When I got the invitation to attend the opening of the new wine shop/art gallery C'est Le Vin in the Bottom, I had every reason to RSVP yes.
After all, my first foray into the place, here, had been magical.
Why would I not want to go back once they were serving wine and food and had art on the walls?
With no clear expectations, I headed down there this afternoon.
The place was fuller than I expected with wine tastings, tons of food and art hanging everywhere.
The wine shelves were not completely stocked, but they at least had a South African section, so I felt that there was some promise there.
The first wine rep that grabbed me was Dave Camden of Quattro Goomba's Winery in Aldie, south of Leesburg.
They were especially high on their Frascati, sourced from Italian grapes because their vineyard plantings are only a couple of years old.
Probably the most popular among my fellow wine tasters was the Chilean-sourced Vino di Nonni, an easy-drinking red best chilled and served outside.
They even had a packet of secret ingredients with which you could blend a bottle of the wine, a bottle of water and the result would be a wine slushy that was dangerously drinkable, according to the couple tasting alongside me.
It wasn't my style, but I could see it appealing to a lot of people.
I preferred the Jefferson Winery tasting mainly because when I'd worked the Wine Expo back in February, a friend has insisted it was the one winery I needed to make time for.
After a full day of wine snobs and wine idiots, though, I'd gone straight home.
Now was my chance to see what he was talking about.
The Meritage, a blend of Cab Franc, Merlot, Cab Sauvignon and Petit Verdot was everything I'd heard it would be.
Even more siren-like was the Petit Verdot, full of flavor but with a bone-dry finish.
As the wine rep and I discussed, this is a bottle I could take home every day of my life and enjoy.
And with a lamb dish, well, my, my.
It was great fun to have someone with whom I could discuss the adventure that working the Wine Expo is.
We talked about the crowd that attends, the sweet wine fanatics and the drunken masses; it was satisfying to hear that it wasn't just me judging the crowd or eager to be done with it all.
The art was interesting; often African-influenced (as was the food available today) and a DJ provided the music.
The store is officially open for business and they're hoping to satisfy a niche in that neighborhood, which I can see easily happening. Given the reasonable prices, they'll no doubt succeed.
As for me, I have some new wine and had a great time talking to strangers.
And it's only 3:30. As the Jefferson wine rep, said when I begged off more tasting because I had so much more planned for today, "It's Saturday, after all."
True that. Mom will never notice if I'm a bit worse for the wear tomorrow.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Breaking Drumsticks and Rules at First Fridays
I broke the first rule of First Fridays.
I ate in J-Ward tonight.
I'm smart enough to know better but the Belvidere at Broad's Facebook page had boasted that they had a special of ahi tuna tacos and I wanted ahi tuna tacos.
Tonight.
So I showed up a mere fifteen minutes after they opened their doors and got one of the few remaining bar stools (although not my usual one).
When I left two hours later to walk Broad Street, there wasn't a seat available anywhere in the place.
The tacos were worth breaking my own rule.
The tuna was medium rare, the avocado pico de gallo incredibly ripe and flavorful and the sriracha aioli bound it all together beautifully.
With their Asian cole slaw on the side, those three make-your-own tacos were a heavenly meal. I practically inhaled them and then had the nerve to lick my fingers.
Tonight was also the kick-off for the new show at the Belvidere by Redd Staples and the artist came in and took a seat at the bar shortly after I did.
He proceeded to order a beer and dinner at his end of the bar while I was eating and drinking at the other.
Artist/art lover, it seemed a shame not to talk, so I took it upon myself to move up to his end of the bar and introduce myself.
It turned into a great conversation about Richmond and art and historic preservation.
I discovered that it took him over four months of painting full time work to complete the works in the show and that he prefers oils for their luminosity.
One of the paintings is of the old Murphy Hotel, others are of old houses, farm fields and other Virginia landscapes.
He said his goal was to remind viewers of the wealth of natural and historic beauty we have in such abundance in rva.
Being the geek and booster that I am, we found plenty to talk about, from the scourge that is Short Pump to those who fear the city after dark.
"You get it!" he said. "We need more people like you around here."
I think I've heard that before but a compliment is a compliment and I take them wherever they're offered.
Eventually I realized that I needed to get out and get moving if I was going to see everything and hear what I wanted to hear.
The International Holocaust Remembrance exhibit at Art 6 was poignant and moving and a must-see. Both the art and the photographs were tragic reminders of the ultimate inhumanity.
"Repressed V: Free to Speak" at Gallery 5 was statement-based art on subjects as diverse as the economy, whaling and global warming. As a major fan of graphic design, I found myself wishing I could afford one of the pieces. But alas, I could only admire.
I knew I wanted to make it to the courtyard to hear White Laces play their EP release show and apparently I wasn't the only one. I'd grabbed a buddy off the street and invited him to join me for it; it was his first time at the Courtyard and and the weather was ideal.
Any time you go, it's a very cool space with its beach house-like wooden stairs and balconies, the large tree and bush and that giant mural painted on the side of the building, but during the summer it can be a bit of a brick oven effect.
Tonight was cool and breezy in there, a real treat.
The same reasons that make the space uncomfortably hot in summer made it sonically challenging tonight.
The mix was muddy and the vocal all but lost as White Laces' decibel level rose.
It was a shame not to be able to hear the vocal or lyrics, but the overall experience was still enjoyable.
The drummer got so into it that he snapped a drumstick on the next-to-last song, causing lead singer Landis Wine to implore the audience, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?"
No one did unfortunately.
It may have been the absolutely perfect weather or the end of the semester euphoria or just good vibrations, but it seemed like an unusually pleasant crowd tonight.
People kept smiling at me and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.
For all I know, they had started their evenings by breaking some first rule of their own.
I won't lie, it worked for me.
I ate in J-Ward tonight.
I'm smart enough to know better but the Belvidere at Broad's Facebook page had boasted that they had a special of ahi tuna tacos and I wanted ahi tuna tacos.
Tonight.
So I showed up a mere fifteen minutes after they opened their doors and got one of the few remaining bar stools (although not my usual one).
When I left two hours later to walk Broad Street, there wasn't a seat available anywhere in the place.
The tacos were worth breaking my own rule.
The tuna was medium rare, the avocado pico de gallo incredibly ripe and flavorful and the sriracha aioli bound it all together beautifully.
With their Asian cole slaw on the side, those three make-your-own tacos were a heavenly meal. I practically inhaled them and then had the nerve to lick my fingers.
Tonight was also the kick-off for the new show at the Belvidere by Redd Staples and the artist came in and took a seat at the bar shortly after I did.
He proceeded to order a beer and dinner at his end of the bar while I was eating and drinking at the other.
Artist/art lover, it seemed a shame not to talk, so I took it upon myself to move up to his end of the bar and introduce myself.
It turned into a great conversation about Richmond and art and historic preservation.
I discovered that it took him over four months of painting full time work to complete the works in the show and that he prefers oils for their luminosity.
One of the paintings is of the old Murphy Hotel, others are of old houses, farm fields and other Virginia landscapes.
He said his goal was to remind viewers of the wealth of natural and historic beauty we have in such abundance in rva.
Being the geek and booster that I am, we found plenty to talk about, from the scourge that is Short Pump to those who fear the city after dark.
"You get it!" he said. "We need more people like you around here."
I think I've heard that before but a compliment is a compliment and I take them wherever they're offered.
Eventually I realized that I needed to get out and get moving if I was going to see everything and hear what I wanted to hear.
The International Holocaust Remembrance exhibit at Art 6 was poignant and moving and a must-see. Both the art and the photographs were tragic reminders of the ultimate inhumanity.
"Repressed V: Free to Speak" at Gallery 5 was statement-based art on subjects as diverse as the economy, whaling and global warming. As a major fan of graphic design, I found myself wishing I could afford one of the pieces. But alas, I could only admire.
I knew I wanted to make it to the courtyard to hear White Laces play their EP release show and apparently I wasn't the only one. I'd grabbed a buddy off the street and invited him to join me for it; it was his first time at the Courtyard and and the weather was ideal.
Any time you go, it's a very cool space with its beach house-like wooden stairs and balconies, the large tree and bush and that giant mural painted on the side of the building, but during the summer it can be a bit of a brick oven effect.
Tonight was cool and breezy in there, a real treat.
The same reasons that make the space uncomfortably hot in summer made it sonically challenging tonight.
The mix was muddy and the vocal all but lost as White Laces' decibel level rose.
It was a shame not to be able to hear the vocal or lyrics, but the overall experience was still enjoyable.
The drummer got so into it that he snapped a drumstick on the next-to-last song, causing lead singer Landis Wine to implore the audience, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?"
No one did unfortunately.
It may have been the absolutely perfect weather or the end of the semester euphoria or just good vibrations, but it seemed like an unusually pleasant crowd tonight.
People kept smiling at me and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.
For all I know, they had started their evenings by breaking some first rule of their own.
I won't lie, it worked for me.
It's Not Just About It Being Illegal
"You gotta know somebody who knows somebody," he said to her leaning in close. "It is illegal, you know."
That's the snatch of conversation I overheard on Grace Street just as I was passing the innocuous-looking couple in front of me.
I can't tell you how badly I wanted to know what they were talking about, but it was none of my business so I kept going.
It's not like me to hold back; usually when I overhear something titillating I just open my mouth and ask.
But I refrained even though I knew it would drive me crazy not to know.
Isn't it the Fruit Bats who say, "When you bite your tongue, all you get is a mouthful of blood"?
But this much I know: sometimes it does help to know somebody who knows somebody.
I was having a drink with a restaurant-owner friend the other night and apropos of nothing, he leaned in and said, "What are we gonna do about your car?"
I knew immediately what he meant because my car is so noisy that people have said they can hear it coming from two blocks away.
With the windows down, the noise competes with the stereo and I play my music, shall we say, loudly.
It's a squeaky/clunk sound that the car's had since I drove it off the lot new a decade ago this month.
Invariably when I have it in for service, the mechanic says he's going to take care of that sound and not one has ever succeeded.
I actually have friends who refer to me as Squeaky McSqueakerton because of my car.
But here was my restaurant buddy saying he had a server who is also a mechanic and does good, honest work.
Noises aside, I also knew the car needed some servicing.
The primary reason I'd bought it was because the car salesman had told me it wouldn't need a tune-up until I reached 100,000 miles and I don't like high-maintenance anything.
Naturally I'd reached that number just about the time I'd been laid off in December 2008, so it had never been addressed.
Best of all, all I had to do was bring the car by the restaurant in the morning, go about my business and pick it up there later in the day.
And while I was waiting for the server/mechanic to show up yesterday afternoon, the bartender strongly suggested a fortified mimosa.
You can't get a much better car repair experience than that.
Yet again, I was told what a great car I have. My former mechanic always told me what a well-built car the Altima was.
This guy simply referred to it as awesome and in great shape. That may have something to do with my driving style, though.
After a trip to Ashland Coffee and Tea , my friend Holmes asked incredulously, "You drive like this all the time?"
Why, yes, I do and my car is apparently all the better for it, mister.
So now I have a freshly tuned-up car that- wait for it- does not squeak. Or clunk.
Or make any sound except the ones it's supposed to.
People will no longer hear me coming. I will challenge anyone who refers to me as Squeaky again.
All because I knew somebody who knew somebody. And, you know it wasn't even illegal.
Next time maybe...
That's the snatch of conversation I overheard on Grace Street just as I was passing the innocuous-looking couple in front of me.
I can't tell you how badly I wanted to know what they were talking about, but it was none of my business so I kept going.
It's not like me to hold back; usually when I overhear something titillating I just open my mouth and ask.
But I refrained even though I knew it would drive me crazy not to know.
Isn't it the Fruit Bats who say, "When you bite your tongue, all you get is a mouthful of blood"?
