When Friday, Saturday or Sunday don't work out for friends to get together, there's always Monday. My friend had had the day from hell at work and I had prior commitments for every day she suggested us meeting this week and before you know it, tonight seemed like the perfect fallback.
With slim pickins for restaurants on Blue Monday, we defaulted to Lemaire. Open every day and with a guaranteed bar until midnight, it's the go-to place on off nights and times. The Discovery wine list has a nice selection of wine gems all under $30 and we always seem to find people eager to chat, so it's practically a no-brainer.
While waiting for her to arrive, a guy sat down near me and pondered what to order. I recommended the Berkshire pork chop, telling him that Paula Deen had ordered it when she'd come to Lemaire recently.
I didn't bother mentioning that they'd been out of it that day and she'd had to settle for her second choice. In any case, he took me at my word, thanking me later for steering him right on that big ole chop (enjoyed with two Dogfish 60-minute IPAs).
Another guy near him got the over-the-top barnyard burger ( sunny side up egg, bacon and duck foie gras sauce) and suggested I get a napkin and have part of it with him. Tempted as I was, I demurred. I can't share burgers with every strange man who asks.
My friend's hectic day and the rain had slowed down her arrival and by the time she sat down, she practically needed an IV for the bottle of Haras sauvignon blanc we ordered. She announced that tonight's topic was OPP (other people's problems) and proceeded to tell me some juicy ones.
I finally interrupted because while the wine was going down easily enough, I was starving. I had the hearts of romaine followed by the brandy peppercorn-dusted beef tartare with horseradish and she got the filet mignon burger with a side of black-eyed peas (the barnyard burger containing too many exotic components for her taste). Food finally!
Our bartender Mark, who had served us just a few weeks ago when we'd been in, came over to me at one point, beaming. "Beruit!" he told me with obvious satisfaction.
During my last visit, we'd had an extensive music chat and while trying to make a point, the name of the band he wanted to use as an example had escaped him. It had finally come back when he saw me and he shared it with obvious pride. Now we could finish our chat.
My friend was feeling better about her harried day after we ate, although still checking her phone far too often for my taste. We ordered the Barboursville Pinot Grigio, also off the Discovery list, and were finally getting to OLL (our love lives) when two smiling faces appeared unexpectedly next to my stool.
It was RVA's two best mixologists, Bobby from Julep and Arthur from Acacia, who'd come over to say hello and chat. I never get to see these two together (well, except at Bobby's housewarming party and that's a bit vague), so it was great fun to have them both in front of me at once.
Bobby has been promising me that he'll do a tequila tasting at Julep for months. At his high-end rum tasting a while back, customers were treated to some of the most inspired and obscure rums imaginable while Bobby cooked up delicious small plates to accompany each one.
I wanted to see the same done for my beloved tequilas and was thrilled to hear that it's finally going to happen ("Although you know more about tequila than I do," Bobby insisted.) He already has Arthur and me as confirmed guests, despite Arthur's smart-assed comment that "Tequila is the new vodka." Say it isn't so.
Once they went off to eat and watch football, my friend and I resumed our wine-fueled conversation. She's very much enjoying watching me start a process she began months ago, so I was peppered with suggestions about how to handle my new choices.
I may be out of practice, but I think I can figure it out as I go along. No fallback necessary.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Visiting the Body Farm
Never take a photographer to an exhibit of photography.
Oh, they're helpful when it comes to explaining things like collodion (I get it, a wet plate process), but they can also be a bit of a buzz kill with their over-analysis of it all.
This afternoon's trip to the VMFA to see "Sally Mann: The Flesh and the Spirit" was yet another couple date (he's the photographer, she's the charming girlfriend), which is fine now that I'm saying yes to more than just couples.
Given the size of the show and the range of years covered, I found it fascinating to see the work of the 20-something Mann morph into that of the almost-60 year old.
The show is a visual representation of what was written on one of the placards in the exhibit: the evanescence of youth yielding to the slow decline of age and inevitable death.
Sounds a bit harsh to me, but I suppose it summarily says it all.
I found the black and white nudes of her husband as evocative for their titles as for the images.
The Quality of the Affection from 2006 showed his back, a sensuous curve partly in shadow.
2009's Was Ever Love was a shot of his head in profile, in repose with his eyes closed. Both somehow spoke to a long-standing relationship.
In another gallery, the large-format pictures of her children's faces were so softly focused as to become completely abstract from a short distance.
All sense of a face was lost to unrecognizable forms; eyes and freckles were strokes and blobs.
Looking at the color prints from the then-controversial "Immediate Family" series taken in the early 90s, I tried to adopt the mindset of those who had found the photos objectionable.
Instead I saw only the personal detailing of a mother's appreciation for her children's beauty and the fleeting time that is childhood.
My favorite of the bunch was Bloody Nose with her son's bare torso, and mouth covered in bright red blood.
Despite all the blood, he looked as blase as any kid who has regular nosebleeds would.
As one who had more than my share of youthful nosebleeds, it was as evocative an image of childhood as any for me.
Probably the most visually arresting photographs were those taken at the University of Tennessee Forensic Anthropology Center (aka the body farm).
Since I haven't seen a whole lot of decomposing and decaying bodies, I was irresistibly and morbidly attracted to the images of bones, skulls and maggots.
I saw a decomposing raccoon on Monument Avenue last week and I've been describing it to anyone who will listen ever since.
Pictures of decaying corpses trump even that.
My couple date didn't have time to stay for the documentary What Remains: The Life and Work of Sally Mann, so this documentary dork will definitely be going back to watch it.
I've already heard from people who saw it this weekend that it's riveting for what it reveals of her intent and processes.
I'll let my photographer friend accompany me only if he agrees to keep his matter-of-fact opinions to himself.
Art is in the eye of the beholder, even the non-artistic beholder like me.
Oh, they're helpful when it comes to explaining things like collodion (I get it, a wet plate process), but they can also be a bit of a buzz kill with their over-analysis of it all.
This afternoon's trip to the VMFA to see "Sally Mann: The Flesh and the Spirit" was yet another couple date (he's the photographer, she's the charming girlfriend), which is fine now that I'm saying yes to more than just couples.
Given the size of the show and the range of years covered, I found it fascinating to see the work of the 20-something Mann morph into that of the almost-60 year old.
The show is a visual representation of what was written on one of the placards in the exhibit: the evanescence of youth yielding to the slow decline of age and inevitable death.
Sounds a bit harsh to me, but I suppose it summarily says it all.
I found the black and white nudes of her husband as evocative for their titles as for the images.
The Quality of the Affection from 2006 showed his back, a sensuous curve partly in shadow.
2009's Was Ever Love was a shot of his head in profile, in repose with his eyes closed. Both somehow spoke to a long-standing relationship.
In another gallery, the large-format pictures of her children's faces were so softly focused as to become completely abstract from a short distance.
All sense of a face was lost to unrecognizable forms; eyes and freckles were strokes and blobs.
Looking at the color prints from the then-controversial "Immediate Family" series taken in the early 90s, I tried to adopt the mindset of those who had found the photos objectionable.
Instead I saw only the personal detailing of a mother's appreciation for her children's beauty and the fleeting time that is childhood.
My favorite of the bunch was Bloody Nose with her son's bare torso, and mouth covered in bright red blood.
Despite all the blood, he looked as blase as any kid who has regular nosebleeds would.
As one who had more than my share of youthful nosebleeds, it was as evocative an image of childhood as any for me.
Probably the most visually arresting photographs were those taken at the University of Tennessee Forensic Anthropology Center (aka the body farm).
Since I haven't seen a whole lot of decomposing and decaying bodies, I was irresistibly and morbidly attracted to the images of bones, skulls and maggots.
I saw a decomposing raccoon on Monument Avenue last week and I've been describing it to anyone who will listen ever since.
Pictures of decaying corpses trump even that.
My couple date didn't have time to stay for the documentary What Remains: The Life and Work of Sally Mann, so this documentary dork will definitely be going back to watch it.
I've already heard from people who saw it this weekend that it's riveting for what it reveals of her intent and processes.
I'll let my photographer friend accompany me only if he agrees to keep his matter-of-fact opinions to himself.
Art is in the eye of the beholder, even the non-artistic beholder like me.
Sprouting Sprigs at a Wine Dinner
There are wine dinners and then there are wine dinners. Tonight's Farmers' Dinner at Sprout featuring Manakintowne Specialty Growers and Virginia wines was outstanding.
Sprout's usually casual, funky ambiance was transformed by china, candles and flowered napkins into a chic little bistro full of foodies and wine enthusiasts. Even owners Jamie and Laurie were looking especially fine tonight. Since they're usually closed on Sundays, the whole thing felt a little like a stealth get-together.
The folks from Manakintowne Growers were there and were introduced. The wine representative outlined the wine to come and what it would be paired with.
She had asked Chef Charlie to speak about his food, but he'd declined saying only, "I know it's good." Having known Charlie for close to five years now, that's about what I would expect him to say.
And it was good, very good. The first course was a salad of mixed greens, including fennel, kale, arugula, cilantro, green tomatoes, red onions, local apples and toasted seeds in a toasted seed dressing. The Barboursville Brut, the ideal start to the meal, held its own with the mouth-watering selection of greens.
Next up was a winter squash ravioli with pumpkin, Twin Oaks tofu and local feta paired with Horton Petit Manseng. I wasn't familiar with the grape, so I got a kick out of learning that this southwestern French wine was used to baptize kings instead of water. How lucky are we that this grape does so well in our Virginia soil?
The wine had beautiful aromas and as much as I liked the first sip, it was after the first bite of the creamy ravioli that it became obvious how well it had been matched to the dish. I couldn't help having more of this rich full-bodied dry white wine. Yum.
The main course was Polyface chicken ballantine, boned and stuffed with sausage, apples and oysters over a turnip puree with chard. The combination of flavors, reminiscent of Thanksgiving, called for something un-wimpy to stand up to it and the Horton Norton succeeded admirably.
After having read Todd Kliman's book about the Norton grape, The Wild Vine, this past summer and tasting various Nortons around the state to supplement my reading, I already knew I was a fan of this grape.
It's known as one of those that people either love or hate (probably more of the latter). My table mate (another solo diner) hadn't had it, but she took one sip and pronounced, "Funky! I love it!" mirroring my feelings about Dr. Norton's discovery. More Norton, please.
Our last course was a rosemary berry chocolate torte served with the Horton Xoco chocolate wine. So that you know, Chef Charlie used to be the pastry chef at Balliceaux and I was devoted to his desserts there.
Many was the time that I'd go in and have wine and dessert and he'd always come out and solicit my opinion about his latest creation. So I knew going in that tonight's dessert would be spectacular.
The little round torte was thickly iced with rosemary and chile-infused ganache. The red coulis on the plate was made from, among other things, beets and purple carrots, conveying a natural sweetness. The whipped cream on top was dense and cocoa dusted. Divine does not begin to describe it.
Each plate came with a sprig of rosemary on it and my table mate pointed and said, "Look, your sprig is blooming." Given my recent change in direction, it seemed an appropriate metaphor. As she noted, no one else's sprig was in flower. I'll take it.
The Xoco worked well with the dessert, although it wasn't to my taste once the torte was history. As our wine rep told us, there is no middle of the road with this wine. I would say it has its place with the right dessert, but it was a bit much for me.
When Charlie came out finally, he suggested we tell our friends about the new wine dinner series at Sprout and I told him that was a bad idea.
If we go blabbing about it, our spots may be snapped up next time and then where will we be? I'm kidding of course, but at $35 all inclusive, this meal is easily the best wine dinner deal in the city. Creative food, great ambiance and an interesting crowd added up to something special on a Sunday night.
As I was leaving, I stopped to talk to owner Jamie about the new stage they've just put in the back room. I'd seen my first show on it Friday night and wanted him to know how much a short person appreciated the raised musicians. He's tall, but he got it.
And since they weren't having music at Sprout tonight, I made my way to Grace Street for the latest installment of Live at Ipanema, featuring the honey-voiced Lydia Ooghe. The usual suspects were there, musicians, DJs, my Folk Fest drummer friend and even my new show buddy put in an appearance.
With no fanfare or introduction, Lydia (and the always-impressive Trey Pollard on pedal steel and Jake Thro on bass and backing vocals) launched into her set and the crowd quieted right down, all except for the overly-loud trio at the end of the bar.
Since these shows are recorded, most people have the courtesy not to compete with the music, but not these three. I saw several people cast dirty looks their way but they were oblivious. Ah, well. I just tuned them out as Lydia no doubt did.
Afterwards, I had a chance to work the room, reliving the Sufjan show with the Richmond Scene and discussing the upcoming week's amazing lineup of shows with a musician friend, a guy who has three shows this week. Bring it on, we agreed.
There are Sunday nights and then there are Sunday nights. This was one of the really good ones.
Sprout's usually casual, funky ambiance was transformed by china, candles and flowered napkins into a chic little bistro full of foodies and wine enthusiasts. Even owners Jamie and Laurie were looking especially fine tonight. Since they're usually closed on Sundays, the whole thing felt a little like a stealth get-together.
The folks from Manakintowne Growers were there and were introduced. The wine representative outlined the wine to come and what it would be paired with.
She had asked Chef Charlie to speak about his food, but he'd declined saying only, "I know it's good." Having known Charlie for close to five years now, that's about what I would expect him to say.
And it was good, very good. The first course was a salad of mixed greens, including fennel, kale, arugula, cilantro, green tomatoes, red onions, local apples and toasted seeds in a toasted seed dressing. The Barboursville Brut, the ideal start to the meal, held its own with the mouth-watering selection of greens.
Next up was a winter squash ravioli with pumpkin, Twin Oaks tofu and local feta paired with Horton Petit Manseng. I wasn't familiar with the grape, so I got a kick out of learning that this southwestern French wine was used to baptize kings instead of water. How lucky are we that this grape does so well in our Virginia soil?
The wine had beautiful aromas and as much as I liked the first sip, it was after the first bite of the creamy ravioli that it became obvious how well it had been matched to the dish. I couldn't help having more of this rich full-bodied dry white wine. Yum.
