Repeatedly foiled in my search for good joe

Eternally on the hunt for the tastiest of everything, I figured I'd use my two breakfasts in Richmond as opportunities to find exceptional coffee. Ultimately I was foiled -though fortunately I stopped by Lamplighter on the way out of town, thank you Joy from MAFWS for the rec- both days, but the first attempt did yield a pretty great story. It begins... When I checked in to the Hilton Garden Inn, the front desk agent let me know that the hotel shuttle would happily take me anywhere within a two mile radius. I didn't pay much attention to that nugget until the next morning when I wanted to go to Lift Coffee but didn't have time to walk there and back and still get to the conference on time. I inquired about the shuttle and was directed to a perfectly coiffed middle-aged man who seemed exceedingly put out that I wished to hop a ride. I told him my destination, and he sighed and said, "Why would you want to go there? It's blocks away."

"Well, sir, because I've heard Lift has very good coffee but I don't have enough time to walk."

"Well, there is a place just one block down..." (this would obviate the need for the shuttle but OK) "so let me take you there first. It's called Richmond on Broad."

I was fairly taken aback but simply shrugged and said "OK" because we had to go in that direction first in order to make the turn back to Lift. When we got to ROB, however, Mr. Poo pulled over and said with dripping faux geniality, "Let me get the door for you." I knew immediately that while ROB might have perfectly good food, there was no way they were going to have anything beyond drip and superautomatic coffee.

At this point I was so taken aback that I just went with it. Coif drove away faster than you could spit. I did have a nice bowl of oatmeal and sample my first cronut, but I also wished for a real espresso machine and fresh beans. Can you get over that guy?

The next morning, needing to check out anyway, I decided to drive myself to Lift but was again thwarted by a street fair and an unholy mix of barricades and one way streets. ROB was closed for pete's sakes so Starbucks it had to be.

Later that afternoon, I was rewarded by an excellent cappuccino at Lamplighter, the one on Addison near (or in?) Carytown. Just-roasted beans, active grinders, hipster baristas, latte art, the works.

The Magpie

I'm literally licking crème anglaise from my fingers right now, a delightful activity that does, however, put a crimp in my typing plans. I mean, when leftover crème anglaise is just loitering near me, I can't simply ignore it. Hold up, lemme finish....

Ok, there to here and perhaps back again.

As I walked back to my hotel after today's final session, I began contemplating dinner. I didn't eat much in the way of lunch and was eager to sample more of what seems to be an exciting, serious food scene here in Richmond. A woman I sat next to gave me a few recommendations, and in reviewing those online I came across The Magpie, a gastropub in the Carver neighborhood which is, incidentally, also where The Black Sheep resides.

It struck my fancy, so I made an early reservation and wandered over after a bit of work. This not being on a schedule dictated by others is really excellent, just downright liberating I tell you. The Magpie sits in an old, smallish, green-painted house on the corner of West Leigh and Norton streets, and I liked it the moment I approached. The ever-present restaurant chalkboard stood out front, boasting today's specials, while large windows allowed passersby a peek inside. Surely few can resist stopping, as the warmth and sense of The Magpie being a beloved neighborhood joint are palpable.

To my delight, I procured an end seat at the L-shaped bar; four others were filled with birthday revelers and the few empty stools that remained meant elbow room and more personal attention from the terrific bartender (he looked like a chill Louis CK) for us all. Behind me, against the wall, ran a red velvet banquette whose top ran up and down like the lines of a royal crown or the waves at high tide. The Magpie is an intimate place but not hushed or austere. It's comfortable, confident and happy, the sort of place at which I'd love to be a regular.

While I usually start with wine, the cocktail list sang to me like a siren, and I ordered a Mrs. Robinson, a crisp concoction of Tito's vodka, St. Germain, fresh muddled strawberries and rosewater. This was a perfect refresher, the sort that goes down too easy and you hope you can recreate at home.

I quickly chose the Manchego arancini with pea shoots and fig compote as well as the charred asparagus with mushrooms, cipollini cream and Manchego crumbs to go alongside, and though I felt I'd perish when Louis said they were out of the ricotta agnolotti with pinenut butter, I recovered and made do with the smoked hangar steak with asparagus, fingerlings, charred red onions and mustard aioli.

People, it should not be legal to eat like this on a last-minute whim. Or, perhaps, it should be more common. Had I not been in a formal dining establishment, read: in public, I would have licked those plates clean. The arancini were spiked with bits of rosemary and were so greaseless that I was certain they'd invented some sort of higher heat-no burn fry method. Each bite was an inner "holy shit" revelation that made me offer thanks. Likewise for the asparagus which were preternaturally flavorful. The cipollini cream was the stuff of dreams and the Manchego crumbs just gilded the lily. Holy shit crossed my mind again. And again.

By the time my hangar steak arrived, I'd ordered a lovely glass of Pinot and was starting to wonder if I really needed an entree. But, like a ruminant whose multiple stomachs allow him to forage on, I persevered and ate damn near all that steak and accompanying fingerling potato rounds (literally perfect rounds), asparagus and onions. The aioli was a tad sweet for my taste, but the steak had a gorgeous, pungent shellac of smoky caramelization, and I was terribly impressed by those damn potato rounds.

I do believe the waitstaff was impressed by my appetite and follow through, even more so when I said, "Yes I would like to hear the dessert options," and then, "yes I will take the chocolate caramel tart to go." Who, WHO, can pass up homemade shortbread topped with chocolate caramel sprinkled with toasted coconut and adorned with dollops of the aforementioned, finger-licking crème anglaise? Not I, friends, not I.

Back in my hotel room, I donned PJs, called T and then tucked right into my treat. I find myself rapidly fading at this point, sated in ways both physical and intellectual, grateful for this room of my own for 48 hours. A good and deep exhale!

The Normal Heart, walking Manhattan streets, Druze Israeli snack, Eataly

Have mercy on everything you can do and see in a day in NYC when you don’t have your kiddies with you.

The Normal Heart was incredible, possibly the best Broadway show I’ve ever seen. Impeccably and powerfully written, the acting was also simply superb. I was angered, moved to tears, rendered speechless and left laughing throughout and felt profoundly grateful to have gotten to see it. NYers, two weeks left. If you haven’t seen it, please go.

Tom met me at the theater after the show, and by then, my lettuce wraps were long since gone. We came across a Druze Israeli teensy hole-in-the-wallish place that was terrific- perfect for a hearty afternoon snack. Baba ghannouge, hummus, falafel and grape leaves, tahini and this great bread, saj, that was like a whole wheat crepe. Yum. I like what’s happened to Hell’s Kitchen over the past ten years.

T ultimately headed back to the hotel, but I continued to wander, relishing the myriad eccentricities that abound in NY. Anything goes, especially if you do it/wear it/say it with confidence. I love the number of enormously ripped men with tiny dogs walking the streets together, the ridiculous array of cat strollers I’ve seen, the sheer variety of outfits, hairstyles, languages…

And though I said I wouldn’t, I had to head back to Eataly. For one, I love the Flat Iron building- it is a gorgeous testament to old, good, grand architecture. And two, I just had to get some goods and did leave with: three small jars of different kinds of honey (lime tree! chestnut! mountain honeydew!), a divine bottle of extremely peppery olive oil, some anchovies and two neat pastas. That in combination with the persian cukes, 4 bunches of radishes and large amount of fava beans that I bought from the Greenmarket this morning should make for some delicious creations this week.