But this much I know: sometimes it does help to know somebody who knows somebody.
I was having a drink with a restaurant-owner friend the other night and apropos of nothing, he leaned in and said, "What are we gonna do about your car?"
I knew immediately what he meant because my car is so noisy that people have said they can hear it coming from two blocks away.
With the windows down, the noise competes with the stereo and I play my music, shall we say, loudly.
It's a squeaky/clunk sound that the car's had since I drove it off the lot new a decade ago this month.
Invariably when I have it in for service, the mechanic says he's going to take care of that sound and not one has ever succeeded.
I actually have friends who refer to me as Squeaky McSqueakerton because of my car.
But here was my restaurant buddy saying he had a server who is also a mechanic and does good, honest work.
Noises aside, I also knew the car needed some servicing.
The primary reason I'd bought it was because the car salesman had told me it wouldn't need a tune-up until I reached 100,000 miles and I don't like high-maintenance anything.
Naturally I'd reached that number just about the time I'd been laid off in December 2008, so it had never been addressed.
Best of all, all I had to do was bring the car by the restaurant in the morning, go about my business and pick it up there later in the day.
And while I was waiting for the server/mechanic to show up yesterday afternoon, the bartender strongly suggested a fortified mimosa.
You can't get a much better car repair experience than that.
Yet again, I was told what a great car I have. My former mechanic always told me what a well-built car the Altima was.
This guy simply referred to it as awesome and in great shape. That may have something to do with my driving style, though.
After a trip to Ashland Coffee and Tea , my friend Holmes asked incredulously, "You drive like this all the time?"
Why, yes, I do and my car is apparently all the better for it, mister.
So now I have a freshly tuned-up car that- wait for it- does not squeak. Or clunk.
Or make any sound except the ones it's supposed to.
People will no longer hear me coming. I will challenge anyone who refers to me as Squeaky again.
All because I knew somebody who knew somebody. And, you know it wasn't even illegal.
Next time maybe...
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings Funk It Up
I went to the Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings show at Maymont with a couple of friends and my big pink blanket (GayRVA represents). Without a doubt, it was the most interactive show I've been to in ages, maybe ever. Beforehand the audience was told that Sharon likes a dancing crowd down in front and eager fans accommodated immediately (yes, Hunter, you dancing fool, I saw you front and center). Then the show started with Binky Griptite and the Dap Kings on stage priming the crowd for her arrival and she would have been worth waiting much, much longer for.
Early on, she pulled a guy onstage to dance while she sang and he did his best to keep up. After she found out his name was Chris, she asked if he had a girlfriend. When he said no, she responded, "Well, you will after tonight." He wasn't the last guy she invited up either.
Eventually she invited a group of women on stage to shake their groove things and they were all completely into it (not to mention better dancers than the guys). As the song wound down, she had each dance her way off stage to the applause of the crowd. Local entrepreneur Marshe Wyche was last and milked her moment for all it was worth while the crowd ate it up.
Sharon Jones is a tiny woman with a big voice who showed the audience how it's done with a song that featured her doing the swim, the jerk, the mashed potato, the pony and a few other dances I've forgotten already. The Dap Kings were perfectly right on backing her up start to finish; it's no wonder Amy Winehouse's Back to Black CD grabbed so many ears.
Most of us stood throughout the performance, partly to see and partly because it was tough to sit still with a rocking r & b band like these guys on stage. The perfect early May weather only made things better; if you did lay down, the cloudless sky allowed for the perfect stargazing vantage point while the music floated over and around you.
As expected, I saw at least a dozen people I knew in the wildly diverse audience, although my friend and I had actually expected a much larger crowd, not that it was small by any means.
I'm just saying, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings on stage in the middle of Maymont on a warm spring evening is a pretty irresistible event, in my humble opinion.
Afterwards, I stopped by my neighborhood joint because I'd been asked to by a friend who had to work but wanted to hear all about the show. Then a couple of customers at the bar started asking questions about the band and the set-up and next thing I knew, I was doing a blow-by-blow for everyone's benefit. They all, it seemed, wanted to hear about the new R & B band kicking it old school.
I did my best to convey what I'd experienced, which I'll be the first to admit in no way resembled actually being there. Uncompromising funk needs to be felt, not described.
Sorry for even wasting the blog space in my feeble attempt to do so. Just go listen to "One Hundred Days" or "I Learned the Hard Way" and get back with me.
Early on, she pulled a guy onstage to dance while she sang and he did his best to keep up. After she found out his name was Chris, she asked if he had a girlfriend. When he said no, she responded, "Well, you will after tonight." He wasn't the last guy she invited up either.
Eventually she invited a group of women on stage to shake their groove things and they were all completely into it (not to mention better dancers than the guys). As the song wound down, she had each dance her way off stage to the applause of the crowd. Local entrepreneur Marshe Wyche was last and milked her moment for all it was worth while the crowd ate it up.
Sharon Jones is a tiny woman with a big voice who showed the audience how it's done with a song that featured her doing the swim, the jerk, the mashed potato, the pony and a few other dances I've forgotten already. The Dap Kings were perfectly right on backing her up start to finish; it's no wonder Amy Winehouse's Back to Black CD grabbed so many ears.
Most of us stood throughout the performance, partly to see and partly because it was tough to sit still with a rocking r & b band like these guys on stage. The perfect early May weather only made things better; if you did lay down, the cloudless sky allowed for the perfect stargazing vantage point while the music floated over and around you.
As expected, I saw at least a dozen people I knew in the wildly diverse audience, although my friend and I had actually expected a much larger crowd, not that it was small by any means.
I'm just saying, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings on stage in the middle of Maymont on a warm spring evening is a pretty irresistible event, in my humble opinion.
Afterwards, I stopped by my neighborhood joint because I'd been asked to by a friend who had to work but wanted to hear all about the show. Then a couple of customers at the bar started asking questions about the band and the set-up and next thing I knew, I was doing a blow-by-blow for everyone's benefit. They all, it seemed, wanted to hear about the new R & B band kicking it old school.
I did my best to convey what I'd experienced, which I'll be the first to admit in no way resembled actually being there. Uncompromising funk needs to be felt, not described.
Sorry for even wasting the blog space in my feeble attempt to do so. Just go listen to "One Hundred Days" or "I Learned the Hard Way" and get back with me.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
It Only Looked Like a Date
I sold out Bicycle Dreams for Bouchon.
I was planning to see the documentary at the Byrd tonight, but when a friend left a message on my machine suggesting we eat at Bouchon instead, all thoughts of bicycling 3,000 miles in ten days were forgotten.
It's not that I'm shallow, but I do so love to eat and drink and this friend is not only a wine geek but a superior conversationalist.
Even documentary dorks can be persuaded by the right person.
Clement and I had met at an Acacia wine dinner last month, here, and based on a wine promise he'd made to me, he was ready to pay up, not that he really owed me anything.
I was going for the conversation more than anything because he is the kind of guy I can spend hours conversing with and still want more.
If he were single, he'd be a great catch.
We started with a plan to kick off the evening by drinking a bottle of Rose with gusto and that wasn't difficult given how appropriate a day it was for pink.
He had the sauteed veal sweetbreads (shallot, ginger, thyme, vejus demi) and I chose the veal and pork country pate (cornichons, pickled onion, mustard) for the perfect start to a French meal.
He complimented me on my hearty appetite (observed because I didn't eschew butter on my bread) and bemoaned women who reject fattening foods for the sake of their "diets."
Luckily, I'm not very woman-like.
The server must have come back three or four times to take our order, but we were having way too much fun chatting to decide on food.
He had great stories from his childhood in France and even more questions of me based on things he'd read in my blog.
It's flattering when someone reads my blog closely enough to wonder about things I write, but I'm still caught off guard when pressed on certain topics.
But I always answer questions when asked; I just don't presume that people want to know.
Finally we gave in to our server and he ordered a magnificent bottle of Domaine Arnelle et Bernard Rion Chambolle Musigny 1er Cru Les Gruenchers, which he described as "little baby Jesus in velvet pants" (and was that ever the perfect description), along with the veal tenderloin (mustard rosemary sauce, potato gratin) for me and the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin (duck leg confit, chickpea mousse, cassis sauce) for him.
Everything about this course was spot-on.
Being in a long-time successful relationship, I figured Clement to be the ideal person to discuss my personal life with.
He shared his thoughts on online dating, men hitting on me and the foolish mistakes men make ("We're simple creatures," he explained).
It turned out that he knew some of the people from my past which presented a whole new conversational front.
I enjoyed his romantic and optimistic viewpoints, or perhaps just appreciated hearing my own validated.
Eventually we got to the cheese course, presented beautifully and a lovely way to finish the last of the wine.
By now he was hatching plans and talking consultations and we were pretty much laughing non-stop.
In fact, we were having such a great time that, on my way to the bathroom, owner Wendy stopped me in the hall and asked if I was on a date.
"You look like you're having so much fun," she said. "I was thinking you'd finally met someone interesting."
Oh, but I have.
He knows wine, eats everything and can discuss anything. I just need to clone an unmarried version of him and I'll be set for life.
On the other hand, I'm positively thrilled to have a new friend with so much to offer me.
Fingers crossed, I have just as much to offer him.
That's the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
I was planning to see the documentary at the Byrd tonight, but when a friend left a message on my machine suggesting we eat at Bouchon instead, all thoughts of bicycling 3,000 miles in ten days were forgotten.
It's not that I'm shallow, but I do so love to eat and drink and this friend is not only a wine geek but a superior conversationalist.
Even documentary dorks can be persuaded by the right person.
Clement and I had met at an Acacia wine dinner last month, here, and based on a wine promise he'd made to me, he was ready to pay up, not that he really owed me anything.
I was going for the conversation more than anything because he is the kind of guy I can spend hours conversing with and still want more.
If he were single, he'd be a great catch.
We started with a plan to kick off the evening by drinking a bottle of Rose with gusto and that wasn't difficult given how appropriate a day it was for pink.
He had the sauteed veal sweetbreads (shallot, ginger, thyme, vejus demi) and I chose the veal and pork country pate (cornichons, pickled onion, mustard) for the perfect start to a French meal.
He complimented me on my hearty appetite (observed because I didn't eschew butter on my bread) and bemoaned women who reject fattening foods for the sake of their "diets."
Luckily, I'm not very woman-like.
The server must have come back three or four times to take our order, but we were having way too much fun chatting to decide on food.
He had great stories from his childhood in France and even more questions of me based on things he'd read in my blog.
It's flattering when someone reads my blog closely enough to wonder about things I write, but I'm still caught off guard when pressed on certain topics.
But I always answer questions when asked; I just don't presume that people want to know.
Finally we gave in to our server and he ordered a magnificent bottle of Domaine Arnelle et Bernard Rion Chambolle Musigny 1er Cru Les Gruenchers, which he described as "little baby Jesus in velvet pants" (and was that ever the perfect description), along with the veal tenderloin (mustard rosemary sauce, potato gratin) for me and the bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin (duck leg confit, chickpea mousse, cassis sauce) for him.
Everything about this course was spot-on.
Being in a long-time successful relationship, I figured Clement to be the ideal person to discuss my personal life with.
He shared his thoughts on online dating, men hitting on me and the foolish mistakes men make ("We're simple creatures," he explained).
It turned out that he knew some of the people from my past which presented a whole new conversational front.
I enjoyed his romantic and optimistic viewpoints, or perhaps just appreciated hearing my own validated.
Eventually we got to the cheese course, presented beautifully and a lovely way to finish the last of the wine.
By now he was hatching plans and talking consultations and we were pretty much laughing non-stop.
In fact, we were having such a great time that, on my way to the bathroom, owner Wendy stopped me in the hall and asked if I was on a date.
"You look like you're having so much fun," she said. "I was thinking you'd finally met someone interesting."
Oh, but I have.