The main course was Polyface chicken ballantine, boned and stuffed with sausage, apples and oysters over a turnip puree with chard. The combination of flavors, reminiscent of Thanksgiving, called for something un-wimpy to stand up to it and the Horton Norton succeeded admirably.
After having read Todd Kliman's book about the Norton grape, The Wild Vine, this past summer and tasting various Nortons around the state to supplement my reading, I already knew I was a fan of this grape.
It's known as one of those that people either love or hate (probably more of the latter). My table mate (another solo diner) hadn't had it, but she took one sip and pronounced, "Funky! I love it!" mirroring my feelings about Dr. Norton's discovery. More Norton, please.
Our last course was a rosemary berry chocolate torte served with the Horton Xoco chocolate wine. So that you know, Chef Charlie used to be the pastry chef at Balliceaux and I was devoted to his desserts there.
Many was the time that I'd go in and have wine and dessert and he'd always come out and solicit my opinion about his latest creation. So I knew going in that tonight's dessert would be spectacular.
The little round torte was thickly iced with rosemary and chile-infused ganache. The red coulis on the plate was made from, among other things, beets and purple carrots, conveying a natural sweetness. The whipped cream on top was dense and cocoa dusted. Divine does not begin to describe it.
Each plate came with a sprig of rosemary on it and my table mate pointed and said, "Look, your sprig is blooming." Given my recent change in direction, it seemed an appropriate metaphor. As she noted, no one else's sprig was in flower. I'll take it.
The Xoco worked well with the dessert, although it wasn't to my taste once the torte was history. As our wine rep told us, there is no middle of the road with this wine. I would say it has its place with the right dessert, but it was a bit much for me.
When Charlie came out finally, he suggested we tell our friends about the new wine dinner series at Sprout and I told him that was a bad idea.
If we go blabbing about it, our spots may be snapped up next time and then where will we be? I'm kidding of course, but at $35 all inclusive, this meal is easily the best wine dinner deal in the city. Creative food, great ambiance and an interesting crowd added up to something special on a Sunday night.
As I was leaving, I stopped to talk to owner Jamie about the new stage they've just put in the back room. I'd seen my first show on it Friday night and wanted him to know how much a short person appreciated the raised musicians. He's tall, but he got it.
And since they weren't having music at Sprout tonight, I made my way to Grace Street for the latest installment of Live at Ipanema, featuring the honey-voiced Lydia Ooghe. The usual suspects were there, musicians, DJs, my Folk Fest drummer friend and even my new show buddy put in an appearance.
With no fanfare or introduction, Lydia (and the always-impressive Trey Pollard on pedal steel and Jake Thro on bass and backing vocals) launched into her set and the crowd quieted right down, all except for the overly-loud trio at the end of the bar.
Since these shows are recorded, most people have the courtesy not to compete with the music, but not these three. I saw several people cast dirty looks their way but they were oblivious. Ah, well. I just tuned them out as Lydia no doubt did.
Afterwards, I had a chance to work the room, reliving the Sufjan show with the Richmond Scene and discussing the upcoming week's amazing lineup of shows with a musician friend, a guy who has three shows this week. Bring it on, we agreed.
There are Sunday nights and then there are Sunday nights. This was one of the really good ones.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Importance of Being Mortal
I get cold easily so I don't like this cooler weather; ergo I'm not the fan of Fall that so many people are. That said, Fall means Brunswick stew and I do love me some Brunswick stew.
So today I went to Oregon Hill to pick up my quart of stew from the do-gooding folks at SynerGeo, a group dedicated to enriching the lives of children and families through the arts, education and cultural awareness (coincidentally, the three things I seek out every single day besides eating).
Yesterday they'd had their big, black cauldron out on Laurel and Idelwood cooking it up and today I was collecting the fruit of their labor, in all its smokey goodness.
The choices were regular stew (yes, please!), bacon-less stew (but, but everything's better with bacon!) and vegan stew (so not me). I'm not constitutionally capable of choosing anything bacon-less if there's any possibility of pig so "A" was the option with my name on it (both literally and figuratively actually).
With that important task out of the way, I moved on to the Mediterranean Society's lecture, "The Importance of Being Mortal: Achilles and Greek Heroism" at UR (and, it should be noted, I found Jepson Hall without a single missed turn or unnecessary loop. A first for me on that god-forsaken campus).
William and Mary's Micheal Halleran gave the talk about the first great hero of Western literature in an engaging voice using plenty of popular vernacular ("Achilles' mom was a hottie,") and with references to pop culture (I may not watch TV but I know a Sopranos reference when I hear one).
Achilles dilemma of choosing fame, glory and an inevitable early death or settling for an average life and eventual death were the thrust of the talk.
That and the "culture of shame" that judged men and created their definition of self by their standing in the community. Clearly ours is not such a culture; isn't shame exactly what gets so many people their 15 minutes of fame?
Of course, without Homer having memorialized Achilles in The Iliad, he would have been just another forgotten warrior. Halleran shared that Alexander the Great lamented that he didn't have a Homer to poetically commemorate his great deeds so that his legacy would live on. It's true, we all need a Homer, don't we?
I have a good friend who recently started dating a guy 11 years her senior and suddenly she's become aware of her own mortality (it was there all along, I swear, but apparently she hadn't noticed). I saw her last week and she kept saying, "We're all going to die. Like soon. What's the point?"
I don't know, a potential 50 years or more with this new love? I think she's looking at its all wrong. Personally, I'm going full-speed ahead knowing very well I'll eventually be dead meat.
She needs to take a page from Achilles' book and embrace her mortality. Look where it got him.
So today I went to Oregon Hill to pick up my quart of stew from the do-gooding folks at SynerGeo, a group dedicated to enriching the lives of children and families through the arts, education and cultural awareness (coincidentally, the three things I seek out every single day besides eating).
Yesterday they'd had their big, black cauldron out on Laurel and Idelwood cooking it up and today I was collecting the fruit of their labor, in all its smokey goodness.
The choices were regular stew (yes, please!), bacon-less stew (but, but everything's better with bacon!) and vegan stew (so not me). I'm not constitutionally capable of choosing anything bacon-less if there's any possibility of pig so "A" was the option with my name on it (both literally and figuratively actually).
With that important task out of the way, I moved on to the Mediterranean Society's lecture, "The Importance of Being Mortal: Achilles and Greek Heroism" at UR (and, it should be noted, I found Jepson Hall without a single missed turn or unnecessary loop. A first for me on that god-forsaken campus).
William and Mary's Micheal Halleran gave the talk about the first great hero of Western literature in an engaging voice using plenty of popular vernacular ("Achilles' mom was a hottie,") and with references to pop culture (I may not watch TV but I know a Sopranos reference when I hear one).
Achilles dilemma of choosing fame, glory and an inevitable early death or settling for an average life and eventual death were the thrust of the talk.
That and the "culture of shame" that judged men and created their definition of self by their standing in the community. Clearly ours is not such a culture; isn't shame exactly what gets so many people their 15 minutes of fame?
Of course, without Homer having memorialized Achilles in The Iliad, he would have been just another forgotten warrior. Halleran shared that Alexander the Great lamented that he didn't have a Homer to poetically commemorate his great deeds so that his legacy would live on. It's true, we all need a Homer, don't we?
I have a good friend who recently started dating a guy 11 years her senior and suddenly she's become aware of her own mortality (it was there all along, I swear, but apparently she hadn't noticed). I saw her last week and she kept saying, "We're all going to die. Like soon. What's the point?"
I don't know, a potential 50 years or more with this new love? I think she's looking at its all wrong. Personally, I'm going full-speed ahead knowing very well I'll eventually be dead meat.
She needs to take a page from Achilles' book and embrace her mortality. Look where it got him.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
A Lot of It is Luck*
I was out of town today, so I missed the opening of the Sally Mann exhibit at the VMFA.
Boo-hoo for me.
The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.
Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.
My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.
Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.
I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.
She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.
In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.
Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.
The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.
I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.
When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.
I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.
None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.
I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.
I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).
After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.
They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.
Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.
I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.
I was in full rescue mode.
After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.
The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.
I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.
With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.
Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.
If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.
I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.
My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.
"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.
The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.
6B Heaven.
Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.
I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.
I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.
We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).
"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.
"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.
He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.
I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.
We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.
Talk is cheap, after all.
"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."
And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.
No complaint from my cage.
This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.
Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.
To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."
Boo-hoo for me.
The only way I could deal with that loss was by attending the artist's reception for Mann's show "Afterlight" at Reynolds Gallery tonight.
Walking into the gallery was like seeing a who's who of the local art scene.
My only complaint was that there was so much schmoozing going on that actually seeing Mann's photographs was a challenge.
Not easily deterred when it comes to photography, I persevered and was rewarded with landscapes showcasing the eerie beauty of the south: Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, and naturally Virginia.
I ran into a photographer I know who works at Zeus (she'd taken the evening off for this momentous occasion) who, unlike me, had already seen and been wowed by the VMFA show.
She told me that many of the photographs in the show were her original inspiration for taking up photography back in the 90s.
In fact, she was pinching herself to believe that she was in the same room with Mann.
Not able to resist making my way around the gallery twice, I dwelt on some photographs more than others, trying to figure what about them spoke to me.
The theme of death and decay hung over most of them in the most beautiful possible black and white way.
I left with a feeling similar to that of having just finished reading Faulkner.
When I finally left the art elite behind, I took the path of least resistance and walked up a block to Six Burner.
I hadn't gotten the memo, but clearly it was the place to be tonight; every table was occupied and I heard that the next available table was in two hours.
None of which concerned me because while the bar was mostly full, a trio of guys at the corner had conveniently left my end stool free.
I slid in under the canopy of tiny white light-lit branches.
I was there to enjoy some wining, dining and crowd-watching, with the recently-back-in-action Josh as my conversational partner (bartender interrupted...by babyhood).
After ordering my Saint M Riesling and the 6B wings (done with spicy harissa butter), I insinuated myself into the conversation of the three charming guys to my right while they ate a cheese platter.
They'd come in looking for a table and had settled for a snack at the bar, so I asked what their Plan B was.
Wanting to stay parked (because, deep down, we all want to park once and party twice...or even thrice when we can), they'd decided to mosey down to Bellytimber for dinner.
I found it tough to understand how they could have had Six Burner in their sites and been willing to settle for Bellytimber, so I tried to get a feel for their restaurant preferences.
I was in full rescue mode.
After a lengthy discussion of what restaurants we all liked (and didn't), the consensus was that they should eat at Rowland's.
The butterbean cake alone was worth five minutes of discussion and if you've had it you know why.
I felt better for their change of plans and can only hope that they do too.
With any luck, they'll give me a full report back.
Another guy was telling me about when his 95-year old father was in a nursing home and his physician prescribed 4 ounces of vodka over ice twice a day, once at 4:00 and once at 4:30.
If his "Rx" hadn't arrived by 4:02, apparently his dad was on the phone questioning its whereabouts with the staff.
I can certainly understand a near-centenarian needing his meds.
My spicy wings arrived and with them, server T brought me a wad of paper towels.
"We don't usually need these at Six Burner, but here you go," he said.
The six meaty wings packed some Tunisian heat but had great flavor and crispy skin. I ate, I sucked bones and I destroyed my wad of paper towels with my buttery fingers.
6B Heaven.
Really, I kept meaning to leave but Josh kept sucking me back into a good conversation ("So how was the Sufjan show? I know you must have been there.") and interesting bar sitters kept arriving and leaving, so I stayed put.
I stayed through the uptight couple who tore through their drinks and appetizers and never once smiled at each other.
I stayed long enough for Chef Philip to come out of the kitchen and give me the opportunity to compliment his wings.
We got to talking about recently running into each other at Aziza and how much we both love that place despite the fact that so many people don't know it (Aziza? Where's that?).
"It's going to end up like Mama Zu's, where you can't get in," he predicted.
"We'd better go while we can," I agreed.
He's right. It's not big and eventually it will be discovered and mobbed.
I stayed through the discussion with Josh and a local musician about winning the lottery.
We all agreed that our needs are simple and that banking the principle and living off the interest was the way to go.
Talk is cheap, after all.
"I'm rich in spirit," Josh proclaimed. "This bartending gig is just a social experiment."
And we're the experiment's guinea pigs, the musician and I presumed.
No complaint from my cage.
This guinea pig is just fine with what she's expected to do.
Just don't be too cocky about predicting the experiment's results.
To paraphrase Sally Mann, "A lot of it is just luck."
A Trouble-Free Evening
We have a new vinyl store four blocks from my house and I decided to start my evening there because they were having a Joanna Newsom listening party.
Walking by the nearby barbershop, the three guys out front bid me good evening, but they weren't looking me in the eye. "You're looking at my tights, aren't you?" I teased them. One grinned and asked, "What kind of trouble you planing to get in to tonight with those on?"
I told him I hadn't decided yet, that the evening was young. I was wearing the Berlin tights, the ones pictured in my blog profile, the ones that always get comments. They sure know how to make tights in Berlin is all I'm saying.
Inside Steady Sounds, I enjoyed an unexpected trip down memory lane by starting with their older vinyl rather than the new stuff I'd actually be listening to.
Some of the records I saw were an absolute blast from the past, reminding me of people and experiences I hadn't thought about since I was listening to that stuff. I grinned, I laughed out loud; I was having a great time listening and looking.
The unexpected pleasure of it all was happening on several albums that will thrill a friend when I present them to him for Christmas. Miles Davis' Birth of the Cool was probably the best find, but several other jazz fusion titles will definitely score points. Thanks, Joanna.
When I passed by the barbershop leaving, one guy tipped his hat and told me, "Be safe tonight." That was my plan.
From there I went down to Sam Miller's, not a place I frequent, to meet a friend, an acquaintance (last night's Native Virginian) and two strangers. The place was mobbed, they had a duo playing live and there wasn't a seat left at the bar so we took a table in the back.
