Why Do These Things Happen to Me?

Sometimes the cosmos rewards a music lover like me with a perfect moment so random and cool that I just have to think, how lucky am I?

Walking down Walnut Alley to 17th Street, I see through the window that the retail space at the corner is being renovated. Rounding the corner, one of the workers standing at the door smiles at me, so I ask him what's up with the space. He tells me it's going to be a wine shop/art gallery and invites us to come in and meet the owner. She's perched atop a ladder, one guy is sprawled on the floor paining a sign that says "C'est le vin" and a couple others are moving things around.

I ask her about the bustle and she says that the neighborhood needed a wine shop for the locals; she invites us to look around just as my friend Nicholas appears on the sidewalk and comes in to say hello. As I walk around admiring the wine racks, ogling the tin ceiling and talking to the sign painter, the space is suddenly filled with the sound of a bass clarinet.

Nicholas, who plays bass clarinet for the Richmond Symphony, has spontaneously decided to test the acoustics of the room by playing. It is so amazing-sounding that everything else becomes secondary. One second it's an interesting new space and the next it's musical paradise; everyone is paused in their work by the moment.

When he finishes, he walks over to the owner and says, "Don't ever let anyone amplify their sound in here. It's perfect just as it is."

Actually, what was perfect was that a good friend randomly walked into the place where I just happened to be and began playing his instrument so beautifully that time may as well have stopped. And I told him just that when I saw him later at Alley Katz.

How in the hell am I so fortunate?

Wine! It's What's for Lunch

I had my first experience with the three-martini lunch today, except that there were no martinis involved.

It started innocently enough with lunch plans to meet a girlfriend at Bistro 27.

On the walk over, I ran into my Whiskey Wednesday buddy (who, sadly, no longer resides in J-Ward) but it provided plenty of catch-up talk about Against Me! and good Mexican in Carytown.

It's weird how we run into each other as much, if not more, than when we lived a block and a half apart.

So, on to the Bistro 27 experience.

First of all, let me state for the record that Carlos is one of my favorite chef friends in all of RVA.

He always produces amazing food and he always makes time for stellar conversation and insider insight; that he's devastatingly handsome doesn't hurt, either.

Because of my whiskey friend delay, my perennially tardy friend was already in place at the bar when I arrived, a highly unusual circumstance, since she's known for her lack of punctuality.

The server was just pouring her glass of vino verde when I arrived.

Since we were the only bar customers, I made it easy for her and just ordered the same.

No one should have to work too hard on a Thursday afternoon this beautiful.

Before we could even order, Carlos presented us with a gigantic bowl of mussels in a tomato/herb broth with fresh-out-of-the-oven sundried tomato focaccia.

Perhaps he thought we needed something to wash down with our vino verde, but whatever the reason for his generosity, they were scrumptious.

For lunch I had the Gorgonzola chicken salad and friend had the Mediterranean wrap (enormous, btw) and sweet potato fries.

We were smart to lay down a base because Carlos was happy to have, in his words, "two beautiful women at my bar," and things quickly devolved from lunch to an afternoon wine party, complete with wine reps dropping by and assorted other vendors coming in, joining in and moving on.

Like any good party, a rotating guest list makes for the best possible conversational possibilities.

Carlos had a brilliant idea for restaurant recycling, an especially critical issue since the city doesn't pick up commercial recycling.

His proposal was to work out an arrangement to use a couple of the city recycling trucks at off times once a week to collect restaurant recyclables, which would then be taken to one of the stations that process them.

Any proceeds from the abundance of glass and cardboard donated would go directly to the Central Virginia Food Bank.

As it is, many restaurateurs don't recycle because of the hassle of taking it to a site, so it sounds like a win/win situation (Portland or San Fran-like, even).

Thoughts from the peanut gallery?

My friend is dating someone, but tonight she has a date with someone else entirely, so we spent a fair amount of time discussing the male/female dynamic and how it plays out.

Carlos and I shared tales of marriage and our preference for being in a committed relationship rather than loose in the dating world.

Of course, there was a fair amount of finger-pointing at the opposite sex for the foibles that tangle us up in less-than-satisfactory relationships, but all in good fun.

Also on the table were the changes in 27's menu for the upcoming warm weather season. I was ecstatic to hear that he'll be adding the Bobo de Camarae, drooled over here, to his summer menu and, best of all, in an appetizer portion. Hallelujah!

This dish must be experienced and now anyone will have that opportunity to experience a true Brazilian dish with its African influences.

He told us about other Brazilian additions for the summer, but I'll leave you to discover them on your own.

I love that these dishes he usually only makes for his family are now available to the non-Brazilian masses (read: me).

Lest you think the abundance of wine limited us to only sex and restaurant talk, one of the most satisfying discussions of the afternoon was about the loss of childhood and the delay of the maturation process.

Not one of us could make an argument for the majority today having their act together by age 30.

How is it we have 12-year olds who are going on 25 and 28-year olds still trying to figure out life's basic requirements?

We didn't have an answer.

If I've made 27 sound like a great neighborhood joint where you'd want to hang out, it's because it is.

If you don't believe me, check out their Ste. Michelles Estates wine dinner next Thursday.

The last wine dinner I went to there was also five course (and the courses are generous, so pace yourself), presented by Bodegas Carrau (I'm still coveting my last bottle of the Tannat for a very special occasion) and this one is an even better deal.

It's only $55 and that's all-inclusive.

You will be full, you will be loopy and you will take food home. Just sayin'.

But I digress.

After a nearly four hour lunch, it occurred to my friend that she had a date to prepare for and, while my plans don't involve a date tonight, they do involve a music-loving friend, dinner, multiple bands and a meet-up with a favorite girlfriend afterwards.

Time to get cleaned up and exit the Ward for a while.

Should you care to check back, full report to come.

Applause at Rowland

Some messages are just for laughs; they have to be.

I got one today around 4;30 from a guy friend, simply saying, "Do you have plans tonight? Of course you do," to which I responded, "I do," thinking that would be the end of it (I was meeting a girlfriend for dinner).

But, no, some friends then inquire about what your plans are and ask to tag along.

And when something like that happens, I have to think it means that the universe wants to do some re-grouping for a good reason or possibly just for laughs.

That or my friend just has a lot of nerve.

It worked out fine and three of us met up at Rowland just as a large group from the Martin Agency started gathering.

It was our first time as a trio and you probably couldn't find a more disparate threesome, but it led to an evening of varied conversation, always a good thing.

Dysfunctional families, office prisons, stuff gatherers, the Kinsey report and income tax barely begin to describe where we went topically tonight.

I'm always curious about Rowland's spring roll of the day and tonight's sounded worth investigating; it was pork, cabbage, bacon and zucchini and, as I've stated here before, who can resist pig two ways?

The crispy-fried spring roll was a huge hit with everyone; I shared because the portion was generous and I wanted to talk about how good it was with people who'd understand.

There was much raving and even a bit of order regret.

I followed that with the hanger steak bruschetta with piquillo peppers and cannelini bean hummus.

The contrast of the flavorful meat with the earthy hummus made this dish my second home run; it was at this point that my girlfriend said, "I need to just start ordering whatever you order."

I wouldn't advise it but I appreciated the sentiment.

We were graced first with the presence of co-owner Bruce who shared his thoughts on losing business to snow and thriving brunches, but when he tried to talk golf, he struck out with us.

Once the kitchen closed, he headed downstairs and we were joined by his delightful wife Virginia; that's when the best dishing began.