He knows wine, eats everything and can discuss anything. I just need to clone an unmarried version of him and I'll be set for life.
On the other hand, I'm positively thrilled to have a new friend with so much to offer me.
Fingers crossed, I have just as much to offer him.
That's the stuff that the best friendships are made of.
Eating at the Empress and Listening to Art
I'm out of practice with this early morning work business. What that means is that when I have a 9:00 meeting, I have to eat breakfast way earlier than usual; this also means I'm ravenous by late morning and even noon lunch plans can't come soon enough. As it was, when my friend came by to fetch me, I was still in my walking clothes and had to make a quick change to look presentable for the Empress.
It was friend's first visit but I knew to expect an excellent meal. I ordered a salad of arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken and chick peas in a red wine vinaigrette and he got a panini of proscuitto, pesto and roasted red peppers. He was especially appreciative of the Carytown Coffee and Teas cuppa joe they served him because he was only recently awake and moving about. Let's put it this way, he was so impressed by the taste of the coffee that he didn't put the usual packet of cancer-causing pink in it and that's saying something.
My salad was a very generous serving of peppery arugula and chicken with enough garbanzo beans to satisfy even the heartiest bean lover (read: me). The Edam had been grated in large shavings so as to fully enjoy its creamy nuttiness; it's not often that Edam shows up on a salad and I really did enjoy having something different on mine. At $8 (including tax, a practice I love on menus) it was a hearty lunch.
Friend was most happy with his salty sandwich and its extra crispy bread, but had nothing but compliments for my salad. As he sipped and munched, he became more awake and talkative, putting him about where I'd been around 9 this morning. I didn't mind waiting for him to catch up because he's always such a good listener for my stories. We also eavesdropped on a nearby table and it sounded really gory with talk of finding a body and lots of blood. Unfortunately, we didn't catch the set-up, so we don't know whether they were talking real life or not.
Driving me home, friend cut through the Ward to avoid Broad Street; he wanted to show me a little piece of art affixed to a street sign that he'd noticed. I see such pieces up and down Grace Street and I appreciate the artists sharing their work with the world this way. This piece was especially eye-catching with a colorful picture of a gramophone and the words, "Listen to the ex."
It would have been a wonderful piece no matter where it had been hung, but as it happened, it was a few yards from the house I used to share with my ex, his house.
I hope it gives him as big a smile as it did me.
It was friend's first visit but I knew to expect an excellent meal. I ordered a salad of arugula, Edam cheese, grilled chicken and chick peas in a red wine vinaigrette and he got a panini of proscuitto, pesto and roasted red peppers. He was especially appreciative of the Carytown Coffee and Teas cuppa joe they served him because he was only recently awake and moving about. Let's put it this way, he was so impressed by the taste of the coffee that he didn't put the usual packet of cancer-causing pink in it and that's saying something.
My salad was a very generous serving of peppery arugula and chicken with enough garbanzo beans to satisfy even the heartiest bean lover (read: me). The Edam had been grated in large shavings so as to fully enjoy its creamy nuttiness; it's not often that Edam shows up on a salad and I really did enjoy having something different on mine. At $8 (including tax, a practice I love on menus) it was a hearty lunch.
Friend was most happy with his salty sandwich and its extra crispy bread, but had nothing but compliments for my salad. As he sipped and munched, he became more awake and talkative, putting him about where I'd been around 9 this morning. I didn't mind waiting for him to catch up because he's always such a good listener for my stories. We also eavesdropped on a nearby table and it sounded really gory with talk of finding a body and lots of blood. Unfortunately, we didn't catch the set-up, so we don't know whether they were talking real life or not.
Driving me home, friend cut through the Ward to avoid Broad Street; he wanted to show me a little piece of art affixed to a street sign that he'd noticed. I see such pieces up and down Grace Street and I appreciate the artists sharing their work with the world this way. This piece was especially eye-catching with a colorful picture of a gramophone and the words, "Listen to the ex."
It would have been a wonderful piece no matter where it had been hung, but as it happened, it was a few yards from the house I used to share with my ex, his house.
I hope it gives him as big a smile as it did me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Whose Lipstick is That on Your Face?
I've been in a funk lately, thinking way too much about the past and the future, wanting to make things happen that I have absolutely no control over.
While I've been keeping busy my mind has been churning, trying to figure my life out, despite knowing how unlikely it is that I'll come up with answers or even any sort of a plan.
So much is in flux.
So rather than addressing life, I went out instead to enjoy it.
Tonight's adventure began by meeting a friend at the Grill at Patterson and Libbie for a bite to eat.
He wanted to talk about his life and his issues, which was great because it prevented me from focusing on mine.
Why is it so much easier to help a friend address his demons than it it to address your own?
He had the Philly chicken sandwich and I had the wedge salad (in an effort to eat lighter after all the extravagance of Sunday night) and he was agog at the transformation of the place from the old Freckles, a place where the two of us had lunched on numerous occasions.
We talked about how places like Freckles would soon be nothing more than a distant and quaint memory.
For a change, I did not have dessert but he tore into a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie with gusto.
Its light whipped texture kept the pie from being too rich or filling, but personally, I'm just not a fan of peanut butter messing with my chocolate.
Yet one more way I'm odd.
After my friend left for the movies (Copout, no thanks), I decided to walk over to Bistro 27 for a glass of wine and to experience whatever random people I might run into at the bar.
There was enough of a lull that Chef Carlos was free to chat and before I knew it, a plate of spicy calamari and polenta appeared in front of me.
"Something spicy for someone spicy," he told me.
So much for eating lighter, but the calamari was so good that who was I to watch my waistline when something this wonderful was sitting in front of me?
Before long a guy came in and he must have been a regular or at least a friend of the manager because we were introduced, in that way that happens when two frequent customers are the sole people at a bar.
Coincidentally, he's in video production, which was my former field back in the day when I was fully employed and not counting people by knocking on their doors.
He even mentioned an upcoming freelance job for which I sounded imminently suited and asked for my card, which I was more than happy to pass on.
I couldn't have hoped for a better outcome in meeting a random stranger...except for perhaps him turning out to be the love of my life.
Of course, as a friend recently pointed out to me, it's entirely likely that the love of my life is not a random stranger at all, but that's another story entirely.
Along with the manager, we had an enlightening three-way discussion of what makes a good boyfriend and I was told that sending flowers, giving back rubs, paying compliments and, ahem, pleasuring a girlfriend are the surefire ways to ensure your place in a girl's heart.
The discussion actually got a bit more graphic, but since you're probably not reading this blog for that kind of information, I'll let it go and you can fill in the blanks.
I was also told that sometimes a relationship needs to be revisited and that reuniting with a former love after a breakup can sometimes result in wholly different results, a consequence of the right person at the right time the second time around.
This is not something I've explored, but these two guys seemed pretty sure of themselves.
Of course, by this time they were also drinking tequila and rye (they did ask jokingly [I think] if I wanted to do body shots, but I passed), so I took their gospel with a grain of salt.
Not that I needed any salt, having already been told that I was the spicy type.
And I didn't need to be told that I wasn't going to appeal to anyone looking for safe or bland.
But for someone with an adventurous palate who knows how to be a good boyfriend (see Ron's Rules, above), the possibilities are endless.
Or as Eric, the regular, put it, "You have to want to do it."
I won't tell you what he was referring to, but it really applies to all of it, don't you think?
While I've been keeping busy my mind has been churning, trying to figure my life out, despite knowing how unlikely it is that I'll come up with answers or even any sort of a plan.
So much is in flux.
So rather than addressing life, I went out instead to enjoy it.
Tonight's adventure began by meeting a friend at the Grill at Patterson and Libbie for a bite to eat.
He wanted to talk about his life and his issues, which was great because it prevented me from focusing on mine.
Why is it so much easier to help a friend address his demons than it it to address your own?
He had the Philly chicken sandwich and I had the wedge salad (in an effort to eat lighter after all the extravagance of Sunday night) and he was agog at the transformation of the place from the old Freckles, a place where the two of us had lunched on numerous occasions.
We talked about how places like Freckles would soon be nothing more than a distant and quaint memory.
For a change, I did not have dessert but he tore into a piece of chocolate peanut butter pie with gusto.
Its light whipped texture kept the pie from being too rich or filling, but personally, I'm just not a fan of peanut butter messing with my chocolate.
Yet one more way I'm odd.
After my friend left for the movies (Copout, no thanks), I decided to walk over to Bistro 27 for a glass of wine and to experience whatever random people I might run into at the bar.
There was enough of a lull that Chef Carlos was free to chat and before I knew it, a plate of spicy calamari and polenta appeared in front of me.
"Something spicy for someone spicy," he told me.
So much for eating lighter, but the calamari was so good that who was I to watch my waistline when something this wonderful was sitting in front of me?
Before long a guy came in and he must have been a regular or at least a friend of the manager because we were introduced, in that way that happens when two frequent customers are the sole people at a bar.
Coincidentally, he's in video production, which was my former field back in the day when I was fully employed and not counting people by knocking on their doors.
He even mentioned an upcoming freelance job for which I sounded imminently suited and asked for my card, which I was more than happy to pass on.
I couldn't have hoped for a better outcome in meeting a random stranger...except for perhaps him turning out to be the love of my life.
Of course, as a friend recently pointed out to me, it's entirely likely that the love of my life is not a random stranger at all, but that's another story entirely.
Along with the manager, we had an enlightening three-way discussion of what makes a good boyfriend and I was told that sending flowers, giving back rubs, paying compliments and, ahem, pleasuring a girlfriend are the surefire ways to ensure your place in a girl's heart.
The discussion actually got a bit more graphic, but since you're probably not reading this blog for that kind of information, I'll let it go and you can fill in the blanks.
I was also told that sometimes a relationship needs to be revisited and that reuniting with a former love after a breakup can sometimes result in wholly different results, a consequence of the right person at the right time the second time around.
This is not something I've explored, but these two guys seemed pretty sure of themselves.
Of course, by this time they were also drinking tequila and rye (they did ask jokingly [I think] if I wanted to do body shots, but I passed), so I took their gospel with a grain of salt.
Not that I needed any salt, having already been told that I was the spicy type.
And I didn't need to be told that I wasn't going to appeal to anyone looking for safe or bland.
But for someone with an adventurous palate who knows how to be a good boyfriend (see Ron's Rules, above), the possibilities are endless.
Or as Eric, the regular, put it, "You have to want to do it."
I won't tell you what he was referring to, but it really applies to all of it, don't you think?
The Last of His Kind
I've never been the type of person with a bevy of friends and you'll almost never see me out with a group. But when I do find a person whose qualities speak to me for whatever reason, I tend to stay friends for years. More than one guy friend has told me that I clearly prefer to make the rules in the relationship, but usually that's a result of them trying to stretch the bounds of friendship at some point.
An old friend came into town to spend the evening with me tonight; we enjoyed many hours of conversation about almost everything. It's the first time he's visited me since I moved to this apartment last year and the reason for that is simple. He got a diagnosis last year that required life-changing surgery and he's still nowhere close to back to normal, although at least mobile now.
Because his future is so uncertain, his perspective on absolutely everything has changed. Like me, he's never been a man of many friends, but at this point he is deeply appreciative of those he has, especially the long-time ones, of which I am one.
So tonight he wanted to share his feelings... about what's happened to him, the prognosis and especially about his feelings for our friendship and what it has meant to him in the past and especially now. As I sat here listening to his words, I finally understood how much our friendship had meant to him but also how much he had hoped that it would become something else, which I had never allowed it to become.
After he left a little while ago, I sat on my back porch finally acknowledging the inevitable: I won't have him in my life for much longer. I can't regret not having been able to offer such a good friend all of me, but on some level, I regret that it took so long for him to speak to me about this. I wish we'd gotten all this out of the way before he was staring his own mortality in the face.