The strangers were associates of the NV so there was much good-natured ribbing among them, but also satisfying talk of Shakespeare (I got asked to an upcoming performance), church-going (thanks, I'd rather not) and, surprise, music. As for food, the table was laden with sliders, mini-crabcakes and 75-cent oysters. Not a bad happy hour sampling.
The music talk paid off because one of the guys had somewhat similar enough taste to mine to make for some good chatting, despite his passion for Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd (I try not to judge but it's difficult).
Best of all, he told me about an upcoming show in an unlikely location that I probably wouldn't have heard about otherwise. And this is why I talk music with strangers.
The male contingent wanted us to join them for dinner, but I had music plans. Sprout was hosting a show called "We, the Bearded" featuring Aquariums (from Tennessee), Nick Woods (of Orioles) and one of my favorite local collectives, the Colloquial Orchestra.
The C.O. billed this show as "100% less amps and 100% more accordion and harmonica"; this was a nod to the inclusion of Jonathan Vassar, the hands and lungs behind those two additions.
Nick played first and he was mid-song with his eyes closed when I took my seat. When he finished that song, he opened his eyes, noticed us newcomers and said, "It got more crowded while my eyes were closed."
Playing a new song, he ended it with, "Where did that come from?" after playing an unplanned C-chord. The audience certainly didn't have any idea. Favorite lyric: "I need a partner in crime." Close second: "I wanted this bridge to sound like Nirvana Unplugged."
Martin of Aquariums played next, explaining that his songs were usually performed with a full band, so we were hearing just the heart of the songs.
He boasted of having recently written two songs before noon and rewarding himself with a Mexican lunch. "Four margaritas and two beers. Then I took a nap." Favorite lyric: "A peck on the lips with a new love, more beautiful yet than your love."
Last up were the multi-talented Dave Watkins and his revolving crew, commonly known as the Colloquial Orchestra. He explained that there is always one practice session for a C.O. show, at which they decide who's playing what instrument and what music they'll play.
Dave then said, "At Sunday's rehearsal, Jonathan had a great song. We're not going to play that." What they did play was dulcitar, psaltery ( a triangular member of the harp/zither family and played with a bow), ukulele, accordion and harmonicas, resulting in beautiful music. Vocals were limited, although Jonathan's dulcet tones did show up during a few of the pieces.
The last time I'd seen the C.O., here, they were loud, electric, huge-sounding and, be still my heart, so post-rock sounding that I gushed to them afterwards in appreciation for the set I'd just heard.
Tonight's set was the complete opposite, quiet, unamplified, but still huge sounding in the acoustic soundscapes they were creating. It would have been dangerously close to acoustic post-rock if such a thing existed. And, yes, I gushed to them afterwards (but not until I'd had a teachable moment on the psaltery), but I think they're used to that.
Walking down Morris Street toward my car, I passed a trio, one of whom said hi and then, "I like your tights! A lot!"
That's the kind of trouble I got into with the Berlin tights tonight. The guys in front of the barbershop had nothing to worry about.
Walking by the nearby barbershop, the three guys out front bid me good evening, but they weren't looking me in the eye. "You're looking at my tights, aren't you?" I teased them. One grinned and asked, "What kind of trouble you planing to get in to tonight with those on?"
I told him I hadn't decided yet, that the evening was young. I was wearing the Berlin tights, the ones pictured in my blog profile, the ones that always get comments. They sure know how to make tights in Berlin is all I'm saying.
Inside Steady Sounds, I enjoyed an unexpected trip down memory lane by starting with their older vinyl rather than the new stuff I'd actually be listening to.
Some of the records I saw were an absolute blast from the past, reminding me of people and experiences I hadn't thought about since I was listening to that stuff. I grinned, I laughed out loud; I was having a great time listening and looking.
The unexpected pleasure of it all was happening on several albums that will thrill a friend when I present them to him for Christmas. Miles Davis' Birth of the Cool was probably the best find, but several other jazz fusion titles will definitely score points. Thanks, Joanna.
When I passed by the barbershop leaving, one guy tipped his hat and told me, "Be safe tonight." That was my plan.
From there I went down to Sam Miller's, not a place I frequent, to meet a friend, an acquaintance (last night's Native Virginian) and two strangers. The place was mobbed, they had a duo playing live and there wasn't a seat left at the bar so we took a table in the back.
The strangers were associates of the NV so there was much good-natured ribbing among them, but also satisfying talk of Shakespeare (I got asked to an upcoming performance), church-going (thanks, I'd rather not) and, surprise, music. As for food, the table was laden with sliders, mini-crabcakes and 75-cent oysters. Not a bad happy hour sampling.
The music talk paid off because one of the guys had somewhat similar enough taste to mine to make for some good chatting, despite his passion for Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd (I try not to judge but it's difficult).
Best of all, he told me about an upcoming show in an unlikely location that I probably wouldn't have heard about otherwise. And this is why I talk music with strangers.
The male contingent wanted us to join them for dinner, but I had music plans. Sprout was hosting a show called "We, the Bearded" featuring Aquariums (from Tennessee), Nick Woods (of Orioles) and one of my favorite local collectives, the Colloquial Orchestra.
The C.O. billed this show as "100% less amps and 100% more accordion and harmonica"; this was a nod to the inclusion of Jonathan Vassar, the hands and lungs behind those two additions.
Nick played first and he was mid-song with his eyes closed when I took my seat. When he finished that song, he opened his eyes, noticed us newcomers and said, "It got more crowded while my eyes were closed."
Playing a new song, he ended it with, "Where did that come from?" after playing an unplanned C-chord. The audience certainly didn't have any idea. Favorite lyric: "I need a partner in crime." Close second: "I wanted this bridge to sound like Nirvana Unplugged."
Martin of Aquariums played next, explaining that his songs were usually performed with a full band, so we were hearing just the heart of the songs.
He boasted of having recently written two songs before noon and rewarding himself with a Mexican lunch. "Four margaritas and two beers. Then I took a nap." Favorite lyric: "A peck on the lips with a new love, more beautiful yet than your love."
Last up were the multi-talented Dave Watkins and his revolving crew, commonly known as the Colloquial Orchestra. He explained that there is always one practice session for a C.O. show, at which they decide who's playing what instrument and what music they'll play.
Dave then said, "At Sunday's rehearsal, Jonathan had a great song. We're not going to play that." What they did play was dulcitar, psaltery ( a triangular member of the harp/zither family and played with a bow), ukulele, accordion and harmonicas, resulting in beautiful music. Vocals were limited, although Jonathan's dulcet tones did show up during a few of the pieces.
The last time I'd seen the C.O., here, they were loud, electric, huge-sounding and, be still my heart, so post-rock sounding that I gushed to them afterwards in appreciation for the set I'd just heard.
Tonight's set was the complete opposite, quiet, unamplified, but still huge sounding in the acoustic soundscapes they were creating. It would have been dangerously close to acoustic post-rock if such a thing existed. And, yes, I gushed to them afterwards (but not until I'd had a teachable moment on the psaltery), but I think they're used to that.
Walking down Morris Street toward my car, I passed a trio, one of whom said hi and then, "I like your tights! A lot!"
That's the kind of trouble I got into with the Berlin tights tonight. The guys in front of the barbershop had nothing to worry about.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Telling All at Edo's
If I say my friend and I about froze to death during lunch and left with major garlic breath, can you guess where we ate? Of course that would be everyone's favorite Edo's Squid (everyone does not include me; favorite is a mighty big word), an easy walk from work for her.
This lunch was a rescheduling of last week's postponed happy hour, which was a makeup for the week before's canceled plans. She's a really good friend, knows all the skeletons in my closet and we both feel so much better after getting together.
By this time, we should also know better than to try to cover multiple weeks' worth of life during lunch, even one that lasts two hours...especially without wine (which she actually ordered but the waiter forgot).
I was first there when she breezed in, kissed me on the head, sat down and said, "Okay. What?" expectantly. I laid it out and she reacted more calmly than any of my friends so far, although with just as much surprise and delight at the news.
It's pretty obvious that every single one of my friends has been of the same opinion about my life, just waiting for me to get it. Got it!
And because she's known me for so long, she needed to know the factors that caused the change of heart. Girlfriends ask the best questions; guy friends puff up their chests and tell you they were right all along. And sometimes, sure enough, they were. You guys want me to shout it from the rooftops?
Then we ate. Lunch was crostini with white beans and arugula followed by penne with broccoli rabe, olive oil, garlic, ricotta and parmigiana. I've no doubt but I'll be sweating out garlic essence tomorrow, not that I have a problem with that (just saying I'd definitely avoid me on my walk tomorrow).
Our discussion of me finally turning a page led to an impassioned discussion of my friend needing to do the same but in other areas of her life. I'm hardly one to espouse change after being stuck in the same place for so long, but if I can step up the plate, then I know my multi-talented friend could. Me as role model? It boggles the mind.
We asked about chocolate options for dessert but given our frozen fingers, chocolate gelato held little appeal. Friend requested hot tea or decaf, neither of which they had, so we settled for tiramisu. And by settled, I mean enjoyed while discussing the importance of moving toward getting what you ultimately want.
Now that I've identified that, I can join in the discussion, garlic breath and all.
This lunch was a rescheduling of last week's postponed happy hour, which was a makeup for the week before's canceled plans. She's a really good friend, knows all the skeletons in my closet and we both feel so much better after getting together.
By this time, we should also know better than to try to cover multiple weeks' worth of life during lunch, even one that lasts two hours...especially without wine (which she actually ordered but the waiter forgot).
I was first there when she breezed in, kissed me on the head, sat down and said, "Okay. What?" expectantly. I laid it out and she reacted more calmly than any of my friends so far, although with just as much surprise and delight at the news.
It's pretty obvious that every single one of my friends has been of the same opinion about my life, just waiting for me to get it. Got it!
And because she's known me for so long, she needed to know the factors that caused the change of heart. Girlfriends ask the best questions; guy friends puff up their chests and tell you they were right all along. And sometimes, sure enough, they were. You guys want me to shout it from the rooftops?
Then we ate. Lunch was crostini with white beans and arugula followed by penne with broccoli rabe, olive oil, garlic, ricotta and parmigiana. I've no doubt but I'll be sweating out garlic essence tomorrow, not that I have a problem with that (just saying I'd definitely avoid me on my walk tomorrow).
Our discussion of me finally turning a page led to an impassioned discussion of my friend needing to do the same but in other areas of her life. I'm hardly one to espouse change after being stuck in the same place for so long, but if I can step up the plate, then I know my multi-talented friend could. Me as role model? It boggles the mind.
We asked about chocolate options for dessert but given our frozen fingers, chocolate gelato held little appeal. Friend requested hot tea or decaf, neither of which they had, so we settled for tiramisu. And by settled, I mean enjoyed while discussing the importance of moving toward getting what you ultimately want.
Now that I've identified that, I can join in the discussion, garlic breath and all.
"The Banquette is on Fire"
When you have a picky eater for a friend, sadly it severely limits your restaurant choices. Knowing this, it's just easier to choose a place I know she likes and avoid the dozens of others she doesn't. That's how we ended up at Bouchon yet again.
Which isn't a bad thing because I always get hugged and kissed by the bartender and chef there so my evening always starts right. For that matter, it always ends right, although I never know quite what that ending will be. Witness tonight.
My friend had suggested dinner so that we could update each other. Seriously, those were the words she used (I know, it sounds like a corporate memo). She arrived first because of my online music chatting and was already sipping her wine when I slid into the stool next to her (that would be after the hugging and kissing).
As usual, the bargain-priced bar menu proved irresistible and we ordered from it. I had the soup (cream of asparagus), salad (chef's house salad) and onion tart with olives (my sweet and salty fix).
After far too much discussion (I told you she was picky) she got the coq au vin with potato gratin and a side of fries. She would be my starch-loving friend who thinks there can never be too many potatoes at a meal.
The soup was a cream lover's dream, the salad assuaged my guilt about the soup and the tart is a perennial favorite of mine. Her coq au vin was falling-off-the-bone wonderful (I got all the pearl onions since she doesn't care for them) and the fries never disappoint. Unlike her, I can stop at one potato dish at any given meal, so I can't speak to the gratin.
My friend shared the latest developments in her love life and I shared my momentous news. She at least had a novel reaction; she high-fived me and said she couldn't be more surprised. I think my friends are more pumped about the news than I am.
The serious fun began after dinner when a neighborhood regular and native Virginian dropped by the bar after a church social (there was so much I could have done with that...but I refrained).
I'd met him before at the very same bar several months ago since he lives mere blocks away ("Which building?" "The shorter one." "Do you have a short building complex?" "No, because I'm tall." What?!)
The conversation was moving along swimmingly when my friend decided we should switch to a Q and A format to all get to know each other better. It was no problem for me because I love interrogating people. Friend may have been a bit overly enthusiastic about pointing out compatibilities (clearly she as still reeling from my news).
At one point, the chef came up and told us about an amorous couple up front in the restaurant. Not long after, someone else came back and said to him, "Really? Right there on the banquette?"
A glance or two in the mirror reflected a couple very much into each other and not their food, if you get my drift. Right there on the banquette. The chef summed it up best (see above).
The irony of our ogling was that the couple decided to end their affectionate dinner by moving to the bar, so we ended up with the charming company of both a Russian and Belarus immigrant, madly in love with each other. They'd met on a trans-Atlantic flight and she'd flown in to RVA to visit him while he's on business here.
Their presence led to some provocative discussion of the merits of this country, the duty of immigrants (besides the two of them, Francis and Olivier are both French immigrants), whether or not a monarchy should be returned in Russia (the Russian voted no, the native Virginian yes) and what the U.S. offers an outsider, both good and bad (money and success/conservatism and Puritanical ways).
I loved hearing the opinions of immigrants about their motivations for coming here and the resulting impressions compared to expectations once they were here. After a good bit of political, cultural and historical debate, the girl from Belarus ("Really, you've heard of my country?") took it down to brass tacks.
"So what does an American man look for in a woman?" she asked the native Virginian, seriously putting him on the spot. I have to admit that my friend and I were more than a little curious ourselves (I won't divulge his response but my friend gave him credit for a fine answer).
