isn't it?"
One mutely nodded and the other just gave me a goofy grin.
After shooting, we went to Tarrant's for fried food, a requirement of our get-togethers; we quite happily shared fries and fish tacos, dishing all the while.
We were in that limbo time before the dinner rush begins, affording us an opportunity to bounce off the staff.
Our server explained to us why Rhode Island, her home state, is called the Ocean State.
Ron folded napkins like a pro and quoted lines from the movie "Arthur" to our amusement.
We both made a pilgrimage to the other dining room to admire the new carpeting and inhale its new rug smell.
As we were leaving, my friend asked Ron the Napkin-Folder why he hadn't commented on my great tights.
"I didn't want to say something filthy," he claimed.
Or maybe he's just waiting for the picture.
Don't Judge Me By My Bedtime
Note to self: staying out until 2:00 and up until 3:00 the last two nights may be an indication that my life is going to hell in a hand basket. Oh, wait, my life went to hell in a rocket launcher at the beginning of the year, so that can't be it. Never mind.
When I got home last night, I got online to check messages, blog and e-mail a friend about getting together later in the week. When I got up, I had a response, essentially asking what the hell I was doing e-mailing at 2:43 a.m. and did it mean that I'd gotten lucky last night? Whoa, whoa, is there some equation about late night e-mailing and sexual success? Is this a night owl secret to which I'd not been privy?
And then on my walk today, one of my regulars chided me for walking so much later than usual and I tried excusing my tardiness with my late night alibi. "Oh, you bad girl, you," he said suggestively. Yea, that's me, the ultimate bad girl.
In the future, I might be better off keeping my late nights to myself to avoid speculation about my whereabouts. Unfortunately for me, they're not nearly as juicy as some people would apparently hope for. Maybe I just need to pick up my game. As if.
When I got home last night, I got online to check messages, blog and e-mail a friend about getting together later in the week. When I got up, I had a response, essentially asking what the hell I was doing e-mailing at 2:43 a.m. and did it mean that I'd gotten lucky last night? Whoa, whoa, is there some equation about late night e-mailing and sexual success? Is this a night owl secret to which I'd not been privy?
And then on my walk today, one of my regulars chided me for walking so much later than usual and I tried excusing my tardiness with my late night alibi. "Oh, you bad girl, you," he said suggestively. Yea, that's me, the ultimate bad girl.
In the future, I might be better off keeping my late nights to myself to avoid speculation about my whereabouts. Unfortunately for me, they're not nearly as juicy as some people would apparently hope for. Maybe I just need to pick up my game. As if.
Ipanema: Delicious Dining & Must-Hear Music
I could never be a vegetarian, despite my love of just about every vegetable I know of. The problem is as simple as I can't resist the siren song of meat. Maybe not every day, but often enough to keep me certain that I don't want to live without it.
But even a carnivore can love a really well prepared vegetarian dish, as I was reminded yet again at Ipanema tonight. F.R.O. and I were dining there before the Live at Ipanema show and as I perused the chalkboard, I had a hard time deciding on just one entree because so many sounded appealing. I finally ordered the Bangers and Mash, with spicy sausage, root veggie puree and roasted Brussels Sprouts, It was hearty and spicy and creamy and crunchy and everything a person could want in a cold-night meal. A few bites of that well-thought out flavor combination had the potential to entice someone sure that they couldn't live without meat.
Dessert was a vegan chocolate coconut cake and if anyone could taste the absence of dairy, I'd like to hear from them. My slice of cake was decadently dark chocolate with a whipped white frosting covered in coconut, moist and dense. I didn't really deserve to order it, since I hadn't finished everything on my plate, but there was no one there to stop me, either. And then it was time for music.
The Diamond Center's sound was a bit of a departure from the last few Live bands and they performed an excellent set. I'd heard a bit of their Gallery 5 set Friday night, so I was already intrigued and eager to hear more of their sound. The vocalist's voice had a haunting and beautiful quality, while the guitars sounded dreamy and almost surf-like; it was pure psychedelic indie rock and impressively well-done. The buzz in the room was decidedly positive and I will most definitely seek out hearing them again.
And, of course, the noteworthy element of the evening was being in Ipanema after 11 p.m. and enjoying the air. It's still jarring to note the absence of cigarette smoke in all the usual places, Ipanema always having been very much one of those, at least late night. It was a first: coming home from Ipanemea and not having to remove smoke-scented clothing. I liked it.
RVA boasts a top-notch vegetarian restaurant known far beyond our city's limits for its amazing food and with good reason. It's the go-to restaurant destination for visiting musicians, both semi-regulars (Ted Leo) and newcomers to our fair city (Black Kids). The Grilled Gouda with caramelized onions and thyme is reason enough to try the place, but there are so many other compelling choices to entice you, too (Andrew, I'm talking to you), even if you don't think that meat is murder.
But even a carnivore can love a really well prepared vegetarian dish, as I was reminded yet again at Ipanema tonight. F.R.O. and I were dining there before the Live at Ipanema show and as I perused the chalkboard, I had a hard time deciding on just one entree because so many sounded appealing. I finally ordered the Bangers and Mash, with spicy sausage, root veggie puree and roasted Brussels Sprouts, It was hearty and spicy and creamy and crunchy and everything a person could want in a cold-night meal. A few bites of that well-thought out flavor combination had the potential to entice someone sure that they couldn't live without meat.
Dessert was a vegan chocolate coconut cake and if anyone could taste the absence of dairy, I'd like to hear from them. My slice of cake was decadently dark chocolate with a whipped white frosting covered in coconut, moist and dense. I didn't really deserve to order it, since I hadn't finished everything on my plate, but there was no one there to stop me, either. And then it was time for music.
The Diamond Center's sound was a bit of a departure from the last few Live bands and they performed an excellent set. I'd heard a bit of their Gallery 5 set Friday night, so I was already intrigued and eager to hear more of their sound. The vocalist's voice had a haunting and beautiful quality, while the guitars sounded dreamy and almost surf-like; it was pure psychedelic indie rock and impressively well-done. The buzz in the room was decidedly positive and I will most definitely seek out hearing them again.