Years ago, he asked me if I knew what my best feature was and naturally I assumed it was my lags. "No, ma'am," he told me, "it's your ass." I cracked up when he said that because no one had ever suggested such a thing to me before. But then he got serious and said, "What really makes you special is how you make other people feel. I always feel like a million bucks after I spend time with you." It's still one of my all-time favorite compliments.
My friend always refered to himself as a 19th century man born in the 20th century and signed the myriad letters and e-mails he has sent me over the past two decades with, "The last of my kind," or TLOMK.
And while I wasn't meant to be his everything, I feel lucky to have been his something. For however much time our friendship lasts, I hope I can always leave him feeling better than before he saw me.
Even more that that, I hope he will remember me as the best friend he could have wanted.
An old friend came into town to spend the evening with me tonight; we enjoyed many hours of conversation about almost everything. It's the first time he's visited me since I moved to this apartment last year and the reason for that is simple. He got a diagnosis last year that required life-changing surgery and he's still nowhere close to back to normal, although at least mobile now.
Because his future is so uncertain, his perspective on absolutely everything has changed. Like me, he's never been a man of many friends, but at this point he is deeply appreciative of those he has, especially the long-time ones, of which I am one.
So tonight he wanted to share his feelings... about what's happened to him, the prognosis and especially about his feelings for our friendship and what it has meant to him in the past and especially now. As I sat here listening to his words, I finally understood how much our friendship had meant to him but also how much he had hoped that it would become something else, which I had never allowed it to become.
After he left a little while ago, I sat on my back porch finally acknowledging the inevitable: I won't have him in my life for much longer. I can't regret not having been able to offer such a good friend all of me, but on some level, I regret that it took so long for him to speak to me about this. I wish we'd gotten all this out of the way before he was staring his own mortality in the face.
Years ago, he asked me if I knew what my best feature was and naturally I assumed it was my lags. "No, ma'am," he told me, "it's your ass." I cracked up when he said that because no one had ever suggested such a thing to me before. But then he got serious and said, "What really makes you special is how you make other people feel. I always feel like a million bucks after I spend time with you." It's still one of my all-time favorite compliments.
My friend always refered to himself as a 19th century man born in the 20th century and signed the myriad letters and e-mails he has sent me over the past two decades with, "The last of my kind," or TLOMK.
And while I wasn't meant to be his everything, I feel lucky to have been his something. For however much time our friendship lasts, I hope I can always leave him feeling better than before he saw me.
Even more that that, I hope he will remember me as the best friend he could have wanted.
Monday, May 3, 2010
DC Road Trip Bliss: Shout Out Louds
Perfect road trip = art + restaurant + music. Friend and I accomplished all that and more after a slow trip up soul-sucking 95 to get to Washington today on what definitely felt like a hot August afternoon.
Stop #1: National Museum of American Art to see "Christo and Jeanne Claude: Remembering the Running Fence." This exhibition included drawings, photographs, models and videos of the 24.5 mile white fabric fence erected in 1976 through Sonoma and Marin counties, CA. It was fascinating to learn about the initial resistance of the ranchers to the art which quickly turned to support, resulting in the landowners taking a stand against the local government and ensuring that the project happened.
Views of the fence from hilltops and the air show a magnificent structure that could not have been defined as anything but art. Most impressive was the way it ascended gradually from the Pacific Ocean, as if rising from a force of nature, but almost as cool was how the ranchers utilized all the components of the art, from fabric to poles, in any way they chose after it was taken down. The audacious concept and execution were positively inspirational.
Stop #2: Marvin, in the U street corridor, a restaurant dedicated to singer Marvin Gaye and the years he was self-exiled in Belgium. The menu features both Belgian dishes and the soul food the native Washingtonian loved (can you say chicken and waffles?). To start, Brendan L'Etoile (the sous chef whom we'd met) sent us a seared fois gras with Richmond strawberries, Armagnac and a sherry vinaigrette gastrique. Words are inadequate but my friend summed it up by saying, "This tastes like a heart attack." Oh, it was that good. We sent him a little something to sip on in gratitude, but we definitely got the better part of that deal.
We followed that unexpected treat with Chorizo and fennel moules frites and agreed that they were, without a doubt, the best mussels either of us have ever had anywhere. Next up was the Nicoise salad with exquisitely rare ahi tuna and anchovies like we haven't tasted in rva. Despite being stuffed to the gills, we went on to a braised Berkshire pork shank with white bean stew. There may have also been a bottle of Vouvray in there somewhere. We could not have eaten another bite if our lives had depended on it.
Stop #3: 9:30 club for Freelance Whales and Shout Out Louds. The club was incredibly hot, almost as if the a/c was not working and the crowd obscenely young and obnoxious (I'm not saying that there's a connection). It was my second time seeing FW and they were just as impressive this time, with their earnest attitudes, unusual instruments and multiple vocalists. For fans of the Arcade Fire or Fanfarlo, they are a band worth investigating. Live, they will make you a fan; just ask my friend who gave her approval halfway into the first song.
The last time the SOL played DC was a 10:00 show on a Sunday night in Fall 2007 and I didn't go because of work the next day; needless to say, I felt like I had been owed for almost three years. Their Swedish pop (with a lead singer who sounds like Robert Smith of the Cure) is fabulously catchy with a bass line that ensures dancing about. With a female backup singer and enough cowbell to satisfy all, their sound grabbed the audience from note one and held them. We got to hear just about all of the new CD, Work, which I've been playing nonstop for over a month now, so it was especially satisfying for me.
It was an awfully hot day for our adventure, but every stop provided a pleasure of a different kind. Exiting the car at a gas station in Lorton, we were met with a delightful gust of wind on our bare legs. Setting the tone for the rest of a most enjoyable day, friend announced, "Sometimes all you need is a good breeze up your skirt."
And on some road trips, you get that and so much more.
Stop #1: National Museum of American Art to see "Christo and Jeanne Claude: Remembering the Running Fence." This exhibition included drawings, photographs, models and videos of the 24.5 mile white fabric fence erected in 1976 through Sonoma and Marin counties, CA. It was fascinating to learn about the initial resistance of the ranchers to the art which quickly turned to support, resulting in the landowners taking a stand against the local government and ensuring that the project happened.
Views of the fence from hilltops and the air show a magnificent structure that could not have been defined as anything but art. Most impressive was the way it ascended gradually from the Pacific Ocean, as if rising from a force of nature, but almost as cool was how the ranchers utilized all the components of the art, from fabric to poles, in any way they chose after it was taken down. The audacious concept and execution were positively inspirational.
Stop #2: Marvin, in the U street corridor, a restaurant dedicated to singer Marvin Gaye and the years he was self-exiled in Belgium. The menu features both Belgian dishes and the soul food the native Washingtonian loved (can you say chicken and waffles?). To start, Brendan L'Etoile (the sous chef whom we'd met) sent us a seared fois gras with Richmond strawberries, Armagnac and a sherry vinaigrette gastrique. Words are inadequate but my friend summed it up by saying, "This tastes like a heart attack." Oh, it was that good. We sent him a little something to sip on in gratitude, but we definitely got the better part of that deal.
We followed that unexpected treat with Chorizo and fennel moules frites and agreed that they were, without a doubt, the best mussels either of us have ever had anywhere. Next up was the Nicoise salad with exquisitely rare ahi tuna and anchovies like we haven't tasted in rva. Despite being stuffed to the gills, we went on to a braised Berkshire pork shank with white bean stew. There may have also been a bottle of Vouvray in there somewhere. We could not have eaten another bite if our lives had depended on it.
Stop #3: 9:30 club for Freelance Whales and Shout Out Louds. The club was incredibly hot, almost as if the a/c was not working and the crowd obscenely young and obnoxious (I'm not saying that there's a connection). It was my second time seeing FW and they were just as impressive this time, with their earnest attitudes, unusual instruments and multiple vocalists. For fans of the Arcade Fire or Fanfarlo, they are a band worth investigating. Live, they will make you a fan; just ask my friend who gave her approval halfway into the first song.
The last time the SOL played DC was a 10:00 show on a Sunday night in Fall 2007 and I didn't go because of work the next day; needless to say, I felt like I had been owed for almost three years. Their Swedish pop (with a lead singer who sounds like Robert Smith of the Cure) is fabulously catchy with a bass line that ensures dancing about. With a female backup singer and enough cowbell to satisfy all, their sound grabbed the audience from note one and held them. We got to hear just about all of the new CD, Work, which I've been playing nonstop for over a month now, so it was especially satisfying for me.
It was an awfully hot day for our adventure, but every stop provided a pleasure of a different kind. Exiting the car at a gas station in Lorton, we were met with a delightful gust of wind on our bare legs. Setting the tone for the rest of a most enjoyable day, friend announced, "Sometimes all you need is a good breeze up your skirt."
And on some road trips, you get that and so much more.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Heat Made Them Do It, Right?
When it's 80 degrees by 9 a.m. and it's only the second day of May, the heat is bound to affect people. At least that's what I'm thinking got into the guys who talked to me when I walked Grace Street this morning.
A Hispanic-looking guy who only came up to my shoulder (and I'm just 5'5") and had to be half my age was walking toward me and stopped to give me the full head to toe scan. Then with a big smile, he said, "Hola, hot stuff." I admit it, I laughed. Not at him (well, perhaps a little) but at the sheer audacity of this very young, very small guy's Spanglish.
Coming back on the other side of the street, a guy walking toward me said, "Hi Karen," and I had not a clue who he was. But then he asked, "How's Sparky?" and I knew I was sunk because clearly I had talked to him before. "You don't remember me again, do you?" We had met almost two years ago he said, and I'd run into him several times since, including at Kroger once and not recognized him any of the times. And he's an attractive guy.
When he asked if I was still living on Catherine Street, I told him no, that my boyfriend had broken up with me so I'd moved to Clay. "Well, you're looking great," he said unexpectedly and that's where he got emboldened. "So, could I get your phone number?" I explained that I don't have a cell phone and, tellingly, he asked, "Well then how can I get hold of you so we can hang out?"
He changed directions then and started walking with me. I explained that I wasn't really ready to "hang out" yet but I'd be sure to recognize him next time I saw him. Then I picked up my pace and continued on. "Keep it up," he yelled from behind. "You look amazing!"
Whether it was the heat or hormones, I realized then that there was a lot to be said for the first guy keeping it short and sweet.
Gracias.
A Hispanic-looking guy who only came up to my shoulder (and I'm just 5'5") and had to be half my age was walking toward me and stopped to give me the full head to toe scan. Then with a big smile, he said, "Hola, hot stuff." I admit it, I laughed. Not at him (well, perhaps a little) but at the sheer audacity of this very young, very small guy's Spanglish.
Coming back on the other side of the street, a guy walking toward me said, "Hi Karen," and I had not a clue who he was. But then he asked, "How's Sparky?" and I knew I was sunk because clearly I had talked to him before. "You don't remember me again, do you?" We had met almost two years ago he said, and I'd run into him several times since, including at Kroger once and not recognized him any of the times. And he's an attractive guy.
When he asked if I was still living on Catherine Street, I told him no, that my boyfriend had broken up with me so I'd moved to Clay. "Well, you're looking great," he said unexpectedly and that's where he got emboldened. "So, could I get your phone number?" I explained that I don't have a cell phone and, tellingly, he asked, "Well then how can I get hold of you so we can hang out?"
He changed directions then and started walking with me. I explained that I wasn't really ready to "hang out" yet but I'd be sure to recognize him next time I saw him. Then I picked up my pace and continued on. "Keep it up," he yelled from behind. "You look amazing!"
Whether it was the heat or hormones, I realized then that there was a lot to be said for the first guy keeping it short and sweet.