We broke camp shortly thereafter, the other customers having left over an hour earlier. I high-tailed it to Balliceaux to catch the second half of No BS Brass band's second set. Walking in the door towards the back room, three different friends warned me of what a zoo it was back there.
I'd known it would be and would have been surprised if it hadn't been. Those guys are capable of amazing energy and that's a big draw for music fans. As the bartender said to me, "But it's always like this for them." True that.
In the warm and packed back room, I saw several friends ("You again?" He and I are living the same life, I swear)) and ran into a guy I'd met previously ("Didn't we talk at 27 when Mirimar played?" Yes, but how in the world did you remember me?).
Best of all, I did not miss their cover of "Take on Me," always a crowd pleaser that gets the audience seriously dancing.
Were it not for my smug and high-fiving friends, I might be considering it for my new theme song.
Which isn't a bad thing because I always get hugged and kissed by the bartender and chef there so my evening always starts right. For that matter, it always ends right, although I never know quite what that ending will be. Witness tonight.
My friend had suggested dinner so that we could update each other. Seriously, those were the words she used (I know, it sounds like a corporate memo). She arrived first because of my online music chatting and was already sipping her wine when I slid into the stool next to her (that would be after the hugging and kissing).
As usual, the bargain-priced bar menu proved irresistible and we ordered from it. I had the soup (cream of asparagus), salad (chef's house salad) and onion tart with olives (my sweet and salty fix).
After far too much discussion (I told you she was picky) she got the coq au vin with potato gratin and a side of fries. She would be my starch-loving friend who thinks there can never be too many potatoes at a meal.
The soup was a cream lover's dream, the salad assuaged my guilt about the soup and the tart is a perennial favorite of mine. Her coq au vin was falling-off-the-bone wonderful (I got all the pearl onions since she doesn't care for them) and the fries never disappoint. Unlike her, I can stop at one potato dish at any given meal, so I can't speak to the gratin.
My friend shared the latest developments in her love life and I shared my momentous news. She at least had a novel reaction; she high-fived me and said she couldn't be more surprised. I think my friends are more pumped about the news than I am.
The serious fun began after dinner when a neighborhood regular and native Virginian dropped by the bar after a church social (there was so much I could have done with that...but I refrained).
I'd met him before at the very same bar several months ago since he lives mere blocks away ("Which building?" "The shorter one." "Do you have a short building complex?" "No, because I'm tall." What?!)
The conversation was moving along swimmingly when my friend decided we should switch to a Q and A format to all get to know each other better. It was no problem for me because I love interrogating people. Friend may have been a bit overly enthusiastic about pointing out compatibilities (clearly she as still reeling from my news).
At one point, the chef came up and told us about an amorous couple up front in the restaurant. Not long after, someone else came back and said to him, "Really? Right there on the banquette?"
A glance or two in the mirror reflected a couple very much into each other and not their food, if you get my drift. Right there on the banquette. The chef summed it up best (see above).
The irony of our ogling was that the couple decided to end their affectionate dinner by moving to the bar, so we ended up with the charming company of both a Russian and Belarus immigrant, madly in love with each other. They'd met on a trans-Atlantic flight and she'd flown in to RVA to visit him while he's on business here.
Their presence led to some provocative discussion of the merits of this country, the duty of immigrants (besides the two of them, Francis and Olivier are both French immigrants), whether or not a monarchy should be returned in Russia (the Russian voted no, the native Virginian yes) and what the U.S. offers an outsider, both good and bad (money and success/conservatism and Puritanical ways).
I loved hearing the opinions of immigrants about their motivations for coming here and the resulting impressions compared to expectations once they were here. After a good bit of political, cultural and historical debate, the girl from Belarus ("Really, you've heard of my country?") took it down to brass tacks.
"So what does an American man look for in a woman?" she asked the native Virginian, seriously putting him on the spot. I have to admit that my friend and I were more than a little curious ourselves (I won't divulge his response but my friend gave him credit for a fine answer).
We broke camp shortly thereafter, the other customers having left over an hour earlier. I high-tailed it to Balliceaux to catch the second half of No BS Brass band's second set. Walking in the door towards the back room, three different friends warned me of what a zoo it was back there.
I'd known it would be and would have been surprised if it hadn't been. Those guys are capable of amazing energy and that's a big draw for music fans. As the bartender said to me, "But it's always like this for them." True that.
In the warm and packed back room, I saw several friends ("You again?" He and I are living the same life, I swear)) and ran into a guy I'd met previously ("Didn't we talk at 27 when Mirimar played?" Yes, but how in the world did you remember me?).
Best of all, I did not miss their cover of "Take on Me," always a crowd pleaser that gets the audience seriously dancing.
Were it not for my smug and high-fiving friends, I might be considering it for my new theme song.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Whew, That Was a Close One
And to think I almost didn't go out to lunch today. And if I hadn't, I would have missed meeting the reason we have the Indian Garden Pavilion . But wait, there's more; I'd have missed seeing a horse pull over a scofflaw.
A friend messaged me during breakfast (made without the benefit of a stove since I had no gas due to the endless repairs still ripping up my street daily. It was my very first microwaved breakfast and hopefully my last) asking if I wanted to have lunch at Garnett's.
I didn't immediately respond because my game plan for today was set: get some work done and then maybe some housekeeping since I've been too busy lately to bother. But as noon was approaching, the thought of company was just too appealing and I caved. Lunch was on.
Garnett's was mobbed despite street repairs making it a royal pain to get anywhere near the place. Friend was already there and I wasted no time in jumping into conversation. She always has news and for a change so did I.
Looking for something new, I decided to try the farm salad with romaine, Cheddar, apples, bacon and apple cider vinaigrette. Cheddar, apples and bacon, now there's a triumvirate of flavors meant to be savored together.
While friend was otherwise occupied, a guy sat down in the stool next to me and mentioned that he hadn't been to Garnett's in months. Once he gave me the opening, I had to run with it. He looked like an interesting guy and I would have bet money that he worked in an arts-related field.
It was better than I could have hoped for. He is a former sculptor who now restores art, mostly sculpture. Today he was working over at Maymont restoring a lion's finish where countless hands have rubbed the finish away.
His is the company that restored the Indian Garden Pavilion at the VMFA. That 19th century white marble pavilion is easily one of the most beautiful and arresting large pieces in the museum.
He told me of how he originally saw the pavilion piled in pieces and "crumbled like Saltines." It took five years of painstaking work to make it whole again and thinking back to having seen its magnificence just last month during Fine Arts and Flowers, I was awed to be talking to the man who had had a hand in such a monumental task.
I could have talked to him about nothing else but that project (career-defining, I would think), but put my selfishness aside. We talked about the original culture shock of moving to RVA, me from DC and him from NYC. He told me about a little French restaurant he'd recently found in Washington and asked me for restaurant recommendations here.
Eventually I went back to talking to my friend because she hadn't heard my news, and as part of the catalyst for my change of heart, she needed to know. "It's about time," she said grinning widely, "but I've been telling you that." She has indeed.
At this rate, I'm going to have some version of this exact same conversation with every one of my good friends. At least I'm making them happy and not a little smug for having told me so.
Driving back to J-Ward, the mounted police were in full force (that means three of them) on Marshall Street. I watched as a guy made a rolling stop at Monroe and the horse and cop immediately waved him down. I was three cars back, so by the time I got to the lawbreaker, the cop was off his steed and had his ticket book out.
You really have to see a horse-mounted cop make a traffic stop to appreciate the scale of horse to car. Did the guy really think he could flout the law and get away with it because the cop was on an animal? It made my day seeing the law upheld in Jackson Ward the way it was enforced a century ago.
Look what I would have missed if I hadn't gone out desperately seeking company. Not to mention a really good lunch at Garnetts. Again.
A friend messaged me during breakfast (made without the benefit of a stove since I had no gas due to the endless repairs still ripping up my street daily. It was my very first microwaved breakfast and hopefully my last) asking if I wanted to have lunch at Garnett's.
I didn't immediately respond because my game plan for today was set: get some work done and then maybe some housekeeping since I've been too busy lately to bother. But as noon was approaching, the thought of company was just too appealing and I caved. Lunch was on.
Garnett's was mobbed despite street repairs making it a royal pain to get anywhere near the place. Friend was already there and I wasted no time in jumping into conversation. She always has news and for a change so did I.
Looking for something new, I decided to try the farm salad with romaine, Cheddar, apples, bacon and apple cider vinaigrette. Cheddar, apples and bacon, now there's a triumvirate of flavors meant to be savored together.
While friend was otherwise occupied, a guy sat down in the stool next to me and mentioned that he hadn't been to Garnett's in months. Once he gave me the opening, I had to run with it. He looked like an interesting guy and I would have bet money that he worked in an arts-related field.
It was better than I could have hoped for. He is a former sculptor who now restores art, mostly sculpture. Today he was working over at Maymont restoring a lion's finish where countless hands have rubbed the finish away.
His is the company that restored the Indian Garden Pavilion at the VMFA. That 19th century white marble pavilion is easily one of the most beautiful and arresting large pieces in the museum.
He told me of how he originally saw the pavilion piled in pieces and "crumbled like Saltines." It took five years of painstaking work to make it whole again and thinking back to having seen its magnificence just last month during Fine Arts and Flowers, I was awed to be talking to the man who had had a hand in such a monumental task.
I could have talked to him about nothing else but that project (career-defining, I would think), but put my selfishness aside. We talked about the original culture shock of moving to RVA, me from DC and him from NYC. He told me about a little French restaurant he'd recently found in Washington and asked me for restaurant recommendations here.
Eventually I went back to talking to my friend because she hadn't heard my news, and as part of the catalyst for my change of heart, she needed to know. "It's about time," she said grinning widely, "but I've been telling you that." She has indeed.
At this rate, I'm going to have some version of this exact same conversation with every one of my good friends. At least I'm making them happy and not a little smug for having told me so.
Driving back to J-Ward, the mounted police were in full force (that means three of them) on Marshall Street. I watched as a guy made a rolling stop at Monroe and the horse and cop immediately waved him down. I was three cars back, so by the time I got to the lawbreaker, the cop was off his steed and had his ticket book out.
You really have to see a horse-mounted cop make a traffic stop to appreciate the scale of horse to car. Did the guy really think he could flout the law and get away with it because the cop was on an animal? It made my day seeing the law upheld in Jackson Ward the way it was enforced a century ago.
Look what I would have missed if I hadn't gone out desperately seeking company. Not to mention a really good lunch at Garnetts. Again.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Avalon Advice
Nothing says happy hour quite like death (you can quote me on that). At least that must have been what the Gallery 5 folks were thinking when they planned tonight's Gallery 5 After 5 event, "Viva La Muerte."
My favorite local flamenco guitarist Frankzig was the musical entertainment (even greeting me at the door, but then I'm a longtime fan), VCU's Andrew Chestnut was speaking on "The Cult of Saint Death," and as a bonus, they were showing a short film, "Death."
Throw in free hors d'oeuvres and who could resist such a deadly start to their Wednesday evening? Tonight's crowd was even bigger than the last two months, so word must be getting around about the lure of drink specials and short, compelling lectures.
More than a few people took the time to check out the mixed-media exhibition upstairs as well as the altar downstairs, which was covered in offerings. Some of us just mingled, made new friends and watched Frankzig's flying fingers.
After Chestnut told us about Latin America's most popular folk saint and the way Catholicism and death worshiping are peacefully co-existing, I had to leave to meet a friend for dinner. I didn't want to miss the film screening, but had no choice but to honor my social obligation.
Naturally I came home to a message from a friend saying, "The movie was great!" He was the same one who gave me a hard time when I said I had to go, saying, "Well you could just call your friend and tell him you're going to be late...oh, wait, you don't have a cell phone." He's so funny.
My dinner partner was the borrowed husband I raved about here, and he was already (and given my tardiness, thankfully) into his heavily bruised martini when I arrived.
He too teased me about my inability to let him know I was running late (clearly I choose my friends for the hard time they give me) and we settled in to catch up for the first time since Labor Day.
Silly us, we thought we could chat over drinks for an hour before ordering. Wrong. When we asked for menus at 8:10, we were told the kitchen had just closed. At 8:10? Seriously?
Never ones to be discouraged, we just walked up to the next block and took stools at Avalon. Jason was more than happy to be of service and you know with Avalon that they're in it for the long haul.
We began with the butter-poached salmon and Gruyere pate with parsnip flatbread. It was a good-sized serving, rich from both the butter and the cheese, and contrasted well with the crisp and flavorful flatbread.
Try as we might, we couldn't make the two come out evenly, so Jason slipped us some extra flatbread so we could finish it down to the last creamy bite. We were getting surprisingly full off of this course (and that excellent crusty focaccia with the mystery spices) so we jumped right into the next one before we could change our minds.
Sweet potato and butternut squash gnocchi with cinnamon sage cream sauce was listed under the vegetable portion of the tapas menu, but let's be honest, this was a plate of dessert.
Between the natural sweetness of the potatoes, the spicy cinnamon and all that cream enveloping everything, what it boiled down to was a whole lot of sweet tooth satisfaction, not that we were complaining.
The gnocchi was light as a feather; it was all that cream that made it so decadent, but we soldiered on because we're troopers about stuff like that. You know, eating.
My friend told me that he no longer has to check in with his wife while we're out because I have been deemed a nice person (read: safe). I told him I'd decided to get over the hump that has been my personal life.
"Thank god!" he said with no sarcasm. "It was getting old." Just like me, apparently. "You're not going to have all these choices forever," he warned ominously.
Clearly I pick my friends to give me a hard time and to be blunt. They're smiling hugely when they say this stuff, but I know they mean every word.
I hear you, guys. I don't know how you've held your tongues for this long.
My favorite local flamenco guitarist Frankzig was the musical entertainment (even greeting me at the door, but then I'm a longtime fan), VCU's Andrew Chestnut was speaking on "The Cult of Saint Death," and as a bonus, they were showing a short film, "Death."