And, of course, the noteworthy element of the evening was being in Ipanema after 11 p.m. and enjoying the air. It's still jarring to note the absence of cigarette smoke in all the usual places, Ipanema always having been very much one of those, at least late night. It was a first: coming home from Ipanemea and not having to remove smoke-scented clothing. I liked it.
RVA boasts a top-notch vegetarian restaurant known far beyond our city's limits for its amazing food and with good reason. It's the go-to restaurant destination for visiting musicians, both semi-regulars (Ted Leo) and newcomers to our fair city (Black Kids). The Grilled Gouda with caramelized onions and thyme is reason enough to try the place, but there are so many other compelling choices to entice you, too (Andrew, I'm talking to you), even if you don't think that meat is murder.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Take Me Away, Bistro 27
I completely missed today's snow, probably because i was in a funk (a turducken discussion funk, of all things), which was a shame. Ordinarily, I really enjoy watching snow fall. Along about 8ish, I decided to head to Bistro 27 for whatever it was I needed, which had yet to be determined. Most of their crowd had been pre-Symphony business, so things were quieting down by the time I arrived.
Upon my arrival, Chef Carlos greeted me with "Good evening, Maria," to which I responded by leaving a big pink lipstick outline on his cheek. Since forgetting my name once, it has become Carlos' mission in life to always address me enthusiastically by any name other than my own. I smile about it because his staff gives him so much of a hard time about it....still. As well they should.
One of my favorite things about this local hangout of mine is how well I know the staff. Tonight I was able to discuss Dave's recent comedy show with him while he tried to entice me to join him after work at Emilio's for The Brakes; we then debated the Smiths and the Cure. I heard from Kevin about his new kitten and upcoming med school interview (hair has been cut, nails are next). Pedro and I talked families, coloring and the many places he sees me around the neighborhood and doesn't say hello; he assured me that that will be corrected. It's amazing how often it happens that people say they see me everywhere because I notice practically no one.
Carlos had dealt with the dinner rush, so he had the time to sit with me and drink wine and discuss the state of newspapers, global warming, hooking up and job searches. The highlight may have been him showing me his Brazilian ID card from when he was 18. What a handsome young man he was at such a young age! I could only wish my 18-year old ID was half as flattering, but I know that wasn't the case.
But it was the last several hours after the restaurant closed that I probably enjoyed the most. Manager Ken and I have spent many an evening discussing our overlapping and opposing musical tastes, but tonight we went in a different direction. Ken wanted to give me dating advice as well as his thoughts on some of the guy friends I'd brought in for dinner. I'm always curious about the male point of view, so I listened to his recommendations, male-centric though some of them may have been. I happen to know for a fact that it's not always about sex, despite his insistence that it is.
But it was our discussion of heavier things, namely untimely death, that kept us both lingering way past closing. Few people can relate to losing a loved one to death prematurely, so when we discovered our mutual trauma, we had much to share with each other. Our conversation began with him lecturing me about loosening my dating standards and segued into overcoming grief and still he manged to bring it back to what I should be doing to entice men and find a sexual relationship.
I'm fortunate to have a nearby place with terrific food (Bistro salad, crab and shrimp ravioli in roasted red pepper cream sauce and multiple glasses of Gouguenheim Malbec and Ken's two favorite Pinot Noirs), varied conversational partners and a willingness to dispense advice to customers until all hours.
It didn't quite lift me completely out of my funk, but it was an excellent distraction. As Ken and I discussed, there are times that a distraction is the most you can hope for. Or, as he so succinctly put it, "That was some deep shit."
Indeed it was.
Upon my arrival, Chef Carlos greeted me with "Good evening, Maria," to which I responded by leaving a big pink lipstick outline on his cheek. Since forgetting my name once, it has become Carlos' mission in life to always address me enthusiastically by any name other than my own. I smile about it because his staff gives him so much of a hard time about it....still. As well they should.
One of my favorite things about this local hangout of mine is how well I know the staff. Tonight I was able to discuss Dave's recent comedy show with him while he tried to entice me to join him after work at Emilio's for The Brakes; we then debated the Smiths and the Cure. I heard from Kevin about his new kitten and upcoming med school interview (hair has been cut, nails are next). Pedro and I talked families, coloring and the many places he sees me around the neighborhood and doesn't say hello; he assured me that that will be corrected. It's amazing how often it happens that people say they see me everywhere because I notice practically no one.
Carlos had dealt with the dinner rush, so he had the time to sit with me and drink wine and discuss the state of newspapers, global warming, hooking up and job searches. The highlight may have been him showing me his Brazilian ID card from when he was 18. What a handsome young man he was at such a young age! I could only wish my 18-year old ID was half as flattering, but I know that wasn't the case.
But it was the last several hours after the restaurant closed that I probably enjoyed the most. Manager Ken and I have spent many an evening discussing our overlapping and opposing musical tastes, but tonight we went in a different direction. Ken wanted to give me dating advice as well as his thoughts on some of the guy friends I'd brought in for dinner. I'm always curious about the male point of view, so I listened to his recommendations, male-centric though some of them may have been. I happen to know for a fact that it's not always about sex, despite his insistence that it is.
But it was our discussion of heavier things, namely untimely death, that kept us both lingering way past closing. Few people can relate to losing a loved one to death prematurely, so when we discovered our mutual trauma, we had much to share with each other. Our conversation began with him lecturing me about loosening my dating standards and segued into overcoming grief and still he manged to bring it back to what I should be doing to entice men and find a sexual relationship.
I'm fortunate to have a nearby place with terrific food (Bistro salad, crab and shrimp ravioli in roasted red pepper cream sauce and multiple glasses of Gouguenheim Malbec and Ken's two favorite Pinot Noirs), varied conversational partners and a willingness to dispense advice to customers until all hours.