Gracias.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I Heart Art
I honestly felt like I was in another city tonight, doing one of my favorite things when I travel: exploring a museum I've never been to. With the grand reopening of the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (after, what, five years?), there are so many new galleries and pieces of art on display that I actually had the pleasure of first-time discovery, something I haven't had there for years.
It started with entering the museum. I made damn sure I began my visit by entering through the 1936 Boulevard entrance, something I'd never been able to do in the two decades I've lived in Richmond. I wasn't surprised that that area just inside the door felt more like a museum should feel on entering and it just got better from there.
I knew I couldn't possibly take it all in, even allowing myself four hours to try, but I did want to at least walk through as much of it as possible. I began at the top to check out the new restaurant Amuse and its views. They weren't open for business, per se, but they had a Mediterranean buffet and a cash bar, so eating was possible, if limited. I chose a table with a view and look forward to a proper meal there soon.
And then I wandered among the masses, guessing that for some of these visitors, this may have been their first visit to VMFA. "Oooh, that's pretty," an older woman said about a Georgia O'Keefe. "Mommy, why did he paint dead fish?" about a William Merrit Chase still life. "Dad, look at that statue of a man," pointing directly at the nude's genitalia. A woman was taking a picture of her husband, who was standing in front of a huge painting of a horse and pretending to rest his hand on the horse's neck.
I was thrilled to see one gallery hung salon-style but I heard some complaints about it from others in the room at the time. The "Matisse, Picasso and Modern Art in Paris" exhibit had pieces from the VMFA collection as well as UVA's and it's the first time they have all been hung together. The Japanese woodcut print gallery was a must-see. I've already told a friend that we need to plan a day to really check it all out.
When I arrived, Mariachi Las Americas was playing to the delight of the crowd. At 9, my local favorites Marionette took over the stage and sounded great in the new space. Guitarist Adam looked especially dapper in a suit and bare feet. As I stood there waiting for them to begin, a guy came over, asked me what they sounded like and who they were. I shared my opinion, told him I'd seen them many times and he introduced himself.
Now understand, I was amongst fifty other people waiting for the band to start and yet I was the one being asked band specifics. How in the world did this guy know that I'd seen them before or knew anything about them? I'm happy to spread the gospel of Marionette (after all, I did it at The National show before they came on) but it's not written on my forehead or anything.
But weird stuff always happens to me, so I don't dwell on it. After hours of art admiration, I was content to to just listen to music as my evening wound down. It was a perfect vantage point to say hello to people I knew as they walked by. Amy gave me a hug, Charlie mumbled his usual low-key "How are you?" and Dan was off to see his favorite Remington and suggested meeting up for pie at Ipanema later.
And my new "friend" James made sure to let me know that I was right on and Marionette was impressing him. Apparently he was having the pleasure of first-time discovery, too.
VMFA, it's terrific to have you back. And I say that from the bottom of my medium-sized American art-geek heart.
It started with entering the museum. I made damn sure I began my visit by entering through the 1936 Boulevard entrance, something I'd never been able to do in the two decades I've lived in Richmond. I wasn't surprised that that area just inside the door felt more like a museum should feel on entering and it just got better from there.
I knew I couldn't possibly take it all in, even allowing myself four hours to try, but I did want to at least walk through as much of it as possible. I began at the top to check out the new restaurant Amuse and its views. They weren't open for business, per se, but they had a Mediterranean buffet and a cash bar, so eating was possible, if limited. I chose a table with a view and look forward to a proper meal there soon.
And then I wandered among the masses, guessing that for some of these visitors, this may have been their first visit to VMFA. "Oooh, that's pretty," an older woman said about a Georgia O'Keefe. "Mommy, why did he paint dead fish?" about a William Merrit Chase still life. "Dad, look at that statue of a man," pointing directly at the nude's genitalia. A woman was taking a picture of her husband, who was standing in front of a huge painting of a horse and pretending to rest his hand on the horse's neck.
I was thrilled to see one gallery hung salon-style but I heard some complaints about it from others in the room at the time. The "Matisse, Picasso and Modern Art in Paris" exhibit had pieces from the VMFA collection as well as UVA's and it's the first time they have all been hung together. The Japanese woodcut print gallery was a must-see. I've already told a friend that we need to plan a day to really check it all out.
When I arrived, Mariachi Las Americas was playing to the delight of the crowd. At 9, my local favorites Marionette took over the stage and sounded great in the new space. Guitarist Adam looked especially dapper in a suit and bare feet. As I stood there waiting for them to begin, a guy came over, asked me what they sounded like and who they were. I shared my opinion, told him I'd seen them many times and he introduced himself.
Now understand, I was amongst fifty other people waiting for the band to start and yet I was the one being asked band specifics. How in the world did this guy know that I'd seen them before or knew anything about them? I'm happy to spread the gospel of Marionette (after all, I did it at The National show before they came on) but it's not written on my forehead or anything.
But weird stuff always happens to me, so I don't dwell on it. After hours of art admiration, I was content to to just listen to music as my evening wound down. It was a perfect vantage point to say hello to people I knew as they walked by. Amy gave me a hug, Charlie mumbled his usual low-key "How are you?" and Dan was off to see his favorite Remington and suggested meeting up for pie at Ipanema later.
And my new "friend" James made sure to let me know that I was right on and Marionette was impressing him. Apparently he was having the pleasure of first-time discovery, too.
VMFA, it's terrific to have you back. And I say that from the bottom of my medium-sized American art-geek heart.
This Is What Democracy Looks Like
Last year I participated in the first rva May Day parade, here, feeling the need to represent and show my support for the unemployed workers of whom I'd recently become a member. Here I am a year later, still looking for work (the Census won't go on forever) and marching today in my second May Day parade.
The rally began at 4:00 at Abner Clay Park and we heard from various speakers from organizations like Food Not Bombs, the Socialist Party and the Virginia People's Assembly; some were inspirational, others informational and one guy did some excellent spoken word. The organizers had even secured a permit this year, giving us a police escort as we headed down Clay Street past my house into Carver to Harrison, where we headed up to Broad and turned onto Adams. Along Broad Street, restaurant employees stood outside watching us since the dinner rush had not yet begun.
Last year's parade was part of First Fridays and stayed in that area, so tonight's route was far longer. People were out on the streets in much large numbers this year too, watching and waving us on; it may have been the music and our chanting that brought them out of their houses. Traffic was stopped for us at key intersections and we even got some honks of approval and raised fists from supporters as we moved along. Mostly, people took pictures and waved but at least they saw our message.
The sign I was carrying high over my head said, "Solidarity. Workers Unite." Assuming my status doesn't change, next year I plan to make my own sign to acknowledge people like me. I think it'll say something like. "Jobs for ALL."
But whether I'm working or not, I know I'll be walking in the parade. After all, May Day kicks off my birthday month and there's nothing like a parade to begin the festivities.
Likewise, there's no feeling quite like being part of democracy in action.
The rally began at 4:00 at Abner Clay Park and we heard from various speakers from organizations like Food Not Bombs, the Socialist Party and the Virginia People's Assembly; some were inspirational, others informational and one guy did some excellent spoken word. The organizers had even secured a permit this year, giving us a police escort as we headed down Clay Street past my house into Carver to Harrison, where we headed up to Broad and turned onto Adams. Along Broad Street, restaurant employees stood outside watching us since the dinner rush had not yet begun.
Last year's parade was part of First Fridays and stayed in that area, so tonight's route was far longer. People were out on the streets in much large numbers this year too, watching and waving us on; it may have been the music and our chanting that brought them out of their houses. Traffic was stopped for us at key intersections and we even got some honks of approval and raised fists from supporters as we moved along. Mostly, people took pictures and waved but at least they saw our message.
The sign I was carrying high over my head said, "Solidarity. Workers Unite." Assuming my status doesn't change, next year I plan to make my own sign to acknowledge people like me. I think it'll say something like. "Jobs for ALL."
But whether I'm working or not, I know I'll be walking in the parade. After all, May Day kicks off my birthday month and there's nothing like a parade to begin the festivities.
Likewise, there's no feeling quite like being part of democracy in action.
Stayin' Alive 1977-Style
Saturday Night Fever was the first movie to say the words "blow job" and the first to use a Steadicam, both landmark achievements in film. There was no way I wasn't going to see it on the big screen although not for either of those reasons. I wanted to be taken to an era long, long ago in a borough far away and was I ever.
Sure, I was around in 1977 but I wasn't paying attention enough to remember it being quite as different a world as it clearly was. From the moment Travolta and his posse walk into the club with cigarettes dangling from their lips, I was reminded of it though. If you can smoke in an enclosed tube like the subway, you can smoke anywhere and people did.
And at diners, coffee shops and the local White Castle, waitresses wore real uniforms. And not just uniforms, but uniforms with aprons tied in big bows in the back. In one scene, Travolta's dad got upset with him when he started clearing the dishes after dinner because that was something women did. He actually said that. And mothers pushed baby carriages down the street. Not strollers, baby carriages. How many people have ever seen that today?
As for inflation, Travolta gets a $4 a week raise at the paint shop where he works and is thrilled with it. A sign in a window advertises "Six rooms, 2 flights up, Upper 70s, $250 a month." How freaking unbelievable is that?
The hair was all feathered and blown dry, the clothing 100% polyester and the accents pure Brooklyn-ese. And even though Travolta was a 23-year old playing a 19-year old, I can't believe he ever looked that young. When a friend heard I was going to see SNF, she told me that when Fred Astaire saw that first scene of Travolta strutting down the street at the start of the movie, he told Travolta that he "had" it and could look forward to a successful career. Astaire saw it in that cocky walk, which is still very much in evidence watching it today.
As I went to leave, the usher, a 20-something, asked me how I liked the film. I said I was amazed at how different a world 1977 was and he went off. "I know, right? When I saw this was playing on the big screen I just had to see it. I was dying to see what credits looked like in 1977. Did you see him smoking in the subway? Man, I can't believe that movie got a PG rating with a gang bang and that fight scene. What a different time! I'm coming back tomorrow on my morning off to see it again!"
I couldn't believe it; he was having the exact same reaction to the movie that I'd been having and it had nothing to do with disco or dancing. 1977 might as well have been 1877 for how much relevance it had to what we know now. Let's put it this way: there wasn't a single scene or reference to phone use in this movie and yet somehow people had full lives.
But at its core, SNF was a dance movie during a time when guys had needs, sex was casual, and dancing was everything. Or as Travolta put it best, "You make it with some of these chicks, they think you gotta dance with them."
That's just how it worked in 1977, kids.
Sure, I was around in 1977 but I wasn't paying attention enough to remember it being quite as different a world as it clearly was. From the moment Travolta and his posse walk into the club with cigarettes dangling from their lips, I was reminded of it though. If you can smoke in an enclosed tube like the subway, you can smoke anywhere and people did.
And at diners, coffee shops and the local White Castle, waitresses wore real uniforms. And not just uniforms, but uniforms with aprons tied in big bows in the back. In one scene, Travolta's dad got upset with him when he started clearing the dishes after dinner because that was something women did. He actually said that. And mothers pushed baby carriages down the street. Not strollers, baby carriages. How many people have ever seen that today?
As for inflation, Travolta gets a $4 a week raise at the paint shop where he works and is thrilled with it. A sign in a window advertises "Six rooms, 2 flights up, Upper 70s, $250 a month." How freaking unbelievable is that?
The hair was all feathered and blown dry, the clothing 100% polyester and the accents pure Brooklyn-ese. And even though Travolta was a 23-year old playing a 19-year old, I can't believe he ever looked that young. When a friend heard I was going to see SNF, she told me that when Fred Astaire saw that first scene of Travolta strutting down the street at the start of the movie, he told Travolta that he "had" it and could look forward to a successful career. Astaire saw it in that cocky walk, which is still very much in evidence watching it today.