Throw in free hors d'oeuvres and who could resist such a deadly start to their Wednesday evening? Tonight's crowd was even bigger than the last two months, so word must be getting around about the lure of drink specials and short, compelling lectures.
More than a few people took the time to check out the mixed-media exhibition upstairs as well as the altar downstairs, which was covered in offerings. Some of us just mingled, made new friends and watched Frankzig's flying fingers.
After Chestnut told us about Latin America's most popular folk saint and the way Catholicism and death worshiping are peacefully co-existing, I had to leave to meet a friend for dinner. I didn't want to miss the film screening, but had no choice but to honor my social obligation.
Naturally I came home to a message from a friend saying, "The movie was great!" He was the same one who gave me a hard time when I said I had to go, saying, "Well you could just call your friend and tell him you're going to be late...oh, wait, you don't have a cell phone." He's so funny.
My dinner partner was the borrowed husband I raved about here, and he was already (and given my tardiness, thankfully) into his heavily bruised martini when I arrived.
He too teased me about my inability to let him know I was running late (clearly I choose my friends for the hard time they give me) and we settled in to catch up for the first time since Labor Day.
Silly us, we thought we could chat over drinks for an hour before ordering. Wrong. When we asked for menus at 8:10, we were told the kitchen had just closed. At 8:10? Seriously?
Never ones to be discouraged, we just walked up to the next block and took stools at Avalon. Jason was more than happy to be of service and you know with Avalon that they're in it for the long haul.
We began with the butter-poached salmon and Gruyere pate with parsnip flatbread. It was a good-sized serving, rich from both the butter and the cheese, and contrasted well with the crisp and flavorful flatbread.
Try as we might, we couldn't make the two come out evenly, so Jason slipped us some extra flatbread so we could finish it down to the last creamy bite. We were getting surprisingly full off of this course (and that excellent crusty focaccia with the mystery spices) so we jumped right into the next one before we could change our minds.
Sweet potato and butternut squash gnocchi with cinnamon sage cream sauce was listed under the vegetable portion of the tapas menu, but let's be honest, this was a plate of dessert.
Between the natural sweetness of the potatoes, the spicy cinnamon and all that cream enveloping everything, what it boiled down to was a whole lot of sweet tooth satisfaction, not that we were complaining.
The gnocchi was light as a feather; it was all that cream that made it so decadent, but we soldiered on because we're troopers about stuff like that. You know, eating.
My friend told me that he no longer has to check in with his wife while we're out because I have been deemed a nice person (read: safe). I told him I'd decided to get over the hump that has been my personal life.
"Thank god!" he said with no sarcasm. "It was getting old." Just like me, apparently. "You're not going to have all these choices forever," he warned ominously.
Clearly I pick my friends to give me a hard time and to be blunt. They're smiling hugely when they say this stuff, but I know they mean every word.
I hear you, guys. I don't know how you've held your tongues for this long.
Conch & Kibbie at Aziza's
"You've been given the gift of desperation."
Lunch today was a last minute invitation from a friend I used to see often, but who has far less free time these days because he's now coupled.
In fact, for the past year and a half, we saw so much of each other that his therapist finally told him that our friendship was holding back progress in his personal life (and here I thought we were just two friends hanging out). Oh, the guilt!
It seemed that my easy availability as a friend and companion delayed his motivation to jump back into the shark-infested waters of the dating pool; our friendship was enough to keep him from being lonely.
In spite of my insidious influence, though, he managed to find a great person, but we see far less of each other now.
So I was happy for the impromptu lunch invitation, especially when he suggested Aziza's, one of my personal favorites. I arrived and took a front table with a sunny view of Main Street's foot traffic.
The server recognized me, saying, "You've got lots of sisters, don't you?" Funny the stuff people remember about you.
I do, I told her and she said she'd met a girl at a party with my mannerisms and my coloring and she was sure she must be one of my sisters. Except that this girl lives in Richmond, unlike my sisters. And here I thought I was unique; yet another personal assumption shot to hell.
My friend sat down and we started choosing our meal components. When I saw conch salad on the menu, I was sold, ordering the black lentil salad to go with it. My friend copied my conch and got kibbie, too.
The conch salad tasted like something we should have been eating at a sunny beachside shack. A generous serving of conch was mixed with fennel, capers, celery greens, red onion, olive oil, lemon juice and red pepper flakes. The sunshine coming through the front window only made the experience that much better.
My black lentil salad was perfection, the lentils cooked to just the right degree of toothsomeness. Friend's kibbie, spiced with cumin and made with London broil rather than the traditional lamb, was making its way from his plate to mine. My fork might have had something to do with that.
We were pleased to learn from our server that, with notice, they will do kibbie without baking it, so we plan to come back soon and experience kibbie that's never seen an oven.
And because we're weak and we never go to Aziza's without getting a chocolate ganache-topped cream puff, we shared one while friend sipped espresso.
It was during our enjoyment of the puff that we got to talking about how I have no single friends left. Okay, I have three: one in North Dakota, one in Scotland and one in Milwaukee. A lot of good they do me.
Which means that even for a person such as me who likes to go out alone, I still have loads of time that could be enhanced with the sparkling company of someone other than the couple dates I've been gravitating toward.
This might seem patently obvious, except that I have spent the past 21 months, according to my friend, "closed off." Acknowledging that it was maybe time to change that (maybe), my friend got positively ebullient that I was even considering opening myself up.
That's when he told me I'd been given the gift of desperation (and, for the record, I laughed hysterically when he said this). So far as I could tell, it did not come gift-wrapped.
Hey, I'm just glad it finally arrived. Not a moment too soon, either.
Lunch today was a last minute invitation from a friend I used to see often, but who has far less free time these days because he's now coupled.
In fact, for the past year and a half, we saw so much of each other that his therapist finally told him that our friendship was holding back progress in his personal life (and here I thought we were just two friends hanging out). Oh, the guilt!
It seemed that my easy availability as a friend and companion delayed his motivation to jump back into the shark-infested waters of the dating pool; our friendship was enough to keep him from being lonely.
In spite of my insidious influence, though, he managed to find a great person, but we see far less of each other now.
So I was happy for the impromptu lunch invitation, especially when he suggested Aziza's, one of my personal favorites. I arrived and took a front table with a sunny view of Main Street's foot traffic.
The server recognized me, saying, "You've got lots of sisters, don't you?" Funny the stuff people remember about you.
I do, I told her and she said she'd met a girl at a party with my mannerisms and my coloring and she was sure she must be one of my sisters. Except that this girl lives in Richmond, unlike my sisters. And here I thought I was unique; yet another personal assumption shot to hell.
My friend sat down and we started choosing our meal components. When I saw conch salad on the menu, I was sold, ordering the black lentil salad to go with it. My friend copied my conch and got kibbie, too.
The conch salad tasted like something we should have been eating at a sunny beachside shack. A generous serving of conch was mixed with fennel, capers, celery greens, red onion, olive oil, lemon juice and red pepper flakes. The sunshine coming through the front window only made the experience that much better.
My black lentil salad was perfection, the lentils cooked to just the right degree of toothsomeness. Friend's kibbie, spiced with cumin and made with London broil rather than the traditional lamb, was making its way from his plate to mine. My fork might have had something to do with that.
We were pleased to learn from our server that, with notice, they will do kibbie without baking it, so we plan to come back soon and experience kibbie that's never seen an oven.
And because we're weak and we never go to Aziza's without getting a chocolate ganache-topped cream puff, we shared one while friend sipped espresso.
It was during our enjoyment of the puff that we got to talking about how I have no single friends left. Okay, I have three: one in North Dakota, one in Scotland and one in Milwaukee. A lot of good they do me.
Which means that even for a person such as me who likes to go out alone, I still have loads of time that could be enhanced with the sparkling company of someone other than the couple dates I've been gravitating toward.
This might seem patently obvious, except that I have spent the past 21 months, according to my friend, "closed off." Acknowledging that it was maybe time to change that (maybe), my friend got positively ebullient that I was even considering opening myself up.
That's when he told me I'd been given the gift of desperation (and, for the record, I laughed hysterically when he said this). So far as I could tell, it did not come gift-wrapped.
Hey, I'm just glad it finally arrived. Not a moment too soon, either.
Sufjan Stevens, the Entertainer
Don't let anyone tell you Sufjan Stevens didn't dance at tonight's mind-bending show. For that matter, don't let anyone tell you that the National was at capacity. I've been to a lot of sold-out shows there and never has there been that many people in the room.
When I walked up to the wristband guy, he'd winked, leaned down and conspiratorially said, "You're in the minority tonight." What that meant was that a surprisingly high proportion of the audience was underage, necessitating a big black X on both hands. His complaint was that doing so is far more labor-intensive than wrist-banding someone, so the lines were moving more slowly than usual.
Once inside, I made a stop at the bar ("I knew you'd be here," my bartender friend laughed) and settled in at my usual spot. I was almost immediately nudged by a musician friend standing practically next to me. Voila, instant company!
Not long after, a couple positioned themselves in front of me and the back of their heads looked suspiciously familiar; it was a musician couple I know. I couldn't resist giving them a hard time by saying to their backs, "Hey, you're blocking my view! Move!"
Their reactions were priceless before they realized who was speaking to them. But I was definitely noticing a pattern among the audience members: underage or local musicians.
Opening for Sufjan was the piano-playing member of his band, D.M. Stith, who only played four songs. His hushed vocals, even when enhanced by looping, and his guitar playing were often drowned out by the talkative crowd in the back.
My bartender friend had just told me that he'd seen Sufjan at the Black Cat in DC years ago and it was a stripped-down performance with just him and an audience who had talked through the entire show. Sadly, history was repeating itself.
It was a shame because Stith had immediately captured the attention of those not talking with his beautiful voice, evocative songwriting and humor (After mentioning Sufjan, he instructed the audience, "But don't think about him."). Favorite lyric: "I couldn't charm my way back to you."
Before long, it was 8:50 and the man and his large band took the stage. "Hi, I'm Sufjan Stevens" he told the audience unnecessarily before they launched into "Seven Swans" pleasing the devotees no end.
Based on their latest album, The Age of Adz, its electronica-focused sound should have made for one great big dance party, but there was literally no room to clap, much less dance.
Too bad because at one point, Sufjan said, "If you can dance to 7/8, you know the true meaning of love." A friend made the observation, "He loves 7/8." People who discuss time signatures, that's the kind of fans that were there tonight.
A beach ball was sent out into the crowd for "Get Real Get Right" much to the audience's delight. Songs were introduced as "slow jams" and "hippie jams" (that one included a solo on a Casio SK1, truly a magical moment).
Several songs required Sufjan to make a costume change (pants were changed, a lei added, visors appeared). Midway through a song, Sufjan coughed and the musicians froze. He explained that a feather had been haunting him the whole time and he'd finally taken care of it. Explanation done, the song resumed.
The song "Impossible Soul" was introduced as the album's magnum opus, which, at just over 23 minutes, it most certainly is. The crowd stayed with him for the duration and at its conclusion, Sufjan admitted that they don't always make it all the way through.
Tonight's crowd of die hard fans had no problem, although the addition of more beach balls and a lot of confetti shot out over the crowd certainly kept the entertainment factor high.
Also, the huge screen behind the band showed projections of all kinds of eye candy except during the quietest and simplest songs. And that was really the beauty of the set tonight: the new material was bookended by the simpler stuff of his earlier years. A decade's worth of the man's music.
It took about two notes of the moving "Chicago" for the audience to erupt and eventually join in for a group singalong. A five-song encore followed and the huge crowd began to slowly disperse.
Walking out, I overheard a girl say, "I feel like I just had some really good drugs." A musician I know came over and told me, "I can't talk. Give me a minute to put my brains back in my head."
You came to take us
All things go, all things go
To recreate us
All things grow, all things grow.
Sufjan Stevens played Richmond tonight and the people lucky enough to have been there will brag about having seen this show for years to come. And for a certain part of the crowd, I bet a lot of those black X's will be left to fade away rather than be washed off.
But the memories of a show this mind-blowing will last long after the X's are gone.
When I walked up to the wristband guy, he'd winked, leaned down and conspiratorially said, "You're in the minority tonight." What that meant was that a surprisingly high proportion of the audience was underage, necessitating a big black X on both hands. His complaint was that doing so is far more labor-intensive than wrist-banding someone, so the lines were moving more slowly than usual.
Once inside, I made a stop at the bar ("I knew you'd be here," my bartender friend laughed) and settled in at my usual spot. I was almost immediately nudged by a musician friend standing practically next to me. Voila, instant company!
Not long after, a couple positioned themselves in front of me and the back of their heads looked suspiciously familiar; it was a musician couple I know. I couldn't resist giving them a hard time by saying to their backs, "Hey, you're blocking my view! Move!"
Their reactions were priceless before they realized who was speaking to them. But I was definitely noticing a pattern among the audience members: underage or local musicians.
Opening for Sufjan was the piano-playing member of his band, D.M. Stith, who only played four songs. His hushed vocals, even when enhanced by looping, and his guitar playing were often drowned out by the talkative crowd in the back.
My bartender friend had just told me that he'd seen Sufjan at the Black Cat in DC years ago and it was a stripped-down performance with just him and an audience who had talked through the entire show. Sadly, history was repeating itself.
It was a shame because Stith had immediately captured the attention of those not talking with his beautiful voice, evocative songwriting and humor (After mentioning Sufjan, he instructed the audience, "But don't think about him."). Favorite lyric: "I couldn't charm my way back to you."
Before long, it was 8:50 and the man and his large band took the stage. "Hi, I'm Sufjan Stevens" he told the audience unnecessarily before they launched into "Seven Swans" pleasing the devotees no end.
Based on their latest album, The Age of Adz, its electronica-focused sound should have made for one great big dance party, but there was literally no room to clap, much less dance.
Too bad because at one point, Sufjan said, "If you can dance to 7/8, you know the true meaning of love." A friend made the observation, "He loves 7/8." People who discuss time signatures, that's the kind of fans that were there tonight.