Italian restaurants in particular were on her mind, leading to a discussion of which diners support which restaurants and why.

She shared her theory on the correlation between a restaurant's bathroom and its kitchen, getting affirmation all around.

Rowland is beginning some improvements to the restaurant this week; one thing under consideration is taking the partial wall between the dining room and kitchen and extending it up to the ceiling.

With several feet of open space above the wall, every sound in the kitchen is audible when the dining room is anything but ungodly noisy.

She told a great story of an especially difficult night in the kitchen when, due to a server error, there was a great ruckus.

Apparently voices were raised and pots and pans tossed about before settling into the business of correcting the problem.

When she stepped out of the kitchen to collect herself, she was greeted with a roomful of people applauding her noise-making.

Despite her star turn, they're thinking that closing off the wall will keep the kitchen performances in the kitchen (although they may be missed by an appreciative dining audience).

We wound down with a discussion of (what else?) how to meet a mate, since our little trio are all single and looking.

Virginia, as the long-time happily married one, offered up her Peruvian-accented advice.

Finally we acknowledged that it was time to leave so she could finish up and go, but apparently she had business to attend to first.

 "Now Bruce wants me to come downstairs so we can do some work," she smiled at us.

Work?

I know I've been out of the game for a while, but is that what we're calling it now?

Girls' Night Out with Guys (but what guys!)

What an interesting night.

We started out in search of a meal and covered so much more ground than expected.

Exes, music, restaurant critics and lust; all topics explored and resolved.

Okay, love issues still up in the air.

Wanting to increase my brain cells before killing a few, I began at a book reading at Fountain Books.

The writer was Tony Williams, the book was The Pox and the Covenant and it was about the colonial resistance to smallpox inoculation, of which a young Ben Franklin was a huge part.

The concept of using an African folk cure (immunization) was unacceptable to many at the time, not that we hadn't started using Native American folk cures for rattlesnake bites and the like.

I met Williams upon walking in: he was smart and funny and, as a former teacher, not above correcting the grammar of a student in the audience.

Nerd quotient fulfilled.

And then the real fun began. I collected my girlfriend and then it was just a matter of deciding where to go.

Tuesday means wine is half off at Acacia, Sette and Six Burner.

We both voted for Six Burner since we know so much of the staff and it turned out to be the right choice, because who else was eating at Six Burner?

That's right, Dale Reitzer, so we wouldn't have been the beneficiary of his cooking last night anyway.

The last couple of times I'd seen Josh, the bartender, had not been at Six Burner, but at the National and he'd read me the riot act about my absence at his bar, so I knew it was going to be a great evening when he sarcastically and enthusiastically welcomed us.

The kitchen, most of whom I know, too, seemed to be happy to see us as well, because it wasn't long before an amuse bouche arrived to accompany our half-price Albarino.

Picture a white anchovy draped over a Mediterranean potato salad of the tiniest pieces.

The flavors were transporting; we really could imagine eating it on a seaside balcony somewhere.

By this time, our twosome status had been augmented by the addition of a Y chromosome, a handsome, charming guy I am just getting to know these past few months but who knows my friend much better.

Freshly showered and shaved (as much as a bearded guy shaves), he was just what we wanted to shake up the dynamics of the evening.

Just as we're trying to decide on entrees, another surprise course arrived; this time it was Alaskan octopus with olives, tomatoes, potatoes, paprika, olive oil and lemon juice.

The consensus was that truly amazing octopus comes from our fiftieth state, although Chef Phillip Denny's preparation gets a lot of the credit, too.

Again with the Mediterranean flavors, it impressed us all as being worthy of vacation eating. Only then did we finally place our order.

In a nod to sundresses, motorcycle rides and spring in general, our next course was shad roe, sun choke puree, farm egg, arugula and Parmesan.

The fish cake-like shad roe was beautifully enhanced by the drippy egg yolk and delicate sun choke puree. Appropriately, the man among us did the final sopping of the last bits of roe and egg, as only men can do.

At this point we decided to switch grapes because the beauty of half price wine by the glass is being able to do so throughout the evening.

They went Malbec but not me.

Josh wanted me to try something new, in this case the most popular red grape in Austria, Zweigelt. I tasted the Austrian Cherry Zweigelt and happily took his recommendation; it was smooth, round and spicy with, surprise, hints of cherry.

With loins having already been a hot topic that evening, I'd ordered the lamb loin, salsify, local mushies, asparagus, carrot puree in a red wine sauce.

My girl had gotten my first choice, the barramundi and chorizo and my guy ordered the grilled quails with beluga lentils.

All three were superb and provided an ideal variety of tasting possibilities for the three of us.

That is, when we weren't discussing how happy and in-love parents set impossible role model standards for their children, a group which included all three of us.

It's fortunate to witness those kinds of successful long-term relationships, but we agreed that it sets such a high standard, not that we're not all still looking and hoping to nail it ourselves.

By this point, most of the staff was starting to trickle to the bar, leading to a discussion of the Ruth Reichl lecture I'd just seen and food critics in general.

Having been recently reviewed, the staff was way into the subject.

On my way to the bathroom, I stuck my head in the kitchen and thanked Phillip for a truly spectacular meal, enumerating the highlights and wanting him to know how appreciative we were.

His response was modest but his face looked as pleased as punch.

Once Josh changed into jeans and tucked a cig behind his ear, we knew we needed to find our next destination.

Balliceaux seemed likely to still be going, but actually, we just made last call.

Our bartender was Peter and he ended up having plenty of enticing things to discus with me.

Turns out we have very few degrees of separation on certain key people and that provided some excellent surreptitious chatting; he also held his own on the topic of music, so I hope to be back for more.

Meanwhile, gal pal had run into an "old friend" and they were deep in discussion about their past.

And then it was closing time.

Our final stop was Ipanema for dessert (chocolate cake with coffee icing and gluten-free carrot cake) and to do a recap of the evening.

We're both very fond of our guy pal, attributing it to his strong and elegant mom raising him to be the kind of guy that women seek out: intelligent, clever, hard-working and just generally fun to talk to and be with.

He scored major points with me when Josh and I were discussing upcoming shows and as I ticked off which ones I was soon attending, he started singing to me.

Karen, I'm not taking sides
I don't think I'll ever do that again
I'll end up winning and I won't know why

Are you kidding?

A man who knows that lyric off the top of his head?

So, yes, I now have a (strictly) friendly companion for the show and dinner next week. Life is good.

Karen, put me in a chair, fuck me and make me a drink
I've lost direction and I'm past my peak
I'm telling you this isn't me
No, this isn't me
Karen, believe me, you haven't seen my good side yet

And to that, I would say, well then show me your good side, gentlemen.

I'm all ears.

From the Lips of a Restaurant Critic

I can't imagine being a big city restaurant critic, but I was most definitely interested in meeting one.

That's how I ended up driving to Washington today to hear Ruth Reichl dish about being the New York Times restaurant reviewer for six years and the editor of Gourmet magazine for another ten.

Naturally, it was a terrible day to go the nation's capital.

The nuclear security summit that began today guaranteed closed streets, increased security and traffic slowdowns.

Large black cars, men in suits and sunglasses and motorcades were the order of the day, but I'm a native Washingtonian, so I wasn't in the least deterred.

I was amused by the warning signs as I was coming in on 395; they ominously said "DC Event. Expect Delays."

No, no, the circus being in town is an event; an international nuclear security summit is a tad more serious in my book.