As I went to leave, the usher, a 20-something, asked me how I liked the film. I said I was amazed at how different a world 1977 was and he went off. "I know, right? When I saw this was playing on the big screen I just had to see it. I was dying to see what credits looked like in 1977. Did you see him smoking in the subway? Man, I can't believe that movie got a PG rating with a gang bang and that fight scene. What a different time! I'm coming back tomorrow on my morning off to see it again!"
I couldn't believe it; he was having the exact same reaction to the movie that I'd been having and it had nothing to do with disco or dancing. 1977 might as well have been 1877 for how much relevance it had to what we know now. Let's put it this way: there wasn't a single scene or reference to phone use in this movie and yet somehow people had full lives.
But at its core, SNF was a dance movie during a time when guys had needs, sex was casual, and dancing was everything. Or as Travolta put it best, "You make it with some of these chicks, they think you gotta dance with them."
That's just how it worked in 1977, kids.
Take on Me (and the Heat)
"So glad it's summer, but damn! It's hot up here," drummer Lance Koehler told the crowd at the Camel tonight, not that it was news to anyone in the crowded, overheated room. There were so many sweaty bodies jammed in there tonight, but poor Lance was trapped on a three-sided stage behind eight other musicians, all blowing hard, so I have to assume that it was even worse for him than the rest of us. And, let me tell you, the rest of us were hot.
But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.
From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.
Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.
I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.
But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.
Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.
And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.
It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."
And by all means, take me on.
But then that's the way the No BS Brass band rolls and that's why they've got the devoted following that they do. Walking in to a nearly full room, Reggie (Can't Stop, Won't Stop) Pace waved hello and I could tell he was already warm and they hadn't played a note yet. I'd thrown a hoodie over my summer dress just in case, and had to peel that off within minutes. Sadly, the band didn't have much to peel.
From original material to raucous covers, No BS worked the crowd like the pros that they are. "Here's a song that you might have heard, but not by us...from 1989!" introduced their cover of Aha's "Take on Me" and whipped the crowd into a frenzy despite many of them having been in potty pants when the song came out. When Reggie commanded, "dance contest!" from the stage, people did as instructed and there was much flailing.
Early on, I heard a girl behind me tell her companion that she didn't recognize a single person in the crowd and I had just been thinking the same thing. I've been to plenty of No BS shows, but tonight's crowd wasn't familiar at all. I saw a guy I'd met at Garnett's and guitarist Scott Burton from Glows in the Dark and that was really it besides Lance and Reggie. Very strange.
I'd come to hear brass from a late happy hour at Garnett's with a very good friend. She was a fan of the beagle and kindly offered her empathy on my loss, mentioning how fortunate it had been that I'd lost him now instead of a year ago when everything else in my life was falling apart. She was right about that; no question that that would have been the straw that broke this camel's back. It was bad enough now.
But we also discussed happier topics like sex and plunging into commitment, even as we devoured a slice of savory cheesecake. When we'd last happy houred at Garnett's on a Friday, they were out of this appetizer and tonight we scored the very last piece. It was a roasted red pepper and feta cheesecake, served with toasted baguette slices and it was divine.
Curt had recommended it as his personal favorite and it wasn't hard to taste why. We followed that with an excellent Cobb salad dressed with a French vinaigrette; the ratio of avocado, bacon and Gorgonzola was perfect, but then Mac is so good at what he does. We have a mutual admiration society, Mac and me.
And because we'd have been fools to leave without having dessert, we had dessert. Very good friend had never experienced the wonder of their chocolate pecan pie warm and oozing with richness, so we addressed that; even the shortbread crust was worthy of note to her. Me, I take it for granted, but then I've enjoyed far too many slices of that pie.
It was a good thing I'd laid down a base with such a pleasant meal before going to the Camel because given the extreme heat and airlessness, a girl with an empty stomach might have felt like fainting before long. And I'm not sure my night would have been as complete without the memory of the trickle of sweat dripping down my back as No BS rocked "Take on Me."
And by all means, take me on.
Friday, April 30, 2010
I Walk to Talk
I know that not everybody likes to walk as much as I do. Hell, a neighbor told me the other day that she drives to Rite Aid and we live TWO blocks from the place. I'll admit I like it for the exercise, but it's mainly because you never know who you'll end up talking to when you're on foot.
Walking to the Census training this morning, there was this girl coming toward me with her ear buds in and I didn't even see her glance up at me, but as we came upon each other, she smiled and said rather loudly (I guess because of her music), "Great style!" How random was that compliment? I have to say, though, she made my morning.
Walking home for lunch, I came upon two mounted officers at the corner of Monroe and Marshall. I always get a kick out of seeing horses on cobblestone in Jackson Ward, but something was different this time. One of them was pointing a gun-like device down the street and being the oblivious sort, I had to be told it what it was and that they were targeting speeders.
I couldn't have been happier if they were handing out $20 bills. I've always taken issue with people who speed through city neighborhoods, treating them like thoroughfares and ignoring the fact that people live and play there. I told the cop that I was a neighbor and how pleased I was about what they were doing. He said that they've started a campaign in the 'hood to address the problem. Hallelujah, they're targeting speeders, stop sign-runners and red light-runners in the 'hood for the foreseeable future.
When they mentioned red light running, I asked about that nightmare intersection at Belvidere and Broad and was told that it and the Belvidere and Leigh intersections take the dubious prize for most accidents of all city intersections. I was not in the least surprised having seen people run red lights there with impunity every single day of my life and it irks me no end. Needless to say, that assignment won't go to the mounted unit.
Nor should it. It's enough that they're in J-Ward nabbing speeders and chatting up walking neighbors like me.
Walking to the Census training this morning, there was this girl coming toward me with her ear buds in and I didn't even see her glance up at me, but as we came upon each other, she smiled and said rather loudly (I guess because of her music), "Great style!" How random was that compliment? I have to say, though, she made my morning.
Walking home for lunch, I came upon two mounted officers at the corner of Monroe and Marshall. I always get a kick out of seeing horses on cobblestone in Jackson Ward, but something was different this time. One of them was pointing a gun-like device down the street and being the oblivious sort, I had to be told it what it was and that they were targeting speeders.
I couldn't have been happier if they were handing out $20 bills. I've always taken issue with people who speed through city neighborhoods, treating them like thoroughfares and ignoring the fact that people live and play there. I told the cop that I was a neighbor and how pleased I was about what they were doing. He said that they've started a campaign in the 'hood to address the problem. Hallelujah, they're targeting speeders, stop sign-runners and red light-runners in the 'hood for the foreseeable future.
When they mentioned red light running, I asked about that nightmare intersection at Belvidere and Broad and was told that it and the Belvidere and Leigh intersections take the dubious prize for most accidents of all city intersections. I was not in the least surprised having seen people run red lights there with impunity every single day of my life and it irks me no end. Needless to say, that assignment won't go to the mounted unit.
Nor should it. It's enough that they're in J-Ward nabbing speeders and chatting up walking neighbors like me.
Wine Drunk by 9:00
I met a good friend at Ipanema to catch up after several months of not seeing each other, except the random run-in at a show. And don't tell my mother, but I had blueberry pie a la mode for dinner instead of a proper meal (but it was damn fine blueberry pie with a brown sugar crumble on top), although we did share some cornmeal-crusted fried oyster and button mushrooms beforehand.
It didn't take long for him to remind me yet again that I am a Luddite for not having a cell phone or PDA (despite him freely admiting being addicted to his crackberry). As my friend said upon returning from the men's room, "See, if you had a phone you could have been checking your Twitter feed while I was gone." Instead, while he was off taking care of business, one of the two guys at the end of the bar had invited me to come share their feast; they'd ordered six dishes for the two of them, so I'm not sure how much was wanting my sparkling company and how much just seeking eating assistance.
Having both recently done the Robinson Street ramble after avoiding it for years , we compared notes on which of its bar crowds provide the most amusement for our viewing pleasure. He nominated Racine for best happy hour given its end time of 9:00 (even so, it's still impossible to beat a $2 glass of wine at Ipanema). He wanted me to help him understand the decor at Commercial Taphouse; clearly he doesn't remember the Early Rec Room period of the 70s or he wouldn't have to ask such a silly question.
Best lament of the night from said friend: "Wine drunk by 9:00 and ready for bed. God, I'm turning into my mother."
Coming home a few minutes ago, I heard my phone ringing and rushed up the stairs to grab it (no land line lectures, please). Whoever it was must have just wanted to hear my voice (a comment I've heard twice this week already), because they didn't say anything despite obviously being on the line.
Glancing at the clock as I put down the phone, it occurred to me that it's after 1, I'm just now getting in and someone has just called me. And then there's that matter of pie for dinner. God, I'm not turning into anything like my mother, that's for sure.
It didn't take long for him to remind me yet again that I am a Luddite for not having a cell phone or PDA (despite him freely admiting being addicted to his crackberry). As my friend said upon returning from the men's room, "See, if you had a phone you could have been checking your Twitter feed while I was gone." Instead, while he was off taking care of business, one of the two guys at the end of the bar had invited me to come share their feast; they'd ordered six dishes for the two of them, so I'm not sure how much was wanting my sparkling company and how much just seeking eating assistance.
Having both recently done the Robinson Street ramble after avoiding it for years , we compared notes on which of its bar crowds provide the most amusement for our viewing pleasure. He nominated Racine for best happy hour given its end time of 9:00 (even so, it's still impossible to beat a $2 glass of wine at Ipanema). He wanted me to help him understand the decor at Commercial Taphouse; clearly he doesn't remember the Early Rec Room period of the 70s or he wouldn't have to ask such a silly question.
Best lament of the night from said friend: "Wine drunk by 9:00 and ready for bed. God, I'm turning into my mother."
Coming home a few minutes ago, I heard my phone ringing and rushed up the stairs to grab it (no land line lectures, please). Whoever it was must have just wanted to hear my voice (a comment I've heard twice this week already), because they didn't say anything despite obviously being on the line.
Glancing at the clock as I put down the phone, it occurred to me that it's after 1, I'm just now getting in and someone has just called me. And then there's that matter of pie for dinner. God, I'm not turning into anything like my mother, that's for sure.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
An Abundance of Exes
I'm back in training for another Census Bureau project and that means a whole new crop of jobless people and colorful stories from the field. It's even better this time because everyone in the group is from Jackson Ward or Monroe Ward, the areas we'll soon be counting. I've already met a neighbor from only a few houses down the block and another who lives just around the corner. Get paid! Make friends!
Like any work-related training class or seminar, they begin by making you stand up to introduce yourself and tell the group why you're there. Since I'd done this just a couple of months ago, I knew better than to say "for the money" but twelve of the other fourteen people said that that was their only reason for taking this job. They just don't realize yet what a fascinating slice of humanity you get to meet working for the Census, and that's before you even hit the streets to count.
One interesting and talkative girl who was 45 minutes late to class put it best. "I'm here because they pay way better than Lee's Chicken," she offered. "And no grease!" Well, I can certainly see where that would be motivating.
Later on in the morning, our trainer put up a big map of the area we'll be enumerating and it stretches from Goshen in Carver down to 8th and Bank, an area I know pretty well. She told us to familiarize ourselves with the area, prompting a few questions about the specifics of our assignment ("You're not sending us to the projects, are you?" one guy asked nervously. No, they're not.).
The Lee's Chicken girl girl raised her hand and disdainfully asked, "We gotta go to Jackson Ward to do this?" immediately making me bristle at the tone she used for my beloved neighborhood. Feeling my inner J-Ward girl rising from within, I shot right back at her. "You got a problem with Jackson Ward or what?"
Well, she hemmed and hawed and finally got it out. "Well, um, it's, you know, it's just I got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward!"
Was that all it was? Really? "Don't worry," I reassured her. "I've got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward, too. We'll figure it out."
From behind me, the trainer interjected, "I got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward myself. Live long enough and you'll have plentyof ex-boyfriends in Jackson Ward."