A beach ball was sent out into the crowd for "Get Real Get Right" much to the audience's delight. Songs were introduced as "slow jams" and "hippie jams" (that one included a solo on a Casio SK1, truly a magical moment).
Several songs required Sufjan to make a costume change (pants were changed, a lei added, visors appeared). Midway through a song, Sufjan coughed and the musicians froze. He explained that a feather had been haunting him the whole time and he'd finally taken care of it. Explanation done, the song resumed.
The song "Impossible Soul" was introduced as the album's magnum opus, which, at just over 23 minutes, it most certainly is. The crowd stayed with him for the duration and at its conclusion, Sufjan admitted that they don't always make it all the way through.
Tonight's crowd of die hard fans had no problem, although the addition of more beach balls and a lot of confetti shot out over the crowd certainly kept the entertainment factor high.
Also, the huge screen behind the band showed projections of all kinds of eye candy except during the quietest and simplest songs. And that was really the beauty of the set tonight: the new material was bookended by the simpler stuff of his earlier years. A decade's worth of the man's music.
It took about two notes of the moving "Chicago" for the audience to erupt and eventually join in for a group singalong. A five-song encore followed and the huge crowd began to slowly disperse.
Walking out, I overheard a girl say, "I feel like I just had some really good drugs." A musician I know came over and told me, "I can't talk. Give me a minute to put my brains back in my head."
You came to take us
All things go, all things go
To recreate us
All things grow, all things grow.
Sufjan Stevens played Richmond tonight and the people lucky enough to have been there will brag about having seen this show for years to come. And for a certain part of the crowd, I bet a lot of those black X's will be left to fade away rather than be washed off.
But the memories of a show this mind-blowing will last long after the X's are gone.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
You Want a Story? I've Got Stories
What a Monday night this turned out to be.
I had been invited to join a friend and her date at Balliceaux for Secretly Y'All's "Tell Me a Story" and even if I hadn't wanted to meet her new beau (and I very much did) I would have gone to check out this potentially fascinating event.
I arrived early enough to warm myself by having a bowl of the spicy pork fideos, a stew of toasted vermicelli, hominy, Chorizo and avocado. With a plate of bread to accompany it, this hearty tomato-based stew had just enough spice to make it addicting.
Just as I was finishing up, my friend and her main squeeze arrived and I got to finally meet the object of her affection. He was charming and interesting; I can willingly give up my last single friend to so worthy a catch.
I surrendered my spot at the front bar to join them in heading to the back room for courageous acts-themed storytelling. I gathered up my jacket and scarf and with water and wine in hand, headed to the back with my cover charge tucked into my hand under the wine.
When I got to the door guy, I told him, "My money's under my wine glass" and released it into his hand. Without missing a beat, he said, "The drugs are in my back pocket." I can always appreciate a wise ass.
We took the best seats in the back room, the comfy 60s-era couch facing the stage. All of us were curious about the evening of storytelling that lay ahead. A chocolate tart helped occupy the three of us as we waited for the show to start.
It was so dense that a couple of pieces shot onto the floor when we tried to break off a bite; fortunately, I have no compunction about eating chocolate off the floor. I felt flattered when her squeeze said "Well played," when I scooped up the floor pieces and popped them in my mouth. Like I care about germs and debris on chocolate?
The room was nearly full of others like us, so clearly we weren't the only ones eager to hear an evening of storytelling. I ran into my new music-loving friend who brought his friends over to join our little group.
The first six storytellers had been pre-screened and their tales were varied. One told of his father, a Republican senator back in the days when Virginia was strictly a Democratic state. During a crucial vote, he had voted outside party lines for the sake of the party. It was hard to imagine such a bold move in these partisan times.
The next was a role-player who described his mock-fighting events as "battle all day, party all night." My friend and I about lost it when he said that. A close second was when he was describing a battle in which his small team was over-matched. "It was like, oh hi, woom-pah!"
There was a bike cop telling tales of the Harvie murders and the capture of the perpetrators. Another was of living in Spain and dealing with a slightly difficult host family where food and toilet paper were severely rationed.
During the intermission, I got in line to use the water closet. While waiting, a guy came up and tried the door. I raised an eyebrow to him and he got the message. "I didn't recognize you as the line," he said sheepishly. Now you know.
After the break, the storytellers came from the audience unscreened. People who had a bravery story to tell had put their names in a hat during intermission with hopes of sharing. Several of these stories turned out to be every bit as good as the pre-screened ones and sounded far less rehearsed.
As someone who likes to share my own stories, I really enjoyed an evening of other people's stories. If the right theme ever presented itself, I might be inclined to tell one of my own. Some of the stuff I can't blog might make a compelling tale told live.
And my friend was right; during the show she had told me that the nearby suit was checking me out. Once my friends were gone, he sat down next to me and said, "So you're finally alone?"
I left Balliceaux after the stories to join a friend's birthday celebration at Bellytimber. His girlfriend was outside when I arrived and she gave me permission to manhandle the birthday boy (a joke based on him asking if he could manhandle me back when he came to my birthday celebration at Ipanema).
Inside were all kinds of friends helping the birthday boy celebrate so I just jumped into the fray. I had pizza from the wood-burning oven, bought my friend a birthday shot of Jameson's and discussed music as the greatest addiction of all.
Once I got home, I got a message from a friend at the party telling me that a mutual friend of ours was "sort of into me" and provided his phone number should I be interested. (Not that that would be an awkward conversation or anything. "Hey, I hear you're sort of into me. Umm...")
Secretly y'all, I can't understand where all this is coming from, but maybe it'll eventually make a good story.
Because I don't already have enough good ones to share. Yea, right.
I had been invited to join a friend and her date at Balliceaux for Secretly Y'All's "Tell Me a Story" and even if I hadn't wanted to meet her new beau (and I very much did) I would have gone to check out this potentially fascinating event.
I arrived early enough to warm myself by having a bowl of the spicy pork fideos, a stew of toasted vermicelli, hominy, Chorizo and avocado. With a plate of bread to accompany it, this hearty tomato-based stew had just enough spice to make it addicting.
Just as I was finishing up, my friend and her main squeeze arrived and I got to finally meet the object of her affection. He was charming and interesting; I can willingly give up my last single friend to so worthy a catch.
I surrendered my spot at the front bar to join them in heading to the back room for courageous acts-themed storytelling. I gathered up my jacket and scarf and with water and wine in hand, headed to the back with my cover charge tucked into my hand under the wine.
When I got to the door guy, I told him, "My money's under my wine glass" and released it into his hand. Without missing a beat, he said, "The drugs are in my back pocket." I can always appreciate a wise ass.
We took the best seats in the back room, the comfy 60s-era couch facing the stage. All of us were curious about the evening of storytelling that lay ahead. A chocolate tart helped occupy the three of us as we waited for the show to start.
It was so dense that a couple of pieces shot onto the floor when we tried to break off a bite; fortunately, I have no compunction about eating chocolate off the floor. I felt flattered when her squeeze said "Well played," when I scooped up the floor pieces and popped them in my mouth. Like I care about germs and debris on chocolate?
The room was nearly full of others like us, so clearly we weren't the only ones eager to hear an evening of storytelling. I ran into my new music-loving friend who brought his friends over to join our little group.
The first six storytellers had been pre-screened and their tales were varied. One told of his father, a Republican senator back in the days when Virginia was strictly a Democratic state. During a crucial vote, he had voted outside party lines for the sake of the party. It was hard to imagine such a bold move in these partisan times.
The next was a role-player who described his mock-fighting events as "battle all day, party all night." My friend and I about lost it when he said that. A close second was when he was describing a battle in which his small team was over-matched. "It was like, oh hi, woom-pah!"
There was a bike cop telling tales of the Harvie murders and the capture of the perpetrators. Another was of living in Spain and dealing with a slightly difficult host family where food and toilet paper were severely rationed.
During the intermission, I got in line to use the water closet. While waiting, a guy came up and tried the door. I raised an eyebrow to him and he got the message. "I didn't recognize you as the line," he said sheepishly. Now you know.
After the break, the storytellers came from the audience unscreened. People who had a bravery story to tell had put their names in a hat during intermission with hopes of sharing. Several of these stories turned out to be every bit as good as the pre-screened ones and sounded far less rehearsed.
As someone who likes to share my own stories, I really enjoyed an evening of other people's stories. If the right theme ever presented itself, I might be inclined to tell one of my own. Some of the stuff I can't blog might make a compelling tale told live.
And my friend was right; during the show she had told me that the nearby suit was checking me out. Once my friends were gone, he sat down next to me and said, "So you're finally alone?"
I left Balliceaux after the stories to join a friend's birthday celebration at Bellytimber. His girlfriend was outside when I arrived and she gave me permission to manhandle the birthday boy (a joke based on him asking if he could manhandle me back when he came to my birthday celebration at Ipanema).
Inside were all kinds of friends helping the birthday boy celebrate so I just jumped into the fray. I had pizza from the wood-burning oven, bought my friend a birthday shot of Jameson's and discussed music as the greatest addiction of all.
Once I got home, I got a message from a friend at the party telling me that a mutual friend of ours was "sort of into me" and provided his phone number should I be interested. (Not that that would be an awkward conversation or anything. "Hey, I hear you're sort of into me. Umm...")
Secretly y'all, I can't understand where all this is coming from, but maybe it'll eventually make a good story.
Because I don't already have enough good ones to share. Yea, right.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Big "If"
I had lunch with a music lover today. And not just any music lover, but one who read my blog profile with its endless list of bands I love and actually wrote me that I have perfect taste in music (meaning it mirrored his). Wow, people actually read my profile?
If this doesn't sound monumental, you're not reading between the lines. My music taste is all over the place and plenty of people who love Muse wouldn't be caught dead listening to Teenagers. So when someone is impressed with my eclectic taste and tells me so, I need to talk about it...and maybe see what such a rarity looks like.
We tried messaging about music, but as I told him, I'm much better at face to face conversation than typing. And that's how the plan was conceived; we'd meet for lunch to talk music and if we hit it off, we'd each have a new concert buddy. Of course that was a pretty big "if."
He let me pick and I chose Lamplighter because the food is always good and it's so well priced. After the bacchanalian eating and drinking of my weekend away, all I was craving was salad, so I got the Lamplighter (mixed greens, seasonal fruit, red onions, nuts and Gorgonzola) with chicken salad and the other music fan got the tuna melt.
My salad was delightful in every way with incredibly fresh greens, an abundance of nuts and strawberries and plenty of onion for this onion-lover and further enhanced by a chicken salad tasting of chicken and not overly mayonaised. He was impressed with both the tastiness and the value of his sandwich. Double score.
Lunch took a while because we had so much music to talk about (The Decemberists, Yeasayer, Midlake, Fanfarlo, Band of Horses, Fleet Foxes doesn't begin to cover it) and when we were done with the food, we continued the conversation while strolling the neighborhood. It was a perfect sunny fall afternoon for a music walk and talk.
I've met a few people because they read my blog and I always worry that somehow I'll disappoint in person; after all, I never know what impression a reader has formed of me based on my writing.
But in today's case, he'd already written that he thought I was awesome, so I had even further to fall than usual. That or I was a shoo-in; I couldn't decide which.
We both left with our handwritten lists of recommended music. If I was a disappointment musically, he was too polite to show it.
I just might have a new concert buddy. Epic score.
If this doesn't sound monumental, you're not reading between the lines. My music taste is all over the place and plenty of people who love Muse wouldn't be caught dead listening to Teenagers. So when someone is impressed with my eclectic taste and tells me so, I need to talk about it...and maybe see what such a rarity looks like.
We tried messaging about music, but as I told him, I'm much better at face to face conversation than typing. And that's how the plan was conceived; we'd meet for lunch to talk music and if we hit it off, we'd each have a new concert buddy. Of course that was a pretty big "if."
He let me pick and I chose Lamplighter because the food is always good and it's so well priced. After the bacchanalian eating and drinking of my weekend away, all I was craving was salad, so I got the Lamplighter (mixed greens, seasonal fruit, red onions, nuts and Gorgonzola) with chicken salad and the other music fan got the tuna melt.
My salad was delightful in every way with incredibly fresh greens, an abundance of nuts and strawberries and plenty of onion for this onion-lover and further enhanced by a chicken salad tasting of chicken and not overly mayonaised. He was impressed with both the tastiness and the value of his sandwich. Double score.
Lunch took a while because we had so much music to talk about (The Decemberists, Yeasayer, Midlake, Fanfarlo, Band of Horses, Fleet Foxes doesn't begin to cover it) and when we were done with the food, we continued the conversation while strolling the neighborhood. It was a perfect sunny fall afternoon for a music walk and talk.
I've met a few people because they read my blog and I always worry that somehow I'll disappoint in person; after all, I never know what impression a reader has formed of me based on my writing.
But in today's case, he'd already written that he thought I was awesome, so I had even further to fall than usual. That or I was a shoo-in; I couldn't decide which.
We both left with our handwritten lists of recommended music. If I was a disappointment musically, he was too polite to show it.
I just might have a new concert buddy. Epic score.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Wait, She Was Gone?
You know how when you're out of town for a few days, you have to make sure you have something good to do on the night you get back into town so you won't feel let down that the trip is over? No, neither did my traveling companion, so it must be just me.
And actually there were three strong possibilities for tonight (a Sunday night at that), but I decided to go with the James River Filmmakers Forum at Balliceaux.
It's a quarterly event and since I'd missed the Reel Pride Film Fest during my absence this weekend (I so wanted to see Howl and Auntie Mame on the big screen), I was definitely in the mood for film.
When I walked into the back room, I was just deciding on a chair when a stranger came up, smiled and asked, "You were at the Ghostprint show the other night, weren't you?"
I was but I didn't recognize him at all. I thought maybe he'd been sitting behind me and that's why he didn't look familiar, but it turned out he was one of the chair-less ones on the floor in front of me. Try to pay attention, Karen.
We got to talking about who we knew in common and he turned out to be a musician, so we did share some friends and had even been to some of the same shows.
He's originally from Chicago and is as big a fan as I am of Ghostprint as a music venue. We were in complete agreement about Benoit Pioulard's performance that night being our favorite. When it got to be time for the program to start, I sat down and he sat beside me so I had company after all.