Before the lecture, I was meeting a friend for dinner at Oyamel.

I'd read good things, I knew the Post's restaurant critic loved it and my friend validated it all.

They had an entire tequila menu, and after much deliberation, I got the Don Julio, recommended by a Mexican-American waitress I know; it was beautifully aged and not, as the menu noted, one of the "dry, aggressive" tequilas.

Of particular pleasure was the paper straw that came in my water glass; I can't remember the last time I used one.

During happy hour, they have a selection of tacos for $2 each and not just any tacos, but ones wrapped in their soft house made corn tortillas.

They had six different offerings and, curious about the variety, we got them all:

Grilled marinated chicken/guacamole/grilled green onions
Stew of shredded chicken/potatoes/chorizo/chipotle/red onion
Braised beef tongue/radishes/sauce of roasted pasilla chilis/tomatoes/onion/garlic
Confit of baby pig/green tomatillo sauce/pork rinds/onions/cilantro
Yucatan-style pit bbq pork/pickled red onion/Mexican sour orange
Shredded beef/ancho chili and cumin sauce/salsa of cilantro, tomatoes, onion and serrano chiles

It was my first time for tongue and it was wonderful; as a bonus, I got the whole thing because my friend wasn't interested.

We shared the rest and each had a distinct flavor profile, some hotter than others, so it would be tough to choose a favorite (okay, maybe the baby pig).

The only reason we didn't try the sauteed grasshopper taco was because it wasn't on the menu; next time we'll know to ask for it.

It did come highly recommended and even my tongue-shy friend agreed to share one with me next time.

When I slipped off to the bathroom, the very attractive woman sitting next to my friend engaged him in conversation so by the time I got back, she knew I'd come from Richmond.

Leaning across him, she unexpectedly asked what I thought of L. Doug Wilder.

As someone who did phone interviews with the man often during his tenure as mayor, I did have opinions; he can be utterly charming and funny but also stubborn and, as this woman put it, cantankerous.

Then came the kicker. "I used to date him," she divulged.

Well, well, what a good conversation starter that was! Nothing like going out of town for the scoop on a local.

Dessert was chosen by our French waiter and consisted of Oaxacan chocolate custard with Mexican-origin chocolate sorbet, passion fruit gelatin, chocolate and pumpkin seed crumble and fresh passion fruit seeds.

I might note that it was a delightful taste and texture combination and was a mere $6.

And then there was Ruth.

From her days as a member of a restaurant collective in Berkley, CA, she learned that she loved the pressure of restaurant cooking, the full dining room and row of tickets.

She also talked about how people don't just want food, they want an experience, theater even.

She acknowledged that big city critics still have power and as a result, critics must maintain anonymity in order to get a representative meal.

"Good critics give you the tools to experience it in a richer way; they give you guideposts to educate you."

She referred to social media such as Yelp, blogging and Twitter as essentially doing consumer reporting.

She said she loved the democracy of them because they don't give one person the power to decide for the consumer.

She explained her own style of reviewing when she brings friends along to "help."

They have to eat at least three courses and preferably five. They're not allowed to make any comments about the food, so as not to influence her review.

"It's not your opinion people are paying to hear," she would instruct her guests.

And they have to enjoy themselves and make it as normal an experience as possible.

Her comments about her years at Gourmet magazine were just as fascinating because, as she lamented, "I got to live through this time in magazines that will never exist again. Nobody gets to do that anymore."

By that, she was referring to staffers who were entitled to go on one research trip anywhere in the world annually as well as attend any culinary school they chose.

There were twelve test kitchens and eight people devoted to daily recipe testing.

Truly, like women wearing hats and gloves to work, that era is gone.

She doesn't blog, but does Twitter and her reason is that it's so easy.

Her tweeting intent is to point out the pleasure of the everyday, a philosophy I heartily subscribe to in my own blogging.

I'm just not succinct enough to keep it to 140 characters.

Afterwards, I got in line to meet Ruth and have her sign my book, which she'd graciously done for dozens of fans ahead of me, although I was not so demanding as to ask for her picture to be taken with me (not that I had a camera with me either).

When it was my turn at last, she asked about my interest in coming and I mentioned my enthusiasm for eating and writing about it.

Her inscription was "To Karen, Food bloggers: democracy in action. Ruth Reichl."

I couldn't have asked for a more appropriate sentiment.

So thanks to Ruth Reichl for helping me clarify part of my blog's raison d'etre; I'm helping democratize food writing, one Richmond post at a time.

Or as Ruth said, handing me back my book, "These days eaters have just as much voice as critics."

And after all, shouldn't we?

Stealth Bartering at Lemaire

Having seen Lewis Ginter's mausoleum this afternoon, it seemed only appropriate that I wile away the evening at the hotel he built here.

A friend messaged me this afternoon suggesting we have cocktails at Lemaire and discuss some bartering.

What kind of unemployed fool says no to that?

I've been hanging out intermittently at the Jefferson since 1992, when the radio station I worked for started doing a weekly promotion there.

I know the place and I feel comfortable there. And still, some things never change.

Like knowing that there will always be a wicker basket full of tastefully-arranged female products in the ladies' rooms.

That every member of the staff who lays eyes on me will greet me.

What I didn't expect was being taken for a local while I was there.

An elderly trio coming down the grand staircase stopped me and asked where TJ's was.

I pointed to it and they asked for more specific directions, which I provided, all the while wondering why they hadn't taken me for just another hotel guest.

Am I starting to look like a Richmonder or what?

I met my friend upstairs, where I got a simple iced 1800 and she got the Garden Gibson (all I know about it was what I could see: thyme, cucumber and a salt rim).

Our handsome bartender said that although it's not currently on the cocktail menu, it will be for summer; no doubt it will be a hit with its bracing gin coolness.

Her response upon tasting it was, "I like herbaceous!"

Although the purported purpose of our get-together was business-related, we had to initially cover a lot of other bases.

It's tough to focus on work without first discussing relationships, smart women and restaurant goings-on.

She told me about all the changes for the good going on at the Boathouse; it'll be interesting to see what Jimmy Sneed and his hand-picked crew can do to whip that place into a worthy destination instead of a chain clone.

Let's face it, any menu with the word "colossal" on it needs to be revamped.

We gabbed so long that eventually lights went off in adjoining rooms and the gate to Lemaire was closed.

They left just enough staff for the two of us (unbelievably, that would be three people) so we kept going and finally moved on to her business at hand.

She told me what she needed done, I got an idea of the scale of the project and how she envisions it turning out; happily, taking care of business took only fifteen minutes of the three hours we chatted.

Then it was on to the job site for a midnight visit to consider light levels (too dim? too glaring?), marvel at window heights, admire materials and praise the ReStore. 

I even got to peruse the menus-in-progress and saw all kinds of things I'll want to try.

Let's just say she had me at caramel and sea salt.

I think I'm really going to like this barter business.

The Dead Don't Whine

Question of the day: Why do people go on a walking tour if they don't like to walk?

Would you enter a marathon if you didn't run?

Honestly, some people just need to get a clue.

With absolutely nothing on the books for this afternoon, I decided at 1:50 to take the 2:00 Hollywood Cemetery walking tour.

As the last arrival, I have to say I was amazed to find forty or more people waiting for the tour to start; later, the tour guide said the average group is ten to twenty.

I just figured there were a lot of geeks like me (walking enthusiasts with a taste for history) free today, but as it turned out, that wasn't exactly the case.