It didn't quite lift me completely out of my funk, but it was an excellent distraction. As Ken and I discussed, there are times that a distraction is the most you can hope for. Or, as he so succinctly put it, "That was some deep shit."
Indeed it was.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
I'm Dreaming Of White Christmas
And no, not necessarily an actual white Christmas, but of seeing "White Christmas" on the big screen.
This is a movie I've probably seen every holiday since I was a kid, but always on a TV screen, which is most assuredly not the best way to enjoy a 1950s musical.
So I was delighted to see it being offered for this weekend's Movies & Mimosas feature at Movieland.
Although part of the pleasure of this movie is its holiday theme, what I most look forward to about it is the dancing and Danny Kaye's incredibly malleable face and body.
The man is the original Gumby and displays his physicality superbly.
Even the scenes where he's not talking, just watching his face is entertainment enough.
And watching him dance is a revelation; his body arcs and sways effortlessly while Bing Crosby stiffly tries to keep up.
Seeing it on the big screen for the first time, I was able to note details I'd never been aware of before.
It's a wonderfully dated film, with a quaint reference to the Department of War rather than of Defense.
There's also a reference to a character being out of the country - in Alaska; but then, the movie was made four years before Alaska's statehood was approved.
But, at its heart, "White Christmas" is a love story with all the expected trials and tribulations of ultimately winning the love of one's life.
And, as we well know, the course of true love never does run smoothly.
But it's a pleasure to watch the inspired singing and dancing that leads to the fade-out kiss...on a big screen.
This is a movie I've probably seen every holiday since I was a kid, but always on a TV screen, which is most assuredly not the best way to enjoy a 1950s musical.
So I was delighted to see it being offered for this weekend's Movies & Mimosas feature at Movieland.
Although part of the pleasure of this movie is its holiday theme, what I most look forward to about it is the dancing and Danny Kaye's incredibly malleable face and body.
The man is the original Gumby and displays his physicality superbly.
Even the scenes where he's not talking, just watching his face is entertainment enough.
And watching him dance is a revelation; his body arcs and sways effortlessly while Bing Crosby stiffly tries to keep up.
Seeing it on the big screen for the first time, I was able to note details I'd never been aware of before.
It's a wonderfully dated film, with a quaint reference to the Department of War rather than of Defense.
There's also a reference to a character being out of the country - in Alaska; but then, the movie was made four years before Alaska's statehood was approved.
But, at its heart, "White Christmas" is a love story with all the expected trials and tribulations of ultimately winning the love of one's life.
And, as we well know, the course of true love never does run smoothly.
But it's a pleasure to watch the inspired singing and dancing that leads to the fade-out kiss...on a big screen.
Friday, December 4, 2009
CousCous>Six Burner>First Friday
It was a progressive sort of an evening, with one location change after another. The action began at CousCous to meet up with Theater Goddess and her theater friends. Foolish me, I forgot to wear my "blacks," like theater types seem to do. I joined a group of almost a dozen women and ten of them had on all black and I'm in a bright green shirt, burgundy lace tights and a jean skirt. Oops.
Even more shocking than my color faux pas, though, was entering CousCous now that it's smoke-free. It no longer felt like walking into an opium den with a haze over the bar. It certainly made eating more pleasurable, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed my mega-bowl of Harira Soup with its braised lamb, wild rice and veggies with or without smoke. There were some nice big chunks of lamb in it, along with plenty of shredded bits cooked to the ultimate tenderness. I shared with others, causing several people to regret not ordering it.
T.G. and I then adjourned to Six Burner for Chef Phillip Denny's recent award-winning Pig Trotter Croquettes with pardon peppers, roasted corn powder and pepper sauce. If this was the dish that came in second place at the March of Dimes competition, I probably need to taste whatever came in first. The crispy, flavorful outside covered a rich pork inside and the smokey pardons were the perfect accompaniment; we shared an order and next time I want the entire order to myself.
Dessert was eggnog creme brulee with caramelized Winesap apple compote and a mini gingerbread man. I think the holiday season officially kicked off for me when I first tasted that eggnog flavor. The compote screamed "apples are in season!" and the cookie, well, I've been upfront about my love of ginger snaps; the combo was wonderful.
Returning to J-Ward for First Fridays, I was surprised to discover that all the street lights were out. The Ward was a dark place except for front porch lights,holiday decoration lights and, natch, the usual massive police presence on Broad Street. The darkness added a cool ambiance to gallery walking and really made the downtown lights stand out against the night sky. Maybe the city used up all its wattage on the Grand Illumination earlier tonight and red-headed step-child J-Ward paid the price.
It didn't matter to me; I can negotiate my neighborhood with or without light. Not so for visitors, however. I passed a group of pretty young things clearly not from the Ward and heard one of them say, "Well, duh, we're on Marshall Street." No, honey, you're on Clay Street, I corrected her, just not in so many words. For them, the street lights may have helped.
Ghostprint's show, "Unseen Versailles" was a beautiful collection of photographs from behind the scenes at Versailles; I especially liked the washes of color painted on the walls behind the photos. Metro Space's "Too Big to Fail" consisted of woodcuts and prints by Cannondale Press. Most were available for only $20 a piece. As a huge fan of printmaking, I would have loved to have bought one. Gallery 5, as usual, provided both music and art, including VCU students' well-done "Project Winterfood."
I lingered at G5, listening to My Diamond Center on stage, but I'm seeing them Sunday night, so I decided to wind down my progressive evening. I very much enjoyed a night of constantly changing venues, always keeping things fresh. As a local barber shop's sign says (much to my daily delight), "Come on in and get fresh!" Didn't I just?
Even more shocking than my color faux pas, though, was entering CousCous now that it's smoke-free. It no longer felt like walking into an opium den with a haze over the bar. It certainly made eating more pleasurable, not that I wouldn't have enjoyed my mega-bowl of Harira Soup with its braised lamb, wild rice and veggies with or without smoke. There were some nice big chunks of lamb in it, along with plenty of shredded bits cooked to the ultimate tenderness. I shared with others, causing several people to regret not ordering it.