With that kind of wisdom, is it any wonder that she's the trainer? And just so that you know, the Lee's girl never came back after the first day. I'm thinking that must have been one bad breakup.
Like any work-related training class or seminar, they begin by making you stand up to introduce yourself and tell the group why you're there. Since I'd done this just a couple of months ago, I knew better than to say "for the money" but twelve of the other fourteen people said that that was their only reason for taking this job. They just don't realize yet what a fascinating slice of humanity you get to meet working for the Census, and that's before you even hit the streets to count.
One interesting and talkative girl who was 45 minutes late to class put it best. "I'm here because they pay way better than Lee's Chicken," she offered. "And no grease!" Well, I can certainly see where that would be motivating.
Later on in the morning, our trainer put up a big map of the area we'll be enumerating and it stretches from Goshen in Carver down to 8th and Bank, an area I know pretty well. She told us to familiarize ourselves with the area, prompting a few questions about the specifics of our assignment ("You're not sending us to the projects, are you?" one guy asked nervously. No, they're not.).
The Lee's Chicken girl girl raised her hand and disdainfully asked, "We gotta go to Jackson Ward to do this?" immediately making me bristle at the tone she used for my beloved neighborhood. Feeling my inner J-Ward girl rising from within, I shot right back at her. "You got a problem with Jackson Ward or what?"
Well, she hemmed and hawed and finally got it out. "Well, um, it's, you know, it's just I got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward!"
Was that all it was? Really? "Don't worry," I reassured her. "I've got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward, too. We'll figure it out."
From behind me, the trainer interjected, "I got an ex-boyfriend in Jackson Ward myself. Live long enough and you'll have plentyof ex-boyfriends in Jackson Ward."
With that kind of wisdom, is it any wonder that she's the trainer? And just so that you know, the Lee's girl never came back after the first day. I'm thinking that must have been one bad breakup.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Do I Look Like the NASCAR Type?
There's so much to like about that venerable northside institution, Dot's Back Inn now that the smoke screen is absent. From the 48-star flag to the 1950 Look magazine in the ladies' room (which included a recipe for authentic French dressing: oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. The secret, it said, was in the measurements.) to the quotes on the menu (from Twain to Wimpy; I think that says it all), it's a classic diner in every sense. The chalkboard even said they had butter beans as a side tonight, so what's not to love?
I took a friend who was a Dot's virgin there this evening and he was won over by the food, the atmosphere and the Vargas tray on the wall. The place was crowded when we arrived around 6:45, but with a "Neighborhood Hour" of drink specials from 3:30 to 7, we weren't surprised to find no empty bar stools. There's a reason this place has been around for more than half a century.
Our waitress (of whom it was said by Butch that she's the best shag dancer in Richmond and I tend to believe a man named Butch on the subject of shag dancing because I've never actually seen shag dancing...and, no, I didn't know Butch before walking into Dot's) assumed we were out-of-towners in for NASCAR this weekend. You could not find a couple of less likely NASCAR looking fans than the two of us, but it did help explain the endless stream of people who kept trying to find a seat in an already full restaurant. Of course, being the NASCAR neophytes that we are, neither one of us even knew it was a race weekend.
Feeling fibrous, we decided to share the back bean nachos and the black bean corn cakes (grilled corn cakes topped with black beans, provolone, onions and tomatoes) although my friend was sorely tempted by the fried cod and tater tots. The spongy corn cake was the highlight but the nachos somehow disappeared first. Funny that.
Afterwards, we went to Strange Matter for dessert (chocolate cake with peanut butter icing made by Ipanema) and a showing of American Hardcore, about the short- lived hardcore music scene which began in California and was embraced by D.C. The DIY aesthetic that accompanied it was epitomized by band members recalling cutting and Elmer's gluing record covers together.
The documentary explained the birth of the hardcore scene as a result of the frustration of Reagan's election and the bland preppy world that accompanied it. Hardcore was by kids, for kids and about kids and musician after musician reiterated that there was no expectation of radio play or any kind of mainstream success. The scene had a violent side, evident in the regular fighting at shows, intense stage diving and even fans trading pipe bombs for admission to shows; this was the anti-Reagan world.
A lot of attention was given to seminal hardcore bands like Bad Brains, the band you didn't want to play after because they owned the show with their technically challenging music and stop and start precision and Minor Threat, whose song "Straight Edge" spurred a movement and spoke to a whole generation of kids who'd just lived through the drug-happy 70s; now they had an excuse to celebrate the fact that they were smart, hostile and sober.
I was surprised at the amount of video that existed of these obscure shows in unlikely locations and while we never got to see any song in its entirety, the energy of the music came through loud and clear. Henry Rollins and Black Flag especially were a force of nature to watch perform.
Not surprisingly, Reagan's reelection sounded the death knell for hardcore and by 1986 it had flamed out; many of its musicians felt like the attendant violence had become too alienating to its audience. One musician insisted that "there was no organized left in the 80s, but there was hardcore, in the best tradition of radicalism." And when it was time to go, hardcore went away as suddenly as it had begun. It had to.
Turns out it was an evening to enjoy short-lived music and long-lived restaurants; thankfully there was cake in between to soften the transition. Unlike our brethren NASCAR fans, my friend and I needed a little buffer to go from butter beans to pipe bombs.
On the other hand, we both lived through the Reagan years, so we should be able to handle anything. Come to think of it, you can even consider us hardcore.
I took a friend who was a Dot's virgin there this evening and he was won over by the food, the atmosphere and the Vargas tray on the wall. The place was crowded when we arrived around 6:45, but with a "Neighborhood Hour" of drink specials from 3:30 to 7, we weren't surprised to find no empty bar stools. There's a reason this place has been around for more than half a century.
Our waitress (of whom it was said by Butch that she's the best shag dancer in Richmond and I tend to believe a man named Butch on the subject of shag dancing because I've never actually seen shag dancing...and, no, I didn't know Butch before walking into Dot's) assumed we were out-of-towners in for NASCAR this weekend. You could not find a couple of less likely NASCAR looking fans than the two of us, but it did help explain the endless stream of people who kept trying to find a seat in an already full restaurant. Of course, being the NASCAR neophytes that we are, neither one of us even knew it was a race weekend.
Feeling fibrous, we decided to share the back bean nachos and the black bean corn cakes (grilled corn cakes topped with black beans, provolone, onions and tomatoes) although my friend was sorely tempted by the fried cod and tater tots. The spongy corn cake was the highlight but the nachos somehow disappeared first. Funny that.
Afterwards, we went to Strange Matter for dessert (chocolate cake with peanut butter icing made by Ipanema) and a showing of American Hardcore, about the short- lived hardcore music scene which began in California and was embraced by D.C. The DIY aesthetic that accompanied it was epitomized by band members recalling cutting and Elmer's gluing record covers together.
The documentary explained the birth of the hardcore scene as a result of the frustration of Reagan's election and the bland preppy world that accompanied it. Hardcore was by kids, for kids and about kids and musician after musician reiterated that there was no expectation of radio play or any kind of mainstream success. The scene had a violent side, evident in the regular fighting at shows, intense stage diving and even fans trading pipe bombs for admission to shows; this was the anti-Reagan world.
A lot of attention was given to seminal hardcore bands like Bad Brains, the band you didn't want to play after because they owned the show with their technically challenging music and stop and start precision and Minor Threat, whose song "Straight Edge" spurred a movement and spoke to a whole generation of kids who'd just lived through the drug-happy 70s; now they had an excuse to celebrate the fact that they were smart, hostile and sober.
I was surprised at the amount of video that existed of these obscure shows in unlikely locations and while we never got to see any song in its entirety, the energy of the music came through loud and clear. Henry Rollins and Black Flag especially were a force of nature to watch perform.
Not surprisingly, Reagan's reelection sounded the death knell for hardcore and by 1986 it had flamed out; many of its musicians felt like the attendant violence had become too alienating to its audience. One musician insisted that "there was no organized left in the 80s, but there was hardcore, in the best tradition of radicalism." And when it was time to go, hardcore went away as suddenly as it had begun. It had to.
Turns out it was an evening to enjoy short-lived music and long-lived restaurants; thankfully there was cake in between to soften the transition. Unlike our brethren NASCAR fans, my friend and I needed a little buffer to go from butter beans to pipe bombs.
On the other hand, we both lived through the Reagan years, so we should be able to handle anything. Come to think of it, you can even consider us hardcore.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
An Old Editor and the New Empress
Why do I continue to try to navigate that hellacious UR campus when inevitably I end up driving in circles unable to find the building I seek? When I stop and ask for help from students, I hear things like, "Dunno. I'm the wrong person to ask." Really? Isn't someone paying a lot of money for you to attend classes here? Don't you know your own campus?
Tonight's destination was a lecture by longtime RTD city editor Earl Dunford on the subject of "Second Thoughts on Writing a Book." This guy graduated UR in 1948 and was city editor for the Richmond Times Dispatch for something like 36 "mostly happy years," so he'd seen some seismic shifts in the culture during his tenure. As a former RTD employee, I was curious to hear stories from an old-school newspaperman.
When asked to write a history of the RTD, starting with its origins as four separate papers (The Times, The Dispatch, The News and The Leader), he begged off saying he was an editor, not a writer, someone who aimed to "improve other people's work," not have other people improve his. So of course he was persuaded. He was even told by the great Stewart Bryant that he wanted "a history that would be warts and all," which Dunford delivered. I have no doubt that, much like today, there were plenty of warts to reveal.
Escaping that vortex of a campus, I headed straight for Broad Street's newest social food destination, The Empress, at the old Enoteca location. What a beautiful ambiance the new owners have wrought out of the dark and unappealing ashes of Enoteca. About all that remains of the former space is the bar, but even that's been moved.
Church pews were cut down and lined with cushions and pillows for lounging. The chairs are from the old Cabo's. The curtains are thankfully gone, opening up the windows to the activity and characters of Broad Street (One random girl stuck her head in the door and asked a standing customer if he had fourteen cents. When he said no, she gave him a confused look, backed out, and came back in to look at him again, still clearly bewildered).
The owner Melissa came over to take my order and I couldn't help complimenting her on the variety and pricing of the menu (labeled 'Evening Types 5:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.'). Nothing was over $13 and most were $10 or lower; there was everything from a meat and cheese plate to quiche to a grilled lamb chop. She told me that the menu items were planned with sharing in mind and the restaurant designed for slow eating and lounging; all of a sudden I regretted not having brought a companion.
I was thrilled to see that the part of the menu devoted to "For the Sweet Tooth" indicated dessert service until 1:00 a.m. and told her so. She said that she felt the same way and her love of late sweets was nurtured in Italy where people sat around socializing and enjoying dessert, especially gelato, until 3 a.m. I told her that many was the time I wanted dessert late when others were content with just alcohol and she knew exactly what I meant; here was a kindred dessert soul.
The place is very green with a recycling station, compostable paper products, including dinner napkins, and loads of reclaimed and recycled products used in the renovation. This led to a discussion of buying clothes from consignment and thrift shops, something it turned out, both she and I do. She bragged on her vintage blue step stool, the kind where the steps fold out like we all had in out childhood kitchens; this one purchased from everyone's favorite, the For the Love of Jesus thrift store on southside.
After placing my order, I heard her talking away in the kitchen and she returned with an amuse bouche for me, a baguette slice with pancetta, a sliced cornichon and a Gorgonzola reduction. Mmm, my bouche was most certainly amused. Not long after the chef came out with my beef carpaccio with shaved Manchego, arugula, black sea salt and fresh toasted sourdough. She introduced herself as Carly and told me that Melissa had been telling her what an interesting person I was so she came out to meet me; I call this very good service. I commented on the black sea salt and was delivered a smoked gray sea salt to try.