The films ran the gamut from pithy political satire (a clever PSA on tolerance done by a film teacher who made his first film in- gasp-1959 -at age 8) to two entries from this year's 48-hour Film Fest, but only one of which I'd seen.
And now I know that the other one was fueled by Amp gum, apparently a dangerous substance to those lacking sleep and overly full on pizza ("I thought I was going to throw up").
There was a dream-like montage trailer for a movie that won't be finished anytime soon (the director's first effort took 7 years) and an experimental documentary about the power of icons and how they mutate over time. Jesus action figure, anyone?
We saw a Super 8 piece from a longer documentary about transient, train-riding homeless Christians, apparently a distinct group of rail riders. The director, still an undergraduate at VCU, rode the rails for 2 1/2 years gathering interviews and footage of some of these people and this clip focused on a rider named Ben.
During the directors' panel after the screenings, the train director said that he wanted to thank the kitchen for the background Lou Reed song and the noise of the cash register providing the perfect sounds to underscore his documentary's anti-capitalist message while it was showing.
When the director of the icon film was asked if she seeks out death when traveling, as seemed apparent in her film, she acknowledged that she does ("I need to see Rudolph Valentino's grave.") and that a friend refers to this habit of hers as necro-tourism.
Nerd that I am, I always look forward to the panel afterwards mainly because the other directors ask such great questions of each other. Some of them are purely technical (how did you transfer from Super 8 to digital?), while others, especially with the documentaries, are more questions of style.
My style is to get back from a really interesting trip and jump back in to something entertaining and artsy with both feet. Even better if I meet someone and have some good conversation while I'm at it.
It almost makes it worth coming back. Almost.
And actually there were three strong possibilities for tonight (a Sunday night at that), but I decided to go with the James River Filmmakers Forum at Balliceaux.
It's a quarterly event and since I'd missed the Reel Pride Film Fest during my absence this weekend (I so wanted to see Howl and Auntie Mame on the big screen), I was definitely in the mood for film.
When I walked into the back room, I was just deciding on a chair when a stranger came up, smiled and asked, "You were at the Ghostprint show the other night, weren't you?"
I was but I didn't recognize him at all. I thought maybe he'd been sitting behind me and that's why he didn't look familiar, but it turned out he was one of the chair-less ones on the floor in front of me. Try to pay attention, Karen.
We got to talking about who we knew in common and he turned out to be a musician, so we did share some friends and had even been to some of the same shows.
He's originally from Chicago and is as big a fan as I am of Ghostprint as a music venue. We were in complete agreement about Benoit Pioulard's performance that night being our favorite. When it got to be time for the program to start, I sat down and he sat beside me so I had company after all.
The films ran the gamut from pithy political satire (a clever PSA on tolerance done by a film teacher who made his first film in- gasp-1959 -at age 8) to two entries from this year's 48-hour Film Fest, but only one of which I'd seen.
And now I know that the other one was fueled by Amp gum, apparently a dangerous substance to those lacking sleep and overly full on pizza ("I thought I was going to throw up").
There was a dream-like montage trailer for a movie that won't be finished anytime soon (the director's first effort took 7 years) and an experimental documentary about the power of icons and how they mutate over time. Jesus action figure, anyone?
We saw a Super 8 piece from a longer documentary about transient, train-riding homeless Christians, apparently a distinct group of rail riders. The director, still an undergraduate at VCU, rode the rails for 2 1/2 years gathering interviews and footage of some of these people and this clip focused on a rider named Ben.
During the directors' panel after the screenings, the train director said that he wanted to thank the kitchen for the background Lou Reed song and the noise of the cash register providing the perfect sounds to underscore his documentary's anti-capitalist message while it was showing.
When the director of the icon film was asked if she seeks out death when traveling, as seemed apparent in her film, she acknowledged that she does ("I need to see Rudolph Valentino's grave.") and that a friend refers to this habit of hers as necro-tourism.
Nerd that I am, I always look forward to the panel afterwards mainly because the other directors ask such great questions of each other. Some of them are purely technical (how did you transfer from Super 8 to digital?), while others, especially with the documentaries, are more questions of style.
My style is to get back from a really interesting trip and jump back in to something entertaining and artsy with both feet. Even better if I meet someone and have some good conversation while I'm at it.
It almost makes it worth coming back. Almost.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Can I Show You Around?
When I'm entertaining a visitor from out of town, I try to find the right balance between catering to their taste and showing them the town my way. I like to think that I can help anyone enjoy their time in Richmond.
Yet again, I was playing host to a beer geek, but this one didn't have a prescribed list of beer places to visit, so that made it easier for me to choose some places to do double-duty.
The first stop was River City Cellars so that my visitor could custom-create a six-pack. David was doing a beer tasting of holiday micro-brews, but took time to make some recommendations to a hophead. Beer safely stowed in a plain brown bag, we slipped next door to Secco for some imbibing.
The place was in the calm-before-the-storm mode so we got the full attention of the staff, including having Karen's mix on the sound system.
My friend went straight for the Bells Two Hearted IPA while I enjoyed the Domaine Rouge Bleu "Mistral," a Southern Rhone blend not yet on the wine list but sure to be added soon. It hasn't been that long since I was happily drinking their Rose.
We were so busy catching up that we didn't even realize that the place had filled up around us. Now that all the four tops have been reduced to two-tops, the place fairly bustles with someone in every seat.
I love the European-style closeness of the tables, although clearly some people don't get it. Not that it matters because someone else is always willing to take their vacated seats the moment they stop warming them; we saw it happen more than once.
We'd lingered so long at Secco that our eating options were limited to someplace quick and good; the obvious choice was 821, although I did have to explain to the out-of-towner why 821 is located at 825. There's a story to everything in this town.
We'd barely hit our bar stools when our server asked what we wanted to drink. That we hadn't decided, but I immediately ordered my favorite black bean nachos. "You don't need to see the menu?" she asked. Actually no, and if it weren't for her being fairly new to 821, she'd have known my order on sight. Oh, it's black bean nacho girl again.
My friend's heartier appetite dictated that we add chicken to the nachos as well and when the plate arrived, I was teased about the size of it, which I get when solo dining. But I don't finish the plate by myself and today the two of us made short work of it all.
Friend was especially impressed with the fresh-tasting salsa that accompanied the dish...and as always the cost of everything here. Visitors continue to be amazed at RVA's restaurant prices ($5 for Bells Two Hearted Ale? $3 for a draft? Really?).
After inhaling our food, we had no problem making it to Gallery 5 in time for the Silent Music Revival. Tonight's double feature was a can't-miss because Brooklyn's Ghastly City Sleep were improvising the soundtrack. And they were behind the movie screen, so all we could see of them was their busy feet.
These guys have a dark overall sound, angular vocals and powerful guitar presence; after a particularly strong guitar part, the guitarist was heard to say, "I just broke string!" from behind the screen. Not that that stopped him for a second, but it was the perfect punctuation to what we had just heard.
The first film, Diagonal Symphony, was completely abstract with lines and forms mutating as if in a time lapse. The second, Lot in Sodom, was a homo-erotic take on the biblical tale of Sodom and Gomorrah, full of dream imagery, beautiful dancing men, and fire. Given the sexuality of the film, its censoring in 1933 was hardly surprising.
Seeing it tonight with Ghastly City Sleep improvising along was pretty spectacular. There were moments when their angelic vocals so perfectly synced up with the angels on-screen as to be eerie. Other times, the intensity of the on-screen action was mirrored by their playing.
Best of all, my visitor was blown away by the concept and execution of the entire show. Welcome to Richmond, where we have free events like this. Impressed yet?
Afterwards, I suggested one last stop, but my visitor had been up since 5:15 and was ready to call it a day, at least for today.
Like I said, when I'm playing guide, I have to tailor the tours to my audience, even if it means focusing on beer or an early night for me. A good Richmond hostess aims to at least please and hopefully impress.
I only have to do part of the work and the city does the rest.
Yet again, I was playing host to a beer geek, but this one didn't have a prescribed list of beer places to visit, so that made it easier for me to choose some places to do double-duty.
The first stop was River City Cellars so that my visitor could custom-create a six-pack. David was doing a beer tasting of holiday micro-brews, but took time to make some recommendations to a hophead. Beer safely stowed in a plain brown bag, we slipped next door to Secco for some imbibing.
The place was in the calm-before-the-storm mode so we got the full attention of the staff, including having Karen's mix on the sound system.
My friend went straight for the Bells Two Hearted IPA while I enjoyed the Domaine Rouge Bleu "Mistral," a Southern Rhone blend not yet on the wine list but sure to be added soon. It hasn't been that long since I was happily drinking their Rose.
We were so busy catching up that we didn't even realize that the place had filled up around us. Now that all the four tops have been reduced to two-tops, the place fairly bustles with someone in every seat.
I love the European-style closeness of the tables, although clearly some people don't get it. Not that it matters because someone else is always willing to take their vacated seats the moment they stop warming them; we saw it happen more than once.
We'd lingered so long at Secco that our eating options were limited to someplace quick and good; the obvious choice was 821, although I did have to explain to the out-of-towner why 821 is located at 825. There's a story to everything in this town.
We'd barely hit our bar stools when our server asked what we wanted to drink. That we hadn't decided, but I immediately ordered my favorite black bean nachos. "You don't need to see the menu?" she asked. Actually no, and if it weren't for her being fairly new to 821, she'd have known my order on sight. Oh, it's black bean nacho girl again.
My friend's heartier appetite dictated that we add chicken to the nachos as well and when the plate arrived, I was teased about the size of it, which I get when solo dining. But I don't finish the plate by myself and today the two of us made short work of it all.
Friend was especially impressed with the fresh-tasting salsa that accompanied the dish...and as always the cost of everything here. Visitors continue to be amazed at RVA's restaurant prices ($5 for Bells Two Hearted Ale? $3 for a draft? Really?).
After inhaling our food, we had no problem making it to Gallery 5 in time for the Silent Music Revival. Tonight's double feature was a can't-miss because Brooklyn's Ghastly City Sleep were improvising the soundtrack. And they were behind the movie screen, so all we could see of them was their busy feet.
These guys have a dark overall sound, angular vocals and powerful guitar presence; after a particularly strong guitar part, the guitarist was heard to say, "I just broke string!" from behind the screen. Not that that stopped him for a second, but it was the perfect punctuation to what we had just heard.
The first film, Diagonal Symphony, was completely abstract with lines and forms mutating as if in a time lapse. The second, Lot in Sodom, was a homo-erotic take on the biblical tale of Sodom and Gomorrah, full of dream imagery, beautiful dancing men, and fire. Given the sexuality of the film, its censoring in 1933 was hardly surprising.
Seeing it tonight with Ghastly City Sleep improvising along was pretty spectacular. There were moments when their angelic vocals so perfectly synced up with the angels on-screen as to be eerie. Other times, the intensity of the on-screen action was mirrored by their playing.
Best of all, my visitor was blown away by the concept and execution of the entire show. Welcome to Richmond, where we have free events like this. Impressed yet?
Afterwards, I suggested one last stop, but my visitor had been up since 5:15 and was ready to call it a day, at least for today.
Like I said, when I'm playing guide, I have to tailor the tours to my audience, even if it means focusing on beer or an early night for me. A good Richmond hostess aims to at least please and hopefully impress.
I only have to do part of the work and the city does the rest.
Double Jinx at Garnett's Cafe
I don't know if there's a cozier place than Garnett's on a rainy day. It already feels like you're having lunch in someone's snug kitchen and the rain outside just emphasizes the comfort factor.
So after working all morning, I was headed over in the downpour to meet a friend, jabber and have some lunch.
And I wasn't a bit surprised to find the place full up except for a couple of seats at the counter, one of which I slid in to. A guy at the end of the bar was reading a book. The older couple behind me were chowing down in silence.
Seated next to me was the afternoon/evening cook who'd decided to come in early and hang out until his shift began, so he was happily sketching until his turn in the kitchen. "I couldn't think of anyplace better to be on a day like this," he explained. What he said.
Once again I fell victim to their fabulous Cobb salad (every salad should have bacon, don't you think?) and my friend and I dove into our latest news. Hers was monumental and exciting at the same time. Unlike me, she is no longer available.
The funny part of that, as I told her, is that twice in recent days, I had been talking to friends (couple friends, of course) about how one by one, all my long-time available friends have been pairing up.
Which is a good thing and I'm happy for them all. But both times, I'd mentioned that I at least still had one close friend in the same boat I'm in. One person who didn't automatically have a date for everything.
"Thank you!" she laughed. "You jinxed me right into being taken!"
Now that I know I have that power, I just have to figure out how to jinx myself.
So after working all morning, I was headed over in the downpour to meet a friend, jabber and have some lunch.
And I wasn't a bit surprised to find the place full up except for a couple of seats at the counter, one of which I slid in to. A guy at the end of the bar was reading a book. The older couple behind me were chowing down in silence.
Seated next to me was the afternoon/evening cook who'd decided to come in early and hang out until his shift began, so he was happily sketching until his turn in the kitchen. "I couldn't think of anyplace better to be on a day like this," he explained. What he said.
Once again I fell victim to their fabulous Cobb salad (every salad should have bacon, don't you think?) and my friend and I dove into our latest news. Hers was monumental and exciting at the same time. Unlike me, she is no longer available.
The funny part of that, as I told her, is that twice in recent days, I had been talking to friends (couple friends, of course) about how one by one, all my long-time available friends have been pairing up.
Which is a good thing and I'm happy for them all. But both times, I'd mentioned that I at least still had one close friend in the same boat I'm in. One person who didn't automatically have a date for everything.
"Thank you!" she laughed. "You jinxed me right into being taken!"
Now that I know I have that power, I just have to figure out how to jinx myself.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
I'll Just Go as Me
When I walked into the wine tasting at J. Emerson, I immediately and unexpectedly saw three people I knew. One raised her wine glass and called out to me, saying, "Hey, Karen, since we always end up at the same places, maybe we should coordinate so only one of us has to go."