T.G. and I then adjourned to Six Burner for Chef Phillip Denny's recent award-winning Pig Trotter Croquettes with pardon peppers, roasted corn powder and pepper sauce. If this was the dish that came in second place at the March of Dimes competition, I probably need to taste whatever came in first. The crispy, flavorful outside covered a rich pork inside and the smokey pardons were the perfect accompaniment; we shared an order and next time I want the entire order to myself.
Dessert was eggnog creme brulee with caramelized Winesap apple compote and a mini gingerbread man. I think the holiday season officially kicked off for me when I first tasted that eggnog flavor. The compote screamed "apples are in season!" and the cookie, well, I've been upfront about my love of ginger snaps; the combo was wonderful.
Returning to J-Ward for First Fridays, I was surprised to discover that all the street lights were out. The Ward was a dark place except for front porch lights,holiday decoration lights and, natch, the usual massive police presence on Broad Street. The darkness added a cool ambiance to gallery walking and really made the downtown lights stand out against the night sky. Maybe the city used up all its wattage on the Grand Illumination earlier tonight and red-headed step-child J-Ward paid the price.
It didn't matter to me; I can negotiate my neighborhood with or without light. Not so for visitors, however. I passed a group of pretty young things clearly not from the Ward and heard one of them say, "Well, duh, we're on Marshall Street." No, honey, you're on Clay Street, I corrected her, just not in so many words. For them, the street lights may have helped.
Ghostprint's show, "Unseen Versailles" was a beautiful collection of photographs from behind the scenes at Versailles; I especially liked the washes of color painted on the walls behind the photos. Metro Space's "Too Big to Fail" consisted of woodcuts and prints by Cannondale Press. Most were available for only $20 a piece. As a huge fan of printmaking, I would have loved to have bought one. Gallery 5, as usual, provided both music and art, including VCU students' well-done "Project Winterfood."
I lingered at G5, listening to My Diamond Center on stage, but I'm seeing them Sunday night, so I decided to wind down my progressive evening. I very much enjoyed a night of constantly changing venues, always keeping things fresh. As a local barber shop's sign says (much to my daily delight), "Come on in and get fresh!" Didn't I just?
Aziza's on Main: Lunch for Nerds
I have to appreciate a friend who knows me well enough to send me this message, "How about lunch and/or maybe something nerdy on Friday?" Eating and nerdiness, my top two favorite occupations and especially when I have a friend along for conversation and company.
Aziza's on Main was our meeting place because I've been eager to see what kind of Lebanese-inspired goodness they offered. P.B.F. arrived first and scored a window-front table, giving me an excellent view of noontime in the Bottom. We perused the chalkboard menu, but decided we needed visuals and went over to the deli case to help the decision-making process along.
I won't lie, my eyes went right to those big, beautiful cream puffs first. Oh, my! But we were checking out the savories, not the sweets and all of them looked really fresh and appealing, lengthening the selection process. I finally decided on the tuna, basil and white beans with a salad of local mixed greens and Billy Bread. My friend got the Aziza's chicken salad (made with roasted pepper, celery, red onion, basil and red vinegar as opposed to the southern style which had mayo and sweet pickle juice), a green salad and the grilled cheese.
We shared each other's food until we were too stuffed to eat anymore and still had a lot of leftovers, enough for an entire other meal, according to P.B.F. Sadly, I had no room left for dessert, but I intend to go back and correct that...after trying some other savory offerings first.
My friend is just recovering from near-pneumonia, so we decided against a nerdy activity post-lunch, but we discussed several options for our next afternoon together. Agecroft? Henricus? No doubt we were boring the pants off the guys at the next table with our enthusiasm for upcoming nerdiness. We balanced it somewhat when my friend asked about the state of my love life (um, tragic?) with talk of avoiding online dating, past hurts and FBs, but even then I think our nerdiness may have shown through. We could only hope that they were too enthralled with their food to need entertainment value from us.
Which is highly likely, given how exceptional (and inexpensive) Aziza's food was. Hold on, cream puffs, I'll be back.
Aziza's on Main was our meeting place because I've been eager to see what kind of Lebanese-inspired goodness they offered. P.B.F. arrived first and scored a window-front table, giving me an excellent view of noontime in the Bottom. We perused the chalkboard menu, but decided we needed visuals and went over to the deli case to help the decision-making process along.
I won't lie, my eyes went right to those big, beautiful cream puffs first. Oh, my! But we were checking out the savories, not the sweets and all of them looked really fresh and appealing, lengthening the selection process. I finally decided on the tuna, basil and white beans with a salad of local mixed greens and Billy Bread. My friend got the Aziza's chicken salad (made with roasted pepper, celery, red onion, basil and red vinegar as opposed to the southern style which had mayo and sweet pickle juice), a green salad and the grilled cheese.
We shared each other's food until we were too stuffed to eat anymore and still had a lot of leftovers, enough for an entire other meal, according to P.B.F. Sadly, I had no room left for dessert, but I intend to go back and correct that...after trying some other savory offerings first.
My friend is just recovering from near-pneumonia, so we decided against a nerdy activity post-lunch, but we discussed several options for our next afternoon together. Agecroft? Henricus? No doubt we were boring the pants off the guys at the next table with our enthusiasm for upcoming nerdiness. We balanced it somewhat when my friend asked about the state of my love life (um, tragic?) with talk of avoiding online dating, past hurts and FBs, but even then I think our nerdiness may have shown through. We could only hope that they were too enthralled with their food to need entertainment value from us.
Which is highly likely, given how exceptional (and inexpensive) Aziza's food was. Hold on, cream puffs, I'll be back.
For Want of A Husband
I paused before crossing Robinson Street this morning when a guy rode up on his bike to wait for the light with me. I recoghnized him because we've said good morning to each other plenty of times, so I smiled.