Maybe it was partially an age thing, since probably two thirds of the group was 50+, but some of the loudest complainers were under 30 ("My age may be young, but my body's old," one girl whined).

When the guide told us that we were going to "march up that hill" the incredulous looks on some of their faces were priceless.

Clearly walking means different things to different people.

The guide said that the tour would cover 2 1/2 miles and last two hours.

It actually took 2 1/2 hours because our oversize (both literally and figuratively) group took so long to get from place to place.

Still, I really enjoyed myself. As many times as I've been through Hollywood, including writing and directing a video shoot of it for my last employer, I learned all kinds of new information today, so that was nerdily satisfying.

Before the purchase of the land for the rural-style cemetery, it was a dueling and hunting ground, not that I think for a moment that there aren't still fights and perhaps even a bit of scavenging that goes on there (the PBR cans I saw lined up next to a decorated tomb stone from 1874 attested to something).

I didn't know that the gatekeeper's residence is a Queen Anne kit house, bought from a catalog (or that in the 19th century you could buy burial monuments from a catalog).

Or that stones were left like calling cards at tombstones to indicate a visit from a loved one.

For the most part, I stayed at the front of the straggling pack so as not to have to deal with the painfully slow walkers, but I still heard some of the complaints from the group.

"Does she really expect us to walk for another hour?" and "I'm too old for this much exercise."

One woman said she had been planning to go to Disney World with her grandkids next month, but now she was realizing what a handicap she was going to be to them. How sad is that?

And two women showed up for a walking tour in dressy clothes and heels. Heels!

The guide told me that she's suggested to the tour's sponsor, the Valentine Museum, that they rate their walking tours according to difficulty to prevent people from being subjected to a more challenging walk than they want.

I wouldn't have minded scaring off the whiners either, but then the tour would have been down to about four of us and that wouldn't make much money for the Valentine, now would it?

Since cemeteries were where 19th century urban dwellers went for recreation (before the advent of public parks), I got a retro kick out of doing a Sunday stroll through the headstones and monuments, much like Richmonders did 150 years ago.

I'm going to guess that, like me, they just enjoyed it, rather than complaining all the while.

Not sure, but I don't think whining about walking was done back then.

Oh, for the good old days.

Reservation for Two at the Bar

I knew that Condaleeza Rice was in town tonight, which had the potential to interfere with my dining plans and I wasn't having any of it.

A friend and I had planned to meet at Bonvenu at 6:15 and this afternoon it occurred to me that restaurants were going to be slammed early tonight because of the Forum.

What to do, what to do?

To me, the simple solution was to call Bonvenu and ask for a reservation for two at the bar for 6:15.

The woman who answered the phone sounded a bit perplexed since they'd never taken a bar reservation before, but I assured her it was done in other cities.

Since it would be before the official dinner rush, she agreed.

When we arrived, the hostess said several couples had tried to cop our stools and looked disgruntled when told they were reserved.

Sorry about your bad luck, folks, but it pays to plan ahead.

Since this was our first time hanging out together, we started slowly with drinks; I had Vino Verde and he had a martini (which led to me belatedly learning the term "bruised" as it applies to one).

He's a regular blog reader so he took some time to explain how resentful he feels that I don't blog ahead of time about what I'm going to do, the better to alert people like him who can't keep up with the goings-on but want to.

It's not often that a guy wants you to tell him what to do, and it's not like I'm any sort of expert anyway.

We ordered with sharing in mind, the better to taste around the menu; we got the special of escargots in puff pastry, a mixed green salad with blood oranges, Manhattan clam salad and beggars' purses.

The clam salad with caramelized onions was a standout, with its simple but unusual pairing of the two stars of the dish.

As for the special of escargots, they were excellent. We were both expecting them to be surrounded by pastry, but in fact they were sitting atop a small ring of it.

All except one, which had escaped its pastry ring.

I commented to our charming bartender Paul (whom I know from previous conversation has a classic rock bent) that we had a rebel snail.

"Yea, but that'll turn out to be the tastiest one, " he assured me. "The rebels are always the most interesting ones."

At this point, I think we were talking about escargots, but I'm not entirely certain.

During a visit to the subterranean bathroom, one of the owners put her hand on my shoulder and asked if I was the one who had reserved the bar seats.

Affirming that, she complimented my smarts in doing so.

I thanked her for her wisdom in accepting the reservation; I can only hope it's the beginning of a trend.

In the past, they've offered to do it for me at Bistro 27 if I call ahead, so maybe there is a growing acknowledgement for those who prefer eating barside to tableside.

Bonvenu continued to fill up and it got noisy to the point that my friend and I were practically shouting to share stories with each other.

After a few hours of that, we headed down Cary Street to Bin 22 for a glass of after-dinner wine, where the music was stellar (Spoon, Cat Power, Neko Case) and the noise level far more conducive to conversation.

He's an interesting guy whom I met through his work in a local restaurant's kitchen, so he knows all the characters and had loads of good restaurant stories.

But it was talking about the quantum changes in our lifetime that really got us going; I've definitely found another great conversationalist, even if he did have to check in with his wife at 10 p.m. (which was actually kind of charming).

Leaving after our waitress gave us the hint that they were closing, he turned to me and said, "You win."

It seems that every time I went to the bathroom, he'd tried to find a way to engage her in conversation, never getting more than the briefest response.

But toward the end, I'd commented on her iPod's music, which led us to talk of shows we'd both seen and a burst of chatter from her.

"I tried every way to get her to talk, but you got her by talking music," he marveled.

Yea, I do that a lot.

Whatever Makes You Happy

For me, the hardest part of this recession is not the creative budgeting required to still have a life, it's the difficulty in justifying splurges. And, travel aside, my favorite splurge is buying art. It's funny, I can rationalize buying tickets to see bands perform every week of my life, but buying another piece of art for my apartment feels indulgent.

Last night I took in a terrific show at Black Hand Coffee over on Sheppard Street, a place I'd never even been in since I don't drink coffee or PBR. Showing were Bizhan Khodabandeh, James Callahan and Matt Deans in a show with a leaning toward line, although painting was also represented. I already have a James Callahan hanging in my hallway and I was interested to see a show that featured solo and collaborative work by two artists with whom I'm familiar.

I walked into the place, stopped at the first frame and I was in love. Seriously, Bizhan's 2008 silkscreen titled Softening Our Footprints totally captivated me. It's a triptych with the borders borrowed from an Iranian rug pattern. The three scenes depict a guy with a paint roller watching an approaching car, sneaking up on it and ultimately rolling over it to reveal a bike replacing the car, all in shades of pink and green. I knew as soon as I saw it that I had to have it.

I walked the rest of the show which is most definitely worth checking out (it's up through April) three times. A really big guy doing the same thing finally leaned over and pointed out his favorite piece to me, so I showed him mine; we agreed that the other had made a good choice, just not as good as our own.

I wanted that piece so badly, but how to justify an art purchase right now? Then it came to me! My birthday is next month and my folks always send me a check so this year they would be buying me a Khodabandeh to add to my walls. I was grinning ear to ear when I finally told Bizhan that I wanted to buy it.

And he was grinning ear to ear knowing he'd sold a piece on the first hour of the show. He'd told me his splurge during these tough times is martial arts classes, which he was cutting back on for economic reasons. I was happy to think that I was enabling him to continue splurging on them a while longer.

Like he told me last night, everybody has their something that makes it all worthwhile.