Just as I was about to dive into my chocolate soup with grilled fruit, a certain man-about-town and Richmond writer dropped by after work and was persuaded to have a few beers (note to my gluten-intolerant friends: the owners both have Celiac's so they carry Bard's gluten-free beer), giving me a terrific conversational partner on the topic of theater, architecture, Richmond neighborhoods and history, among other things. I didn't need to bring a companion after all; one just magically appeared.
Also magically appearing was a bowl of cracklins being offered by Carly, "if you want some." And who wouldn't? Freshly fried and still warm, I can't imagine who would decline such a delicious offering. Don't look at me; I helped myself and then came back for more.
Melissa showed us her $7 couch which she'd reupholstered herself; I lounged on it fainting couch-style and was told it looked good underneath me. It was extremely comfortable and she admitted to having fallen asleep on it frequently in recent months, only to be awakened by her 6:30 a.m. breakfast crew. There's a vintage wine storage unit that looks like a bottle of wine, another wine cabinet with the most amazing sliding door on it and several pieces of sculpture by local Nicholai Jerome that need to be seen.
Carly described their roles as, "I cook; she does everything else" and I asked them how, as a couple, do they have any time at all for a life. Apparently that's on hold for the moment, which is too bad for them but great for the eating and hanging out crowd. You know, people like me.
Luckily they're already married and since they work together, they don't have to be out and about with people hoping to meet the right one. You know, people like me.
Tonight's destination was a lecture by longtime RTD city editor Earl Dunford on the subject of "Second Thoughts on Writing a Book." This guy graduated UR in 1948 and was city editor for the Richmond Times Dispatch for something like 36 "mostly happy years," so he'd seen some seismic shifts in the culture during his tenure. As a former RTD employee, I was curious to hear stories from an old-school newspaperman.
When asked to write a history of the RTD, starting with its origins as four separate papers (The Times, The Dispatch, The News and The Leader), he begged off saying he was an editor, not a writer, someone who aimed to "improve other people's work," not have other people improve his. So of course he was persuaded. He was even told by the great Stewart Bryant that he wanted "a history that would be warts and all," which Dunford delivered. I have no doubt that, much like today, there were plenty of warts to reveal.
Escaping that vortex of a campus, I headed straight for Broad Street's newest social food destination, The Empress, at the old Enoteca location. What a beautiful ambiance the new owners have wrought out of the dark and unappealing ashes of Enoteca. About all that remains of the former space is the bar, but even that's been moved.
Church pews were cut down and lined with cushions and pillows for lounging. The chairs are from the old Cabo's. The curtains are thankfully gone, opening up the windows to the activity and characters of Broad Street (One random girl stuck her head in the door and asked a standing customer if he had fourteen cents. When he said no, she gave him a confused look, backed out, and came back in to look at him again, still clearly bewildered).
The owner Melissa came over to take my order and I couldn't help complimenting her on the variety and pricing of the menu (labeled 'Evening Types 5:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m.'). Nothing was over $13 and most were $10 or lower; there was everything from a meat and cheese plate to quiche to a grilled lamb chop. She told me that the menu items were planned with sharing in mind and the restaurant designed for slow eating and lounging; all of a sudden I regretted not having brought a companion.
I was thrilled to see that the part of the menu devoted to "For the Sweet Tooth" indicated dessert service until 1:00 a.m. and told her so. She said that she felt the same way and her love of late sweets was nurtured in Italy where people sat around socializing and enjoying dessert, especially gelato, until 3 a.m. I told her that many was the time I wanted dessert late when others were content with just alcohol and she knew exactly what I meant; here was a kindred dessert soul.
The place is very green with a recycling station, compostable paper products, including dinner napkins, and loads of reclaimed and recycled products used in the renovation. This led to a discussion of buying clothes from consignment and thrift shops, something it turned out, both she and I do. She bragged on her vintage blue step stool, the kind where the steps fold out like we all had in out childhood kitchens; this one purchased from everyone's favorite, the For the Love of Jesus thrift store on southside.
After placing my order, I heard her talking away in the kitchen and she returned with an amuse bouche for me, a baguette slice with pancetta, a sliced cornichon and a Gorgonzola reduction. Mmm, my bouche was most certainly amused. Not long after the chef came out with my beef carpaccio with shaved Manchego, arugula, black sea salt and fresh toasted sourdough. She introduced herself as Carly and told me that Melissa had been telling her what an interesting person I was so she came out to meet me; I call this very good service. I commented on the black sea salt and was delivered a smoked gray sea salt to try.
Just as I was about to dive into my chocolate soup with grilled fruit, a certain man-about-town and Richmond writer dropped by after work and was persuaded to have a few beers (note to my gluten-intolerant friends: the owners both have Celiac's so they carry Bard's gluten-free beer), giving me a terrific conversational partner on the topic of theater, architecture, Richmond neighborhoods and history, among other things. I didn't need to bring a companion after all; one just magically appeared.
Also magically appearing was a bowl of cracklins being offered by Carly, "if you want some." And who wouldn't? Freshly fried and still warm, I can't imagine who would decline such a delicious offering. Don't look at me; I helped myself and then came back for more.
Melissa showed us her $7 couch which she'd reupholstered herself; I lounged on it fainting couch-style and was told it looked good underneath me. It was extremely comfortable and she admitted to having fallen asleep on it frequently in recent months, only to be awakened by her 6:30 a.m. breakfast crew. There's a vintage wine storage unit that looks like a bottle of wine, another wine cabinet with the most amazing sliding door on it and several pieces of sculpture by local Nicholai Jerome that need to be seen.
Carly described their roles as, "I cook; she does everything else" and I asked them how, as a couple, do they have any time at all for a life. Apparently that's on hold for the moment, which is too bad for them but great for the eating and hanging out crowd. You know, people like me.
Luckily they're already married and since they work together, they don't have to be out and about with people hoping to meet the right one. You know, people like me.
Monday, April 26, 2010
No I Don't Want a Beating
You know you made the right dining decision when the person making your food is also making sexual wisecracks with you. Tonight that happened when I went to Olio for dinner before the theater. I wanted to try the Beef and Bleu (rare Angus beef, bleu cheese, mixed greens, dried fruits, walnuts, red onion, roasted red peppers, tomatoes and a Parmesan peppercorn dressing) and enjoy it in the front window so as to have a view of the impending storm rolling in.
Owner Jason saw me with the menu and said hello, followed by a pointed crack about,"Long time, no see." And although I hadn't been in since January, as I told him, "I've eaten at your lunch cart twice in the past month. Does that count?" Obviously pleased, he admitted that it certainly did, so I got in line and placed my order.
Afterwards, as I was perusing the beverage case, I heard Jason call out to the girl who took my order, "Who ordered the black and blue?" I turned and identified myself and he said, "So you want a beating , huh?" That was definitely not what I was expecting him to say, but I played along, "Maybe it is." But Jason was even quicker than me and shot back, "Welcome to Olio, also known as Jason's house of S & M." Well done, Jason, well done.
And speaking of beverages, there on the shelf was Sprecher's root beer, voted by the New York Times as the #1 root beer for its "well-integrated flavors, soft carbonation and creamy texture." And while the Washington Post will always be my newspaper of choice, I trust the NYT when it comes to taste-testing 25 root beers. Clearly those Sprecher folks in Wisconsin know what they're doing with root beer, at least to my taste. As a complement to my black and bleu, it was perfect.
The salad itself contained an array of delicious ingredients but the standout was the hunk of bleu cheese bigger than my palm resting on the side of the plate. It was a Dutch bleu and a pocketed (rather than veined) bleu to boot. Pocketed bleus were more common in old-school French bleu- cheese making, according to Jason when I asked him about what kind of heavenly bleu this was. Crumbling it into my salad, my fingers were actually turning blue, which I was happy to lick off.
The storm arrived mid-meal with lightening and the rain came down hard, making for some excellent dinner viewing. I lingered as long as I could without missing the 8:00 curtain at the Firehouse. Playing tonight and tomorrow is "365 Days/365 Plays Revisited." It was a tribute of sorts to playwright Susan Lori Parks' project to write a play every day for a year. I'm prolific, but good god, a play a day? It boggles the mind.
Tonight's production was a theatrical/dance piece with nineteen vignettes, each paying tribute to a different one of the 365 plays. "At the start, there's always energy" one character said early on and there was plenty of energy all evening. From "trust life" to "the first constant: remember who you are," the pieces hinted at a bigger story with some danced and some acted.
There was even a piece about the intermission with one character asking another, "Do you get it so far?" and the other pronouncing, "It's very post-modern." (Note to self: isn't everything anymore?) That concept was perfectly rendered in the "2-for-1" piece in which one character said to the other, "Think I'll go pick up a gun. There's that two for one sale down the street. Want me to get you a couple?," to which the other carelessly responded, "Yea, sure."
The final search for the meaning of life had the entire cast crawling around on stage, with one girl shouting, "I found it...oh, never mind" and back they all went to examining the floor for answers.
As we all know, there's no telling where a person might find the meaning of life. For all we know, it could be somewhere as unlikely as Jason's House of S & M. One just never knows.
Owner Jason saw me with the menu and said hello, followed by a pointed crack about,"Long time, no see." And although I hadn't been in since January, as I told him, "I've eaten at your lunch cart twice in the past month. Does that count?" Obviously pleased, he admitted that it certainly did, so I got in line and placed my order.
Afterwards, as I was perusing the beverage case, I heard Jason call out to the girl who took my order, "Who ordered the black and blue?" I turned and identified myself and he said, "So you want a beating , huh?" That was definitely not what I was expecting him to say, but I played along, "Maybe it is." But Jason was even quicker than me and shot back, "Welcome to Olio, also known as Jason's house of S & M." Well done, Jason, well done.
And speaking of beverages, there on the shelf was Sprecher's root beer, voted by the New York Times as the #1 root beer for its "well-integrated flavors, soft carbonation and creamy texture." And while the Washington Post will always be my newspaper of choice, I trust the NYT when it comes to taste-testing 25 root beers. Clearly those Sprecher folks in Wisconsin know what they're doing with root beer, at least to my taste. As a complement to my black and bleu, it was perfect.
The salad itself contained an array of delicious ingredients but the standout was the hunk of bleu cheese bigger than my palm resting on the side of the plate. It was a Dutch bleu and a pocketed (rather than veined) bleu to boot. Pocketed bleus were more common in old-school French bleu- cheese making, according to Jason when I asked him about what kind of heavenly bleu this was. Crumbling it into my salad, my fingers were actually turning blue, which I was happy to lick off.
The storm arrived mid-meal with lightening and the rain came down hard, making for some excellent dinner viewing. I lingered as long as I could without missing the 8:00 curtain at the Firehouse. Playing tonight and tomorrow is "365 Days/365 Plays Revisited." It was a tribute of sorts to playwright Susan Lori Parks' project to write a play every day for a year. I'm prolific, but good god, a play a day? It boggles the mind.
Tonight's production was a theatrical/dance piece with nineteen vignettes, each paying tribute to a different one of the 365 plays. "At the start, there's always energy" one character said early on and there was plenty of energy all evening. From "trust life" to "the first constant: remember who you are," the pieces hinted at a bigger story with some danced and some acted.
There was even a piece about the intermission with one character asking another, "Do you get it so far?" and the other pronouncing, "It's very post-modern." (Note to self: isn't everything anymore?) That concept was perfectly rendered in the "2-for-1" piece in which one character said to the other, "Think I'll go pick up a gun. There's that two for one sale down the street. Want me to get you a couple?," to which the other carelessly responded, "Yea, sure."
The final search for the meaning of life had the entire cast crawling around on stage, with one girl shouting, "I found it...oh, never mind" and back they all went to examining the floor for answers.
As we all know, there's no telling where a person might find the meaning of life. For all we know, it could be somewhere as unlikely as Jason's House of S & M. One just never knows.
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