Him: Morning. Somebody told me that your husband works downtown at the Federal Courts Building.
Me: That's not true.
Him: But he said your husband works downtown.
Me: Who said that?
Him: I don't remember (I think he did and just didn't want to say), but he definitely told me that.
Me: He's mistaken.
Him: (indignantly) Well next time I see him, I'm going to tell him I talked to you personally and you said that's not true about your husband.
So there it is: two men who are virtually strangers to me are going to argue about which one knows me better.
Sigh. This is my life.
Him: Morning. Somebody told me that your husband works downtown at the Federal Courts Building.
Me: That's not true.
Him: But he said your husband works downtown.
Me: Who said that?
Him: I don't remember (I think he did and just didn't want to say), but he definitely told me that.
Me: He's mistaken.
Him: (indignantly) Well next time I see him, I'm going to tell him I talked to you personally and you said that's not true about your husband.
So there it is: two men who are virtually strangers to me are going to argue about which one knows me better.
Sigh. This is my life.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
More Poetic Than We Know
My plans for the evening got postponed due to my friend's root canal recovery, so for a change I stayed in and listened to music and read, two of my absolute favorite past times. I purposely pulled out some CDs that I hadn't listened to in a while, years in some cases.
What struck me as I was listening was how the lyrics to some songs immediately came back to me, even ones I hadn't heard in forever; word for word, I remembered them as if I'd heard them yesterday.
And it occurred to me that we learn song lyrics now like people once learned poetry: as something to be committed to memory and recited back for our own or others' pleasure. I don't know many people who could recite a poem at the drop of a hat, but what are song lyrics if not poetry set to music? This line of thinking somehow made me feel better about the poetic literacy of our culture, not to mention my mental faculties.
I see a dog upon the road
Running hard to catch a cat
My car is pulling to a halt
The truck behind me doesn't know
Everything is in the balance
Of a moment I can't control
Your sympathetic strings
Are like stirrings in my soul
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Find the meaning of the act
Remember how it goes
Every time you take the water
You swim against the flow
The world is all around us
The days are flying past
And fear is so contagious
But I'm not afraid to laugh
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Anytime
Come without warning
Anytime
It could be so easy
A walk in the park
Or maybe when I'm sleeping
Anytime
See the clouds come over
I feel like I'm in love
With a stranger I'll never know
Although you're still a mystery
I'm so glad I'm not alone
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
Make it so easy to fly in the night
I could go anytime
Poetry, right? I don't think I even realized I knew those words until I heard the song and they came out of my head. And that was just one of several such instances tonight. Such fatalistic lyrics make for great poetry, whether you can sing or not (I can't). It's satisfying enough just to read or recite them.
What struck me as I was listening was how the lyrics to some songs immediately came back to me, even ones I hadn't heard in forever; word for word, I remembered them as if I'd heard them yesterday.
And it occurred to me that we learn song lyrics now like people once learned poetry: as something to be committed to memory and recited back for our own or others' pleasure. I don't know many people who could recite a poem at the drop of a hat, but what are song lyrics if not poetry set to music? This line of thinking somehow made me feel better about the poetic literacy of our culture, not to mention my mental faculties.
I see a dog upon the road
Running hard to catch a cat
My car is pulling to a halt
The truck behind me doesn't know
Everything is in the balance
Of a moment I can't control
Your sympathetic strings
Are like stirrings in my soul
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Find the meaning of the act
Remember how it goes
Every time you take the water
You swim against the flow
The world is all around us
The days are flying past
And fear is so contagious
But I'm not afraid to laugh
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
I could go anytime
Anytime
Come without warning
Anytime
It could be so easy
A walk in the park
Or maybe when I'm sleeping
Anytime
See the clouds come over
I feel like I'm in love
With a stranger I'll never know
Although you're still a mystery
I'm so glad I'm not alone
I could go anytime
There's nothing safe about this life
Make it so easy to fly in the night
I could go anytime
Poetry, right? I don't think I even realized I knew those words until I heard the song and they came out of my head. And that was just one of several such instances tonight. Such fatalistic lyrics make for great poetry, whether you can sing or not (I can't). It's satisfying enough just to read or recite them.
Silent Movies in the Basement
As part of the Silent Classics series that the Richmond Moving Image Co-Op is currently putting on, today I saw perhaps the first successful sequel ever, Son of the Sheik, starring Rudolph Valentino. I'd never even seen a Valentino movie before, much less the original The Sheik, not that it mattered given the plot: hero falls in love, is duped and tortured, finds lover is loyal, wipes out bad guys and rides into sunset. All in 68 minutes.
It was Valentino's last film before an early death at age 31 and, as it came out in 1926, made only shortly before the advent of talkies. By that time in silent film production, fewer and fewer title cards were used and the actors conveyed quite a bit themselves, without the crutch of cards. Valentino seemed to rely on a lot of sultry looks and cigarette smoking, which was apparently what the female portion of the audience liked. I tend to agree with his critics of the era; he seemed a tad foppish, which may well have translated as continental at the time. He was, I learned, Italian.
The final film in the series will be Sunrise, made in 1927 and supposedly much copied for its use of lighting and camera. I think I'm spoiled, though, because I miss the musical accompaniment with a silent film. The last credit in the movie was the composer of the organ score, which obviously was not being played in the downtown library's auditorium. Too bad, really, because music, like bacon, makes practically everything better. Even Valentino.
It was Valentino's last film before an early death at age 31 and, as it came out in 1926, made only shortly before the advent of talkies. By that time in silent film production, fewer and fewer title cards were used and the actors conveyed quite a bit themselves, without the crutch of cards. Valentino seemed to rely on a lot of sultry looks and cigarette smoking, which was apparently what the female portion of the audience liked. I tend to agree with his critics of the era; he seemed a tad foppish, which may well have translated as continental at the time. He was, I learned, Italian.