Let Me Put It This Way

You have to be careful when you blog about an evening in which you run into two other bloggers at the start and then finish the night with them. You don't want your version to differ too much from theirs and you don't want to over-share the good stuff. Here's the allowable version:

A friend and I walked into Bacchus and saw a practically full bar when I heard my name called. It was a couple of blogger girls, one of whom I'd met previously, and they played musical chairs to accommodate us. Our server told us that it would be a while before we could order food because the kitchen was so busy (actually, I think it was her that was in the weeds). When allowed, my friend and I had dinner (for me, a salad of Belgian endive, Granny Smith apples and Gorgonzola plus a bowl of smoked chicken chowder). The food arrived amazingly quickly considering her dire predictions. And speaking of dire, who would have expected to hear Cameo's "Word Up" at Bacchus of all places?

A friend joined them, an intuitive newcomer, who then proceeded to "read" us. She provided all kinds of accurate revelations about my friend along with suggestions for better ways to handle her issues. When it was my turn, she just stated the obvious about me and told me I'm always going to do well. Well, yeah, how long have I been hearing that?

Fan House was suggested next and that involved an extremely diverse crowd age-wise, as well as listening to high-volume club music from ten years ago. We observed a first, a "lime birdy" also known as a PBR with a lime. Now, I don't drink beer, so what do I know, but the beer-drinkers in our little group were as surprised as I was. Is it wrong, unnecessary or just stupid?

On the way to the bathroom, I ran into owner Sonny, who somehow remembered me from my first visit. He was just back from filming on a battlefield all day (his primary job, after all, is film making). He told me about the menu changes coming next week (all I'm saying is venison, fillet and 500 degrees). At the bar, too, so that's something to look forward to.

I'd gone to the bathroom to escape a very drunk guy who'd been doing his best to hit on me in his most unintelligible slur. Obviously he'd seen I was drinking Albarino, and when I got back from the loo, he had two glasses of white wine sitting cozily together, perhaps in anticipation of us doing the same. I grabbed my coat and the girls and I left en masse.

Racine involved multiple discussions of age and age-appropriate dating. One blogger had an equation for that: divide your age in half and add seven and voila! That's as low as you can go and probably lower than I would, but a formula makes it seem acceptable, no? And for beer-drinkers who had just ridiculed lime birdies, they surprised me by both having one. Nearing the end of it, one said, "Well, I never need to do that again!" and the other responded, "Really? Cause I definitely will!"

We used the age equation as an excuse to ask lots of guys their ages, including our server, the guy in the booth behind us, and a DJ from WRIR and then did our own math. The music was all over the place, although I can't remember the last time I heard Interpol's "Untitled" in a bar; I was so impressed I had to mention it to the bartender who agreed wholeheartedly, "Yea, I know, right?" he said. "I love that song. My band does a version of it."

When Faces' "Stay with Me" came on, a nearby guy started dancing and singing to it, telling us it was his all-time favorite song, to which I challenged, "And you were what, about four when it came out?"

He paused mid-move, started laughing and admitted, "Five." Then he sat down quietly.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Sweet and Sour Dating at Six Burner

Just when I think that I can't possibly stay this nerdy forever, a 99-year old woman shows up at the same lecture I do and I realize that I probably have decades of nerdiness ahead of me.

The lecture was in the Marble Hall of the Virginia Museum, which surprised me because I didn't think they were letting the outside world inside the building what with the impending grand reopening so close. It was the Richmond Archaeological Society's presentation of "Reconstructing Lost Wonders of the World: Phidias' Zeus Olympics and Athena Parthenos." Right up my alley; essentially, a one- hour talk about two big statues.

The speaker was Kenneth Lapatin and I knew I was going to like his talk when he referred to "this wonderful painting" of the Parthenon. I've always objected to the use of subjective words like "great" or "beautiful" to describe art, but he qualified his statement with, "Translate wonderful however you like," essentially making that very same point.

What I learned was that these enormous 40' statues of gold and ivory created for the Parthenon were intended to look too big for the space, the better to be awe-inspiring. And that the reflecting pool was to hydrate the ivory (like I knew ivory needed to be hydrated). And that amethyst was thought to prevent drunkenness.

After the talk, Lapatin was asked if he'd entertain questions. "Only if they're entertaining," he shot back and even the 99-year old in the front row cracked up at that (and btw, she had a date).

Leaving the museum, the sky clearly said rain was imminent, so I hurried over to Six Burner for dinner. In the past month, I have run into no less than three members of the 6B staff and all three had given me a hard time because I hadn't been in for a while; it was time to correct that and deflect any future crap-giving.

T recommended an offbeat Southern Rhone grape, counoise , specifically the Domaine Montpertuis Cuvee Counoise, because he thought I'd like it and he was right; it was rustic and earthy and just right for me. I sipped it while inhaling the fragrance of the stargazer lilies sitting at the end of the bar towering over me. Everyone there knows that my favorite stool is behind the flowers, so don't even try to move them out of my way. I like the camouflage.

It had just started to pour and the smell of the warm wet pavement competed with the lilies every time someone opened the door. It seemed early to be experiencing that smell, but it's definitely not too early for asparagus, in this case a bisque with rabbit and bacon, so I started with that. Bisques can be so heavy, but this one tasted of pure fresh asparagus with no creamy coating behind it. It put me in asparagus heaven with the chunks of rabbit and bits of bacon enhancing the spoonfuls they were in. I had to know, so I asked and, sure enough, there was no cream in it. It was butter that gave it the richness so that the asparagus could shine through.

Dinner was sweet and sour sweetbreads with sesame seeds and Dave & Dee's oyster mushrooms. It's not that I'm a big fan of sweet and sour dishes, but I'm a huge fan of sweetbreads and I've had Chef Philip Denny's before and knew that he's an expert with them.

There were four large sweetbreads, perfectly crispy and over a sweet and sour sauce that was not the least bit cloying or cliched; D & D's oyster mushrooms were every bit as good. The dish would be a great way to introduce a sweetbread virgin to this taste delight without being too exotic.

I chatted with a guy who lived a block away and didn't know Balliceaux had live music; he'd heard it was only for the "beautiful people," so I corrected that notion (I go.Case closed.)

A couple on a first date came in and I listened to the guy's nervous getting-to-know-you conversation ("Is this booth okay? We can move if you don't like it. It might be a little small. Are you sure it's okay?").

And in the center booth was a white-haired couple holding hands across the table and making eyes at each other. I like to think that they met at a lecture and fell for each other's obvious nerdiness.

Hey, it could happen (I hope).

Northside Noshing

What happens when two grammarians eat lunch together at Northside Grill?

They really do discuss split infinitives and the misuse of adjectives as adverbs.

What happens when two oldest children eat there? They discuss how vastly different their personalities are from their younger siblings.

What happens when two...never mind.

I've discovered a Census buddy who, because he has a wife who does the same, appreciates my smart mouth.

Who continues to dish it out because inevitably I dish it back.

In between counting dorm residents at VUU today, we slipped out to Northside Grill, just down Brook Road, for lunch.

He'd never been, but after first suggesting Great Wraps, I had to let him in on a little secret about myself; I don't eat at chain restaurants.

So I suggested a local alternative and we were off in my pollen-covered car.

My spinach salad was made better with the addition of goat cheese and cucumbers in addition to the standard hard-cooked egg and bacon.

He got a club sandwich which impressed him so much that he started hurling superlatives.

"I know it's hard to mess up a club sandwich, but this is the best one I've ever had." High praise from a new customer.

He told me that the only thing his wife misses about being married is the ability to flirt.