As I told her, that's a fine idea as long as I get to go to everything...especially something like a tasting with Jose Pastor, the enfant terrible among Spanish wine importers in this country.
As a friend had told me at the sausage party the other night, "He's attractive, 30-something and charming, so don't miss it." So why exactly would I want to let someone else go in my place? Take your time and get back to me on that, my friend.
Besides such superficiality, the wines being poured tonight were out of the ordinary. I did the cliched light to heaviest method of tasting, but a guy came up to me and said he'd started with the biggest red and was working his way back down. I didn't judge, but I didn't pat him on the back, either.
He asked which wine was my favorite and I voted for the Federico Tinto Roble, the kind of Tempranillo so beautifully balanced that you want to worship at the altar of Spanish wine. He too was a huge fan of Tempranillo which was why he'd started there he claimed. He certainly didn't look like the type who usually bucks the rules.
For a change, tonight's music was at Ghostprint Gallery, where I ran into a music-loving couple I know. We got to talking about what a great (if underused) venue Ghostprint is and I said that the Yndi Halda show there a few years ago had been my all-time favorite, a majestic evening of post rock soundscapes in that tiny gallery space. Listening to their CD still transports me back to that night.
Amazingly, they had been at that show, too, although I didn't remember seeing them (maybe we just didn't know each other well then?). In any case, they were the first people I've ever been able to discuss that show with who were actually there. I have to say, that was some serious (and satisfying) delayed gratification.
Opening was Stephen Vitiello on Mac and guitar and headlining was Anduin playing behind a hinged window set on the floor. In between was Benoit Pioulard doing his experimental folk-influenced songs, with his beautiful echo-y vocals. My friends had seen him perform before and the female half referred to him as dreamy and did a little swoon. Looks aside, his music was very much to my taste.
He started by introducing himself and thanking the audience for coming. "After this, I can go back to Portland and keep losing my shirt," he said, "sort of like these lovely ladies." He gestured to the art on the gallery's walls, the upcoming show, "Drawing Blood III: Tattooed Women."
With the gallery lights out and only the ones in the front windows and in the back tattoo room on, listening to his folk-pop over recorded sounds in a dim room surrounded by paintings of heavily tattooed women was an experience unlike any other I can recall.
I wouldn't have wanted what's-her-name to have taken my place for that, either.
As I told her, that's a fine idea as long as I get to go to everything...especially something like a tasting with Jose Pastor, the enfant terrible among Spanish wine importers in this country.
As a friend had told me at the sausage party the other night, "He's attractive, 30-something and charming, so don't miss it." So why exactly would I want to let someone else go in my place? Take your time and get back to me on that, my friend.
Besides such superficiality, the wines being poured tonight were out of the ordinary. I did the cliched light to heaviest method of tasting, but a guy came up to me and said he'd started with the biggest red and was working his way back down. I didn't judge, but I didn't pat him on the back, either.
He asked which wine was my favorite and I voted for the Federico Tinto Roble, the kind of Tempranillo so beautifully balanced that you want to worship at the altar of Spanish wine. He too was a huge fan of Tempranillo which was why he'd started there he claimed. He certainly didn't look like the type who usually bucks the rules.
For a change, tonight's music was at Ghostprint Gallery, where I ran into a music-loving couple I know. We got to talking about what a great (if underused) venue Ghostprint is and I said that the Yndi Halda show there a few years ago had been my all-time favorite, a majestic evening of post rock soundscapes in that tiny gallery space. Listening to their CD still transports me back to that night.
Amazingly, they had been at that show, too, although I didn't remember seeing them (maybe we just didn't know each other well then?). In any case, they were the first people I've ever been able to discuss that show with who were actually there. I have to say, that was some serious (and satisfying) delayed gratification.
Opening was Stephen Vitiello on Mac and guitar and headlining was Anduin playing behind a hinged window set on the floor. In between was Benoit Pioulard doing his experimental folk-influenced songs, with his beautiful echo-y vocals. My friends had seen him perform before and the female half referred to him as dreamy and did a little swoon. Looks aside, his music was very much to my taste.
He started by introducing himself and thanking the audience for coming. "After this, I can go back to Portland and keep losing my shirt," he said, "sort of like these lovely ladies." He gestured to the art on the gallery's walls, the upcoming show, "Drawing Blood III: Tattooed Women."
With the gallery lights out and only the ones in the front windows and in the back tattoo room on, listening to his folk-pop over recorded sounds in a dim room surrounded by paintings of heavily tattooed women was an experience unlike any other I can recall.
I wouldn't have wanted what's-her-name to have taken my place for that, either.
Please, I'm Trying to Learn Here
You know if I love noontime lectures, and I do, I'm bound to love noontime lectures where lunch is served even better. It was Maymont presenting this irresistible combination today and the topic du jour was Italian Renaissance Gardens. Art, history, food: score!
The event was held in the Garden House but walking through the grounds to get there on an overcast fall day was a treat in and of itself. There were groups of schoolchildren having lunch on blankets and chattering as happily as if it were a sunny warm day.
The landscape under the cloudy sky was monochromatic and certainly barer than my last warm-weather visit, but still a lovely sight to behold. I know two couples who had their first dates at Maymont and I'll bet that there are plenty of others who chose it for its bucolic (dare I say wooing?) charm.
The lunches came from A Sharper Palate and each was labeled with a picture of an animal: chicken, pig, turkey or "Med" for Mediterranean salad. A stranger recommended the smoked chicken salad and for dessert, I deliberated, but settled on the chocolate raspberry cake.
My smoked chicken salad sandwich had more heat than any chicken salad I'd ever had, making for an unexpectedly delicious surprise. The only downside was that it came with potato salad and I would have preferred fresh fruit.
It worked out well, though, because one of my tablemates (an architecture professor) had gotten fruit and offered to trade with me. He justified it by saying, "I had fruit for breakfast." (I don't care what your justification is, just take this potato salad off my hands. I mean, thanks.)
The lecture focused mainly on two Italian villas and their gardens. I love the notion of villas; what stressed city-dweller doesn't want a nearby house in the country in which you can cultivate your soul and have philosophical discussions outdoors?
Dr. Reuben Rainey had chosen his two favorite villas, Villa Medici Fiesole and Villa Lante, both with crisply defined outdoor rooms; the ceiling of these rooms was either the sky or a canopy of trees. I'd get philosophical too with the kind of views these places had.
Water features were popular and the Villa Lante had many "water jokes" where a spray would come out as you walked the path between buildings or up from benches as you sat. A sense of humor would have been required in the Renaissance, I think.
My favorite water feature by far was the enormous stone buffet table with the wine cooler carved out of the center to hold chilling water. But of course those Renaissance types knew how to drink well.
And, to my taste, plant well. Flowers were chosen in these gardens for scent more than anything else, which is exactly how I decide which flowers I prefer. If I can't smell it, all the beauty in the world is lost on me.
Chilled wine, garden rooms, fragrant flowers...if it weren't for villas being outside city limits I could almost have been, like, fer sure, a gnarly villa girl.
Like totally.
The event was held in the Garden House but walking through the grounds to get there on an overcast fall day was a treat in and of itself. There were groups of schoolchildren having lunch on blankets and chattering as happily as if it were a sunny warm day.
The landscape under the cloudy sky was monochromatic and certainly barer than my last warm-weather visit, but still a lovely sight to behold. I know two couples who had their first dates at Maymont and I'll bet that there are plenty of others who chose it for its bucolic (dare I say wooing?) charm.
The lunches came from A Sharper Palate and each was labeled with a picture of an animal: chicken, pig, turkey or "Med" for Mediterranean salad. A stranger recommended the smoked chicken salad and for dessert, I deliberated, but settled on the chocolate raspberry cake.
My smoked chicken salad sandwich had more heat than any chicken salad I'd ever had, making for an unexpectedly delicious surprise. The only downside was that it came with potato salad and I would have preferred fresh fruit.
It worked out well, though, because one of my tablemates (an architecture professor) had gotten fruit and offered to trade with me. He justified it by saying, "I had fruit for breakfast." (I don't care what your justification is, just take this potato salad off my hands. I mean, thanks.)
The lecture focused mainly on two Italian villas and their gardens. I love the notion of villas; what stressed city-dweller doesn't want a nearby house in the country in which you can cultivate your soul and have philosophical discussions outdoors?
Dr. Reuben Rainey had chosen his two favorite villas, Villa Medici Fiesole and Villa Lante, both with crisply defined outdoor rooms; the ceiling of these rooms was either the sky or a canopy of trees. I'd get philosophical too with the kind of views these places had.
Water features were popular and the Villa Lante had many "water jokes" where a spray would come out as you walked the path between buildings or up from benches as you sat. A sense of humor would have been required in the Renaissance, I think.
My favorite water feature by far was the enormous stone buffet table with the wine cooler carved out of the center to hold chilling water. But of course those Renaissance types knew how to drink well.
And, to my taste, plant well. Flowers were chosen in these gardens for scent more than anything else, which is exactly how I decide which flowers I prefer. If I can't smell it, all the beauty in the world is lost on me.
Chilled wine, garden rooms, fragrant flowers...if it weren't for villas being outside city limits I could almost have been, like, fer sure, a gnarly villa girl.
Like totally.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Remember Me Well
It was a night to celebrate the Day of the Dead. Gallery 5 was hosting an opening of their two week-long series of festivities to celebrate life after death, which was also an occasion to reflect on those no longer with us.
Co-sponsored by the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, I arrived to a sea of new faces and, naturally, some very familiar ones. An extensive spread of Mexican food had been provided by Moe's Southwestern Grill in Mechanicsville (definitely outside my little city world) and I was happy to partake of a tasty array of corn salsa, black beans, chili con queso and any number of other nacho/taco/burrito accouterments. Faces were being stuffed.
All at once there was a note, next a voice and then members of the Latin Ballet, elaborately costumed, (bride, skeleton, warrior) began a slow descent from the upstairs gallery.
Their parade through the crowd culminated in a series of dances onstage, some to traditional-sounding Latin music and others to cha-cha and even that Cuban classic, "Babalu." Their slow and rhythmic movements were positively mesmerizing.
Spoken word poet Daniel Jose Custodio did a piece about cemeteries and his mother's life; his impassioned delivery silenced the crowd and got an ovation afterwards.
Upstairs, the new exhibit "Memento Mori" had the appropriate dark and death-influenced feel to it, some pieces striking for their gruesome nature and others only hinting at the life beyond. There were several video installations, as well as sculpture and two-dimensional works.
I heard one first-timer say to his date, "Are you going to interpret this for me?" She declined, but this is definitely a show where interpretation is in the eye of the beholder. Death becomes some more than others.
Best line of the evening came from musician Prabir, who stated as fact, "I'm good at stealing people's wives." Fact. When I raised an eyebrow to that comment, he smiled and said, "What? I am." A nearby stolen wife concurred, so I had no choice but to believe him.
One of my favorite couple dates was in attendance and afterwards suggested we transport ourselves over to Balliceaux for a cocktail. They're the ones with day jobs and early mornings, so if they were up for it, I certainly was, despite there being no music on tap tonight.
My friends took their time about ordering Moscow Mules and when bartender Austin finally looked at me for my order, I looked right back and asked if he thought I was going to order anything other than straight tequila on ice.
"No, if you came in again on a night without music and then ordered a cocktail, I'd be seriously worried." As in, "Who-are-you-and-what-have-you-done-with-Karen?" worried?
"Exactly," he laughed, handing me my non-cocktail.
When I'm dead, and gone, I have no doubt that what friends will lay on a community altar to remember me by (and deliver to the afterlife) will be my trademarks: tights and tequila. As my former boss was fond of saying, it is what it is.
In life or death, I'm okay with that.
Co-sponsored by the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, I arrived to a sea of new faces and, naturally, some very familiar ones. An extensive spread of Mexican food had been provided by Moe's Southwestern Grill in Mechanicsville (definitely outside my little city world) and I was happy to partake of a tasty array of corn salsa, black beans, chili con queso and any number of other nacho/taco/burrito accouterments. Faces were being stuffed.
All at once there was a note, next a voice and then members of the Latin Ballet, elaborately costumed, (bride, skeleton, warrior) began a slow descent from the upstairs gallery.
Their parade through the crowd culminated in a series of dances onstage, some to traditional-sounding Latin music and others to cha-cha and even that Cuban classic, "Babalu." Their slow and rhythmic movements were positively mesmerizing.
Spoken word poet Daniel Jose Custodio did a piece about cemeteries and his mother's life; his impassioned delivery silenced the crowd and got an ovation afterwards.
Upstairs, the new exhibit "Memento Mori" had the appropriate dark and death-influenced feel to it, some pieces striking for their gruesome nature and others only hinting at the life beyond. There were several video installations, as well as sculpture and two-dimensional works.
I heard one first-timer say to his date, "Are you going to interpret this for me?" She declined, but this is definitely a show where interpretation is in the eye of the beholder. Death becomes some more than others.
Best line of the evening came from musician Prabir, who stated as fact, "I'm good at stealing people's wives." Fact. When I raised an eyebrow to that comment, he smiled and said, "What? I am." A nearby stolen wife concurred, so I had no choice but to believe him.
One of my favorite couple dates was in attendance and afterwards suggested we transport ourselves over to Balliceaux for a cocktail. They're the ones with day jobs and early mornings, so if they were up for it, I certainly was, despite there being no music on tap tonight.
My friends took their time about ordering Moscow Mules and when bartender Austin finally looked at me for my order, I looked right back and asked if he thought I was going to order anything other than straight tequila on ice.
"No, if you came in again on a night without music and then ordered a cocktail, I'd be seriously worried." As in, "Who-are-you-and-what-have-you-done-with-Karen?" worried?
"Exactly," he laughed, handing me my non-cocktail.
When I'm dead, and gone, I have no doubt that what friends will lay on a community altar to remember me by (and deliver to the afterlife) will be my trademarks: tights and tequila. As my former boss was fond of saying, it is what it is.
In life or death, I'm okay with that.
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