The final film in the series will be Sunrise, made in 1927 and supposedly much copied for its use of lighting and camera. I think I'm spoiled, though, because I miss the musical accompaniment with a silent film. The last credit in the movie was the composer of the organ score, which obviously was not being played in the downtown library's auditorium. Too bad, really, because music, like bacon, makes practically everything better. Even Valentino.
Lee's Fried Chicken at the Library of Virginia
I realize most people would have no interest in a brown bag lunchtime lecture, but I like them and even went when I was a worker bee. The key to enjoying such a dorky pastime is bringing the right lunch. If you're going to spend your lunch hour being enlightened, you need food that will satisfy your baser instincts, something like my lunch today: Lee's Fried Chicken. Let's just say I was the envy of every attendee within smelling distance at the Library of Virginia lecture, "Abagail Adams" by UR's Woody Holton.
Hotlon's book of the same name is a social history about a woman far ahead of her time in terms of women's roles. While her husband was dealing with the Revolution and doing diplomatic time in Europe, the savvy Abagail was reselling goods he shipped her from overseas, buying up huge hunks of Vermont and buying Continental bonds for pennies on the dollar, only to reap 25% interest until finally cashing them in at full value.
John Adams always referred to his wife as "saucy," in part because of remarks she made to him and the framers of the Declaration of Independence to, "remember the ladies!" Of course, we all know they ignored the ladies and it was all about all men being created equal. Abagail made her point even in death, leaving only token amounts to her sons and bequeathing the bulk of her financial estate to only her female relatives.
Holton's talk made it clear that it was the collaboration between Adams and Abagail that made them the most significant couple of all the Founding Fathers' relationships.
As you can probably tell, I found the lecture about a strong, long-term relationship fascinating stuff, but my spicy fried chicken, biscuit and cole slaw may have had something to do with that, too. John Adams said that Abagail never wrote a boring letter and their correspondence included over 1500 missives, which says a lot about the personality of the woman. For all we know, she might have also cooked up a mean fried chicken.
Hotlon's book of the same name is a social history about a woman far ahead of her time in terms of women's roles. While her husband was dealing with the Revolution and doing diplomatic time in Europe, the savvy Abagail was reselling goods he shipped her from overseas, buying up huge hunks of Vermont and buying Continental bonds for pennies on the dollar, only to reap 25% interest until finally cashing them in at full value.
John Adams always referred to his wife as "saucy," in part because of remarks she made to him and the framers of the Declaration of Independence to, "remember the ladies!" Of course, we all know they ignored the ladies and it was all about all men being created equal. Abagail made her point even in death, leaving only token amounts to her sons and bequeathing the bulk of her financial estate to only her female relatives.
Holton's talk made it clear that it was the collaboration between Adams and Abagail that made them the most significant couple of all the Founding Fathers' relationships.
As you can probably tell, I found the lecture about a strong, long-term relationship fascinating stuff, but my spicy fried chicken, biscuit and cole slaw may have had something to do with that, too. John Adams said that Abagail never wrote a boring letter and their correspondence included over 1500 missives, which says a lot about the personality of the woman. For all we know, she might have also cooked up a mean fried chicken.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Photography at The Belvidere
Two different people gave me crap about my monosyllabic responses to their e-mails today, but I more than made up for my earlier brevity with an evening of non-stop conversation. I went to the art opening at The Belvidere tonight to see "Mynamar Impressions," an exhibit of the photographs of Khanh Duong. It was a good-sized show and various photographs grabbed me for different reasons; some clearly hinted at a back story, some were visually arresting for their line or color and some were absolutely haunting in their imagery.
I met the artist, a charming and driven immigrant from VietNam, who dual-majored in chemistry and photography. I'd like to say I was once that ambitious, but that would be a lie. It was fascinating to hear Khanh talk about trying to finally enjoy his life more and work less; he's already enlisted me to send him info about upcoming music shows so that he can, as he said, "get back in the loop." I'm more than happy to be a cheerleader for the local music scene.
Part of our conversation included a new-to-me neighbor of mine, who lives literally around the corner, once again proving just how small this town is. We had a spirited discussion of our top ten albums of all time, involving several other nearby bar sitters. Nothing on their lists would be on mine: Exile on Main Street,10, Nevermind, London Calling, Siamese Dream, Sgt. Pepper (please note that everyone in this discussion appeared to be under 35. I want to understand, but I don't.) And I could never come up with such a list on the spot. That kind of major topic would require time and thought before I would venture a list.
After a couple of Khanh's friends left, he told me that they were enamoured of my tights and boots, but didn't have the nerve to tell me so and that was nice. I was introduced to another of his friends, who teaches motorcycle skills to the Army (huh?) and asked what I was doing tomorrow. I gave him the full run-down of my afternoon and tenative early evening plans so as to effectively squelch that. Maybe I should just wear a button that says "I don't date."
Tonight's soup was Wild Mushroom with Brie and it was an earthy, rich taste delight. I convinced no less than four other people (including the artist) to try it and they all loved it as much as I did; I told the bartender that I should get a commission for my persuasive skills. I followed that with a dessert big enough for two people and somehow ate it all.
Which isn't nearly as important as how verbose I was all evening; nary a monosyllabic utterance crossed my lips. Everyone there was probably wondering if I'd ever shut up. It's really all about having someone you want to talk to, though. That seems to be what I'm lacking these days.
I met the artist, a charming and driven immigrant from VietNam, who dual-majored in chemistry and photography. I'd like to say I was once that ambitious, but that would be a lie. It was fascinating to hear Khanh talk about trying to finally enjoy his life more and work less; he's already enlisted me to send him info about upcoming music shows so that he can, as he said, "get back in the loop." I'm more than happy to be a cheerleader for the local music scene.