He said she's one of those women who can talk to strangers and come away fifteen minute later knowing their life story.

The same has been said about me on far too many occasions.

So, let's see, I know his religion, his church-going choice (not the same), his former weight and current weight, his childhood nerd habits, his music taste (duh), his birth order, his health issues and his cousin's sexual preferences.

And obviously, I discerned his taste in women, whether as friends, co-workers or partners: smart, sassy and quick with a quip.

Now that I think about it, that sounds like the ideal guy, too...as long as they're not married.

Blue Velvet Trumped by Beer Day

What do you mean it's National Beer Day?

As I approached Capital Ale House, there were boisterous people practically hanging out the front windows and bluegrass was blaring from within.

What the...?

I was there to meet a friend to see Blue Velvet and have an evening of surrealistic film noir.

Who were these people and how had beer replaced a cult classic?

The guy at the front sheepishly admitted that Blue Velvet had been bumped for Beer Day, but said it would hopefully be rescheduled (although he admitted that sometimes when a film gets bumped, it never gets shown).

Not a good way to build a following for your weekly movie series, my friends, but we all know beer rules at Cap Ale.

Seeing my disappointment, he at least had the decency to apologize repeatedly, as if he had let me down personally.

My friend said we should punish them by going elsewhere for dinner, but I'm guessing they got over the loss pretty quickly.

For something completely different, we went to Akida where we over-ordered and stuffed ourselves.

We got spicy seafood salad, spider rolls, dragon phoenix rolls, avocado rolls and a special of rice balls.

They were made of spicy tuna, crab meat, tobiko, cream cheese and rice, deep-fried with eel sauce, a wonderfully sweet complement to the balls.

I loved the spider rolls, with their soft-shell crab parts sticking out of the rolls. We took home almost as much as we ate.

Not that we weren't stuffed to the gills, but with nothing but time, we went over to Carytown for dessert.

The line at Bev's was long considering they closed in less than a half hour, but we waited patiently, watching the stressed faces of the counter people who probably aren't used to a run on ice cream in early April.

We both got hot fudge sundaes and strolled Cary Street as we ate.

And while there were your typical surreal Carytown moments - children on leashes, groups of beautiful young Czech girls admiring each other, studded traveler kids asking us for change for $2, a jocular Mideastern clerk at 7-11 insisting to the other clerk that I had not paid for my Washington Post - it couldn't really compare to severed ears and sadomasochism.

Still, it wasn't a bad showing for Richmond.

Or, as Jeffrey Beaumont says in Blue Velvet, "It's a strange world."

I've Always Been a Skirt Kind of Girl

We were both soaked by the time we got to our first stop at the Olio food cart at VCU.

Walking up Harrison to the compass, there was a flood of water coming from the alley beside the Pollak building and it was pooling at the curb.

Some idiot tore through the puddle sending a stream of dirty water all over the two of us.

The students on the steps of the building were wildly amused and we were drenched.

Luckily, the sunshine and breeze took care of most of it as we walked, but with shoes soaked through, I squeaked when I walked for a good while.

We'd had lunch at Olio before so I expected a taste delight, but it was even better than I knew.

First of all, the cart's iPod was playing O.D.B and that's not something you hear coming out of your typical VCU food cart, so we gave the cart guy props for that.

My friend got the special, a roasted pork sandwich with cheddar and ailoi and I got the Arc de Triomphe with roasted turkey, triple-creme brie and bacon.

He also ordered gazpacho and I got the corn and black bean salad.

Clutching our Olio bags and watching out for puddle jerks, we headed back to the car and drove to Maymont to join the throngs, having forgotten it was Easter break week and bound to be crowded.

We found a shady bench just inside the gates and tore into our meal.

The sandwiches were terrific, not just for the flavor combinations (triple creme anything makes me very happy), but for the bread.

Olio par-bakes the bread and then makes the sandwiches each morning; they then finish baking off the bread right there.

The heat coming out of that cart is sauna-like, but the results are so worth it.

Fresh baked bread takes a sandwich to a whole new level, not tasting grilled, but rather warm and crusty.

My cumin-infused salad was sublime and friend's gazpacho couldn't have tasted any fresher.

We walked off all that goodness by taking in the Tree Skirt Fashion Show put on by the VCU Sophomore Draping class.

Thirty-plus trees were draped in mostly muslin, some casual and apron-like, some fitted and Barbie-esque and many quite bridal-looking.

Trees of all sizes had been used, giving the effect of slender, young bodies, thicker, more matronly shapes and some downright fat trees with lumps.

Likewise, the skirts ranged from very basic to wildly creative and everything in between.

With many of the trees budding or in bloom, the state of the trees added a human element to the perception of trees as bodies.

My friend is a photographer so he shot trees and skirts from every possible angle, all the while encouraging the tree models with his comments like, "That's it, baby! You're working it. Billow some more."

No, he really said those things.

The skirts are only up through Friday but you can't go wrong with a walk through Maymont and the skirts are the perfect diversion on a sunny day.

After a while, I have to admit, I was getting partial to the shaded skirts, but that was partly the glare of the sun on muslin.

We stopped by the fountain on the way out just to feel the cooler air and were treated to the wind spraying the fountain all over us.

Somehow it felt like more of a treat than our first dousing.

How better to end my afternoon than with my second wet skirt of the day?

The Noise Ordinance is Pure Bologna

"I do NOT want to go to jail. They call fried bologna bacon."
~Chad of the Florentines

But we'll get back to the noise ordinance. Tonight was a night full of familiar faces, starting at Lamplighter where I met a friend for dinner on the patio. I had the Lamplighter, a mixed green salad with strawberries, nuts, Gorgonzola and red onion with chicken salad and a vanilla balsamic vinaigrette; my friend had his chicken salad as a a sandwich. The problem with Lamplighter is the difficulty of choosing your meal while all those beautiful donuts, pastries and moon pies stare you in the face. I find it's best to turn my back on them while looking at the menu. I can't concentrate on savory when sweet is at hand.

As we sat outside enjoying our meal, a musician friend walked up and I asked if I would see him at Gallery 5 for music tonight. But no, it seems he had a date with a girl who had written her phone number on her check when he was waiting on her the other night (aren't all musicians also servers?). Like me, he doesn't date people who don't enjoy live music, here, but since there had been a band playing that evening, he felt fairly confident about tonight's possibilities. Dating is hard work, I know, so I wished him luck.

Just as I got back to eating, I heard my name shouted from across the street and two friends I hadn't seen in six months rode up. They've been woofing in South America and just got back a few days ago, so it was just wonderful to see them. We made plans to get together and catch up on what they'd been doing down there and what they'd missed in rva. Jameson is one of my very favorite people and it made my day for him to happen on me that way.

Moving on to Gallery 5, I met up with an exhausted girlfriend and, a bit later, a tardy music fanatic friend. I was looking forward to a superb evening showcasing four folk-type bands: Low Branches, Englishman, Jonathan Vassar & Speckled Bird and The Florentines. The band order had been arranged sonically, quietest to loudest, to accommodate the last band using a drum set. That order only became an issue later.

Low Branches' hushed sound could almost be considered lullaby-like in its beauty. Englishman, from Kentucky, have a 70s singer/songwriter sound with just guitar, keyboards and harmonies; I remembered being so impressed the first time I heard them. I've been following JV & SB for almost two years now and their sound just keeps getting richer and more mature. Jonathan even gave me a shout-out from the stage about my comment to him earlier about the line -up (it was essentially the First Listening Room bands with his band also included). Come on, everyone likes to hear their name from the stage, right?