Part of our conversation included a new-to-me neighbor of mine, who lives literally around the corner, once again proving just how small this town is. We had a spirited discussion of our top ten albums of all time, involving several other nearby bar sitters. Nothing on their lists would be on mine: Exile on Main Street,10, Nevermind, London Calling, Siamese Dream, Sgt. Pepper (please note that everyone in this discussion appeared to be under 35. I want to understand, but I don't.) And I could never come up with such a list on the spot. That kind of major topic would require time and thought before I would venture a list.
After a couple of Khanh's friends left, he told me that they were enamoured of my tights and boots, but didn't have the nerve to tell me so and that was nice. I was introduced to another of his friends, who teaches motorcycle skills to the Army (huh?) and asked what I was doing tomorrow. I gave him the full run-down of my afternoon and tenative early evening plans so as to effectively squelch that. Maybe I should just wear a button that says "I don't date."
Tonight's soup was Wild Mushroom with Brie and it was an earthy, rich taste delight. I convinced no less than four other people (including the artist) to try it and they all loved it as much as I did; I told the bartender that I should get a commission for my persuasive skills. I followed that with a dessert big enough for two people and somehow ate it all.
Which isn't nearly as important as how verbose I was all evening; nary a monosyllabic utterance crossed my lips. Everyone there was probably wondering if I'd ever shut up. It's really all about having someone you want to talk to, though. That seems to be what I'm lacking these days.
John Cage: Composer as Painter at UR
I find the UR campus to be a circuitous exercise in futility, despite having been there many times. I'm most successful when I'm going to the Modlin Center, because I've been there more than anywhere else.
And today I was going to the Harnett Museum of Art which is in the Modlin Center and I still made a needless loop around the campus, mostly due to several major construction projects impeding my progress.
Our destination was the exhibit, "John Cage: Zen Ox-Herding Pictures,"displaying the composer John Cage's experiments in watercolor painting on paper towels.
All I knew of Cage was his work in music, so I was intrigued to see what so unorthodox a composer would have created visually.
I knew his interest in East Asian and Indian philosophy took him in the direction of putting aside memory and intention and focusing on process and chance.
I was curious how that would manifest itself in painting.
The images were used to illustrate the East Asian parable of the path to and beyond enlightenment (Zen Ox-Herding) and each watercolor was accompanied by a fragment of Cage's writing that could be tied to the parable.
Since the writing was not done specifically for the images, it was unexpected how utterly poetic and completely appropriate they were in furthering the story.
Looking for
something irrelevant, I found I
couldn't find it
The fifty-five watercolors are striking in their lyricism, especially knowing the man was using the medium for the first time.
They were abstract, some with elements of calligraphy to them, many suggesting activity or motion.
If music can be translated to the visual, Cage did so and he did it on brown paper towels with words that evoke in the same way that music does, meaningfully and beautifully.
Nothing's changed yet
something immense
asking.
The exhibit is most definitely worth seeing...and I wish you luck in navigating that labyrinth of a campus.
And today I was going to the Harnett Museum of Art which is in the Modlin Center and I still made a needless loop around the campus, mostly due to several major construction projects impeding my progress.
Our destination was the exhibit, "John Cage: Zen Ox-Herding Pictures,"displaying the composer John Cage's experiments in watercolor painting on paper towels.
All I knew of Cage was his work in music, so I was intrigued to see what so unorthodox a composer would have created visually.
I knew his interest in East Asian and Indian philosophy took him in the direction of putting aside memory and intention and focusing on process and chance.
I was curious how that would manifest itself in painting.
The images were used to illustrate the East Asian parable of the path to and beyond enlightenment (Zen Ox-Herding) and each watercolor was accompanied by a fragment of Cage's writing that could be tied to the parable.
Since the writing was not done specifically for the images, it was unexpected how utterly poetic and completely appropriate they were in furthering the story.
Looking for
something irrelevant, I found I
couldn't find it
The fifty-five watercolors are striking in their lyricism, especially knowing the man was using the medium for the first time.
They were abstract, some with elements of calligraphy to them, many suggesting activity or motion.
If music can be translated to the visual, Cage did so and he did it on brown paper towels with words that evoke in the same way that music does, meaningfully and beautifully.
Nothing's changed yet
something immense
asking.
The exhibit is most definitely worth seeing...and I wish you luck in navigating that labyrinth of a campus.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Blue Talon Bistro: All About TV
I don't have a TV. If you look, it says so right on my blogger profile. It also says it on my Facebook profile and you'd almost surely notice its absence if you came to my apartment. And as you'd probably expect, I don't like them in restaurants, either.
Not long ago, I met a friend for a drink before a show and we got on this topic. As it happened, she's no fan of TVs in restaurants either, so we bonded over this and decided there should be a blanket rule against them. They're mood (one might even say "buzz") kills in a social situation like a restaurant. But since every rule must have its exception, we also agreed that only one place should have a TV and that's the Blue Talon in Williamsburg and that's because the only thing ever on it is old Julia Child cooking shows.
It's been well over a year since I'd been to the Blue Talon, and the drive out Route 5 to the 'burg is one of my favorites (winding roads, curving roads, rolling hills; it's easy to imagine it as being designed for horse travel, which, of course, it was). We're only one night away from the Full Cold Moon, which shone a beautiful, pure light on the road as I headed east with almost no traffic.
When I arrived, the place was busy and the bar, with the TV hanging over it, was completely full. Fortunately, the waitress found a two-top in an alcove on the banquette with a straight shot view of Julia for me.
I soon found out the reason for the crowd: on Tuesdays, wine by the bottle is half price. A good deal, sure, but an amazing deal when you look at their regular wine list, full of obscure and small production wines and with its pricing of $20, $30 and $40 bottles. So, yes, for $10 a bottle, or about the cost of a glass, one could get the entire bottle. It was tough to make an economic case for ordering a glass; I got a bottle of the Tilia Malbec. One of the few ABC laws of which I approve, I knew I could take it back up Route 5 with me.
To eat, I had an enormous bowl of the hearty lentil soup with braised oxtail and fresh herbs and the fried chicken liver salad with potato wedges, baby spinach, arugula and whole-grain mustard vinaigrette. Peasant-y goodness.
This alcove seated three other two-tops and our proximity to each other resulted in a lot of shared conversations...or maybe it was just my eavesdropping that resulted in them. In any case, I heard one couple mention Comfort, so I had to jump in, living, as I do, four blocks from it. The two guys next to me wanted to talk "Julia and Julie," which I'd seen, so that became open for discussion.
But I never got too distracted to prevent my eyes from occasionally wandering back to Julia. I saw eggs being poached, a turkey being dressed and omelets being made, all on a TV screen in a restaurant. It wasn't as satisfying as a good dinner conversational partner (because it doesn't talk back to me), I have to admit, but I did enjoy it.
So for all you naysayers: I watched TV today.
Not long ago, I met a friend for a drink before a show and we got on this topic. As it happened, she's no fan of TVs in restaurants either, so we bonded over this and decided there should be a blanket rule against them. They're mood (one might even say "buzz") kills in a social situation like a restaurant. But since every rule must have its exception, we also agreed that only one place should have a TV and that's the Blue Talon in Williamsburg and that's because the only thing ever on it is old Julia Child cooking shows.
It's been well over a year since I'd been to the Blue Talon, and the drive out Route 5 to the 'burg is one of my favorites (winding roads, curving roads, rolling hills; it's easy to imagine it as being designed for horse travel, which, of course, it was). We're only one night away from the Full Cold Moon, which shone a beautiful, pure light on the road as I headed east with almost no traffic.
When I arrived, the place was busy and the bar, with the TV hanging over it, was completely full. Fortunately, the waitress found a two-top in an alcove on the banquette with a straight shot view of Julia for me.
I soon found out the reason for the crowd: on Tuesdays, wine by the bottle is half price. A good deal, sure, but an amazing deal when you look at their regular wine list, full of obscure and small production wines and with its pricing of $20, $30 and $40 bottles. So, yes, for $10 a bottle, or about the cost of a glass, one could get the entire bottle. It was tough to make an economic case for ordering a glass; I got a bottle of the Tilia Malbec. One of the few ABC laws of which I approve, I knew I could take it back up Route 5 with me.
To eat, I had an enormous bowl of the hearty lentil soup with braised oxtail and fresh herbs and the fried chicken liver salad with potato wedges, baby spinach, arugula and whole-grain mustard vinaigrette. Peasant-y goodness.
This alcove seated three other two-tops and our proximity to each other resulted in a lot of shared conversations...or maybe it was just my eavesdropping that resulted in them. In any case, I heard one couple mention Comfort, so I had to jump in, living, as I do, four blocks from it. The two guys next to me wanted to talk "Julia and Julie," which I'd seen, so that became open for discussion.
But I never got too distracted to prevent my eyes from occasionally wandering back to Julia. I saw eggs being poached, a turkey being dressed and omelets being made, all on a TV screen in a restaurant. It wasn't as satisfying as a good dinner conversational partner (because it doesn't talk back to me), I have to admit, but I did enjoy it.
So for all you naysayers: I watched TV today.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Texas de Brazil for The Beginner
A friend once expressed surprise when he learned that I go to Target.
Seems he couldn't imagine me as part of the Target masses, but, really, who isn't a part of that club at least occasionally?
No telling what his response will be when he hears that I went to a West End restaurant tonight; and not just surprised because of the location, but because it was a chain.
Friends had invited me to join them, with the caveat,"You'd better put on your A carnivore game."
That's right, we went to Texas de Brazil at Regency Square. (!)
I'm sure plenty of people have experienced this excess of protein palace, but it was all new to me.
The dining room was over the top, the number of servers who stopped by our table was excessive and the paper hand towels in the bathrooms had the name and logo on them.
Oh, yes, and there was an overwhelming amount of meat offered to us repeatedly.
I tasted what I could: leg of lamb, filet mignon wrapped in bacon, Brazilian sausage, a lamb chop, and Cordeiro so bloody rare as to be carpaccio (my favorite hunk o' meat of the evening actually).
The red light/green light system of announcing your meat lust seemed glutton-like to a neophyte like me, but apparently that's how it's done.
Although I began with a huge plate of greens and veggies so as to aid the digestion of my mega-meat meal, I feel certain that my arteries noticeably narrowed during our three hours there.
I tried to save my heart with red wine, namely the 2005 Vale dos Vinhedos Mioto Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon, but even Brazilian wine couldn't offset so much animal flesh.
Texas de Brazil, I am not worthy.
Or, more accurately, I just don't think you're my type.
Seems he couldn't imagine me as part of the Target masses, but, really, who isn't a part of that club at least occasionally?
No telling what his response will be when he hears that I went to a West End restaurant tonight; and not just surprised because of the location, but because it was a chain.
Friends had invited me to join them, with the caveat,"You'd better put on your A carnivore game."
That's right, we went to Texas de Brazil at Regency Square. (!)
I'm sure plenty of people have experienced this excess of protein palace, but it was all new to me.
The dining room was over the top, the number of servers who stopped by our table was excessive and the paper hand towels in the bathrooms had the name and logo on them.
Oh, yes, and there was an overwhelming amount of meat offered to us repeatedly.
I tasted what I could: leg of lamb, filet mignon wrapped in bacon, Brazilian sausage, a lamb chop, and Cordeiro so bloody rare as to be carpaccio (my favorite hunk o' meat of the evening actually).
The red light/green light system of announcing your meat lust seemed glutton-like to a neophyte like me, but apparently that's how it's done.
Although I began with a huge plate of greens and veggies so as to aid the digestion of my mega-meat meal, I feel certain that my arteries noticeably narrowed during our three hours there.
I tried to save my heart with red wine, namely the 2005 Vale dos Vinhedos Mioto Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon, but even Brazilian wine couldn't offset so much animal flesh.
Texas de Brazil, I am not worthy.
Or, more accurately, I just don't think you're my type.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