By the time the Florentines came on, it was nearing the bewitching hour of 11 and the lead singer acknowledged the noise ordinance that is being enforced of late, with musicians being charged with misdemeanors. "I've been to jail once and I don't want to go back," he said, explaining why they would do two loud songs and then switch to quiet mode for the rest. It was when he heard that it was 11:02, that he made the comment about bologna.

Even a music lover like me wouldn't expect a guy to pump up the volume when he risks a bacon-less stay in jail. Life, even a few days, without bacon? That's asking too much of anyone.

In fact, that seals it. I won't be having a second visit to the City Jail.

My First Time in City Jail

And you should see the bruise I have to show for it.

It's front and center on my right thigh, about the size of an egg with a purple outside and two yellow splotches inside.

It was a raised knot of a bruise for the first couple of days, but now it just hurts to roll over on it in bed, if that gives you any idea.

And all because I was upholding the Constitution.

Like thousands of other unemployed citizens, I'm doing work for the Census Bureau right now, which has not involved going house to house.

Instead, my crew and I are assigned to group locations, like nursing homes, dorms, shelters and, yes, the City Jail.

I thought I'd be in the majority when I blithely made the comment going through security that it was my first time in jail.

Either people had been there to help out a "friend" or they'd been on some wholesome sponsored tour (Girl Scout, school, Cub Scout) when they were younger.

Yet again, my life experience put me in the minority; luckily I'm used to that.

After two days spent at the jail transcribing information about inmates onto Census forms, all I can say is, parents, please think twice before naming your newborn.

What chance does a child have when his given name is Hitler? Or Demon? Or even Lovely?

I made a comment about poor name choices to the Lt. Colonel who was my contact person at the jail and he told me about an inmate they'd had named Marijuana.

"I started to ask if he had brothers named Cocaine and Heroin, but I honestly didn't want to know," he said in a resigned voice.

The process of cataloguing almost 1500 inmates (in, it should be noted, a facility meant to hold 800) was tedious but not particularly painful until the very end.

As I was gathering up all the data we had collected, I made a sudden move to grab a sliding pile of papers.

Immediately, my thigh collided with the keyboard tray on the table at which I was working.

It was just a thin piece of metal projecting out a couple of inches, but I was in full-steam-ahead mode, eager to be finished and escape the basement of the City Jail.

I wish I had a juicier story to explain my jail bruise, but that's the best I've got.

I like to think that I took one for the Constitution, but really all I did was mess up my leg at the start of shorts season.

Let's hope it goes away quickly.

Soaking Up Spring at Black Sheep

The modern personality is based on passivity and learned helplessness.

No, that's not some post-modernist bumper sticker, but rather the underpinnings of Matthew Crawford's book, Shop Class as Soulcraft, a treatise on making a living with your hands.

Speaking at the Grace Street Theater tonight, the UVA research fellow and owner of a motorcycle repair shop on South side extolled the benefits of occupations that fix and build stuff.

Citing the demise of shop classes in our schools during the 1990's, Crawford made a case for the expectation of seeing a direct effect of one's actions in the world, something that doesn't happen in most office situations.

He emphasized that manual labor, including trades such as electrician, auto mechanic and plumbing, can't be outsourced.

"You can't fix a leaky toilet over the Internet," he said, stating the obvious.

I found it fascinating to hear a lecture about how trades suffer from low prestige in our culture from a man with multiple degrees (granted, and a repair shop) and a book that had garnered national attention.

But then I don't necessarily go to lectures to agree with what I hear, but to hear a point of view.

In any case, it gave my friend and I plenty of fodder for conversation during our walk to Black Sheep where we found a nearly full house.

Our friend was waiting tables, giving us a chance to catch up on mutual friends and have some girl talk about the beauty of long soaks in the bathtub during the summertime.

She's thinking of putting a clawfoot tube in her backyard for that very purpose.

We started with the roasted piquillo peppers stuffed with goat cheese, with Chorizo sausage over white bean salad with chimichurri sauce.

Admittedly, we were starving after so much talk of hard work, but this dish was a superb combination of flavors and textures.

The white bean salad had bits of barely cooked carrot for crunch and the seasoned goat cheese melted in my mouth.

Since it's spring, we went on a pea fiesta, she with the fryer-free cod crusted in herbs and Parmesan over green pea puree and me with the Field of Greens salad of locally gown mixed lettuces with peas, asparagus (more spring!), broccoli and shrimp and perfectly seasoned with a Green Goddess dressing,

My salad was such a beautiful shades of green combination as to elicit comments from both of us about its coloring.

As striking as it was, it tasted even better, with the peas being the star; it's definitely the time to be eating them.

Dessert had been presumed from the moment our server friend had seen me, but the LaBrea Tarpit (chocolate creme brulee) was a first for my girlfriend.

Gluten-intolerant, she usually has to tiptoe around dessert menus, so I knew this one would be a big hit with her.

We ate it as daintily as we could considering we were using tablespoons.

Yes, really, but that's what we were given.

Walking home from Carver to J-Ward, a guy in his car at the light said, "You look like spring with your pink legs!"

Considering the temperature is still in the mid-70s, I feel like spring.

Not quite ready for a summertime soak in my tub, but not far off either.

My tub is a claw foot, but isn't outside; it is, however, under a great big window and from it I can see the sky, hear the birds and smell the warm air, so it's certainly got its charm.

And I won't have to worry about mosquitoes.

Celebrating One Year of Music Madness at Ipanema

Allow me to give you the highlights from tonight's Live at Ipanema's first anniversary show featuring Long Arms.

During a discussion of adding a drummer to his band and being a former drummer, I express surprise to Prabir on just now learning these things about him.

"I'm like an onion, Karen. Peel me and cry." Or laugh hysterically at his melodrama.

Talking to a group of classical musicians, somehow the subject of instruments as smoking devices comes up.

"Man, a bassoon would work great and look really awesome, " one enthuses. "No, man, a French horn. You could stick your whole face in it to inhale."

During the performance, though, one sticks his fingers in his ears to protect his delicate hearing from the rock and roll.

Wow, seriously?

The small crowd before the show begins to grow and my girlfriend and I check out the new arrivals.

"He's attractive, don't you think?" I ask her. "It's spring. Everyone looks cute," she pronounces nonchalantly and I realize she's right.

It's mating season and everyone's feeling it.

A well-known scene face comes in and mentions his new bruise.

I apparently don't react in a sufficiently impressed manner, so he drops trou and shows me a black and yellow mess covering half his thigh and most of his ass.

Now I'm impressed.

Long Arms begins by playing a few songs with the addition of Prabir and then they're joined by the violinist and bass player from Prabir and the Goldrush.

James, the leader of Long Arms, notes that, "It's like being born up here. It's really tight." The trade off for the tight quarters is an enhanced sound and lots of energy.

The crowd eats it up.

To celebrate the first year of the series, cake is served after the show.

The moist yellow cake with coconut icing and blueberry filing is amazing and somehow gluten-free.

If I hadn't had that enormous piece of double chocolate cake right before the band played, I might have enjoyed it even more, but I'm not about to turn down cake.

For that matter, I'm not about to turn down live music, clever conversation or ogling new arrivals, either.

Having to admire hematomas though, that I could probably do without.

Of Soave and Michelangelo on a Sunday

If I needed a good reason for a road trip on a beautiful sunny Easter afternoon, could there be a better one than Michelangelo?

So I headed out scenic Route 5 for the plantation row drive to Williamsburg and the Muscarelle Museum to see "Michelangelo: Architecture as Anatomy, Drawings by the Master."

I drive down to the 'burg for exhibits on a fairly regular basis because they always seem to curate interesting shows.

But after that drive, my first stop is inevitably the Ladies' Room, which houses some of the best artifacts in the museum.

In each stall is a metal tray from which hang two rolls of t.p. and at the end of the tray is a built-in ashtray with a small sign above it, saying "Please Refrain from Smoking."

I've been around a while and I still don't remember many public stalls with ashtrays, so I always get a kick out of seeing these, imagining somebody's grandmother having a pee and a cig in there.

What a different world that was.

I'd arrived in time for the docent-led tour, figuring I could peruse the show on my own afterwards.

Given the extremely fragile nature of nearly 500-year old drawings, the lighting in the gallery is extremely low, forcing the viewer to lean in to get a good look; I loved this intimacy with the art.

Michelangelo considered drawings inferior (and p.s., never considered himself a painter) so most of his were destroyed at his death to maintain the illusion of a genius from whom masterpieces sprang without work.

To have a dozen of them in one room was a breath-taking experience.

We began with "Study for a Soldier in the Resurrection," causing one guy to comment what a perfectly appropriate work it was to be viewing today (He's baaack!).

The depiction of a muscular soldier holding down the lid of a sarcophagus as Christ tries to arise from it showed Michelangelo's superb handling of anatomy, in his opinion, the key to success in architecture.

And that was the theme of the exhibition; the master wrote that,"Only a man who can reproduce the human figure and is well-versed in anatomy knows anything about architecture."

Another drawing had a sonnet at the top followed by a cut-out of a cornice in the lower corner.

It was intended as a template for workers creating the cornice, although it had not a single measurement, only the diagram of its shape.

Michelangelo presumed that the workers could figure how to execute based solely on this.

The show was as fascinating for the writing on the paper as well as the drawings.

Since he never intended for them to be seen, there were pages with poems and drawings, inventories and drawings even lists and drawings.

In many cases, the words written on the back bled through the drawing on the front, requiring the viewer to decipher what the eye read as a double image.

It was like having a window into the man's head, full of stream-of-consciousness doodles and words.

Watching his thought processes play themselves out over the course of one sheet of paper was absolutely amazing.

Driving back up Rte. 5 behind all kinds of motorcyclists enjoying the view along with me, all I could think of was opening the bottle of Inama Soave Classico in my frig (scored in a barter with Julia at River City; I hemmed her new jeans, she gave me a bottle of good Italian wine) and sipping it on my back porch as I processed what I'd just seen.

An afternoon in a room with Michelangelo drawings, poems, sonnets and ideas.

If that doesn't resurrect a soul, I can't imagine what would.

National Feed Me Month

On the off chance you don't keep up with such things, April is National Anxiety Month, National Humor Month And National Welding Month. And if you weld together anxiety and humor, what do you get but National Poetry Month?

Fittingly, 1708 Gallery hosted a poetry reading tonight featuring three Richmond poets. The art-filled gallery was an ideal place for a reading and the exhibit, "Home is Where the Art Is: 1708 Gallery's 20th Annual Art Auction Benefit" displayed a fascinating exhibit of close to 50 artists. I may have come for poetry, but I made sure I saw the entire exhibit before actually sitting down.

The poetry began with Joshua Poteat who appropriately set the tone by saying to the audience, "Nice day to be inside, huh? Thank you for being nerds." That's a greeting that speaks to someone like me. He showed his own nerdiness when just after finishing a poem, he pointed to his book and said, "There's a missing period there that I've never noticed before," and tossed the book aside in mock-disgust (or perhaps true disgust). The imagery in his poems was beautiful; I particularly liked "Illustrating the Theory of Twilight."

Tarfia Faizullah's poetry had a distinctly outsider's viewpoint, both as a woman and as one with roots in India. She began by telling us that due to limited time, she had begun writing sonnets because, "...fourteen lines, how long could it take?" Writing her "Poetry Recitation at St. Catherine's School for Girls" caused Anglican flashbacks for her since she'd gone to a girls' school in Texas. It also caused high school remorse because, "I want a do-over. I could do it so much better now." Couldn't we all?

Daniel Coudriet teaches at UR and admitted right up front that tonight's reading was the first he'd ever attempted without contacts or glasses. After a bit of trombone playing, he found a comfortable distance from which to read by saying, "I see something that looks like the English language." He introduced "Lyric" by saying, "Just imagine it's snowing," which was no easy feat given today's weather. He warned us before reading "The Rodents" that "This is weird stuff and they get weirder." For him, the high point came when he was able to read the phrase "disembodied beard" something he never expected to say, much less write.

Since it was a walking night, I ambled down to Bistro 27 afterwards for dinner and conversation. Chef Carlos was sitting at the bar since it wasn't busy yet, so he patted the stool next to him and I took it. We had loads to catch up on since the last time I'd been in I'd had a friend with me and we hadn't been able to really talk. He had a lot to share about the hoopla at First Fridays, soliciting other restaurant owners' opinions on hot topics and the differences in red and white wine for him. He insisted I drink his wine of choice for the evening, the Tenuta San Pietro Gavi di Gavi and it was the ideal sip for a spring evening.

"Are you going to eat?" he asked me after a while, jumping up as he asked. As opposed to...what, I asked. Yes, of course I was there to eat and he told me to sit tight and he'd make me a favorite Brazilian dish, one his momma used to make for him and that he now recreates because he loves it so much. He warned me of its African influences (because of Brazil's enormous African slave population) which only made it sound more appealing.

The next thing I know he was placing a plate of Bobo de Camarae in front of me. It appeared to be shrimp and all he'd tell me is that the sauce had coconut milk, yucca and palm oil. What I register is that it's incredibly fragrant and enticing. He says that it's usually served over rice, but instead he wants me to use bread for sopping up the sauce. It does have a distinctly African flavor to it and my only regret is coming to the end of something so unique and delicious Still, I'm incredibly grateful for such a gift; I only wish it were on the menu.

Next up was the highly-recommended asparagus bisque with crab meat and fried proscuitto. Nothing could have topped the Bobo, but this soup was excellent. It had a depth of flavor that could have stood on its own without the crab and pig, but they were such lovely additions in their own right. Let's find more reasons to fry proscuitto, shall we?

There were three other regulars at the bar tonight and one was the high society type, so he regaled me with stories of foxhunts and charity balls until I was bored (and perhaps a but tired of his drunken repetition). Luckily, it was easy enough to move myself and my glass of Villa Mt. Eden Cabernet Sauvignon to a nearby table to allow for catch-up chats with certain staff members who wanted a private audience; they're a varied cast of characters with whom I have ongoing discussions on completely different subjects.

Once the bar cleared, I returned to finish out the evening talking to Carlos about being Catholic, customers who arrive tanked and changes in restaurant service. He's got a new manager whom I know well from other restaurants and he added his witty two cents to the discussion.

When it was finally time to go, neither approved of me walking home alone so offers were made. I chose the manager's proposal to be walked home (he'd biked) over being chef-driven because my intention all along had been to make it a neighborhood night and walk.

Besides, the only way to end a night that involves poetry reading and the gift of bobo de camarae is with a leisurely walk through Jackson Ward. If you haven't tried it, I highly recommend it.