Gone too Soon: Dionysus

If I were any good at poetry, an art form I admire but lack the patience to create, I'd compose an Ode to Dionysus.

You'll be sorely missed, Dionysus.

For those of you unfamiliar with both the bar and the chain of events, allow me to explain.

Dionysus, nestled in between that pizza/liquor shop and a rowhouse at 8 E Preston St in Mt. Vernon/Midtown-Belvedere was a cozy little bar.  It was no frills - some questionable looking sofas lived in the lower level, hard whiskey, good beers on tap, and staff that would strike up a bitingly sarcastic and lively conversation.  For you House of Cards fans, if you look ever so slightly to the right of Zoe's apartment entrance, you'll note an orange awning.  That orange awning was Dionysus.

Today, I discovered that Dionysus has closed.  The Sun acknowledged this on March 11th, but I just caught wind of the news today.   It seems odd to be so glum about the closing of an otherwise forgettable bar, but Dionysus had so many things going for it.  It wasn't trying to be a certain "type" of bar.  It let Club Charles hold the trophy for quirky, and graciously bowed out so Brewer's could have the title of "brewpub."

Home is just a few blocks from Dionysus, and when I first moved, I often walked by with Bubba in a feeble attempt to socialize him with the clientele seated outside.  I would go there by myself to have a drink and chat up a bartender - because when you're new to a city, you have no one else to talk to.  My first friends, though they were short lived friendships that consisted solely of conversation over one drink, were at Dionysus.  My first and only 'Boh on tap was at Dionysus, before discovering my gluten intolerance.  The first terrible pick up line used on me in Baltimore was in front of Dionysus while walking Bubba; "Your fluttering lashes are derailing my train of thought."  I had some awful dates there - one guy kept referring to me as "kid" because I was all of four years younger than him.  I had some incredible laid-back weeknights of drinks with friends there.  In less than two years, I have accumulated so many memories of a cozy hole-in-the-wall.  In reading people's posts on their Facebook page expressing sadness about their closing, I learned that Dionysus had other levels.  I never had any reason to go anywhere but downstairs, into the basement bar, where a friend for a night (in a non-suggestive way) always awaited.

Thank you, Dionysus, for being my first friend in the city.  Thank you socializing my dog, for introducing me to terrible men, for always making my whisky-gingers and gin and tonics potent, and for chatting with a lonely Virginia transplant for her first few months in Baltimore.  I'll miss you dearly.  I'm so sad I was never able to have a farewell whiskey-ginger with you.

Cheers.

Baltimore Farmer's Market

Almost every Sunday, a dear friend of mine picks my lazy self up from my apartment and we head to the Farmer's Market under JFX.  This has become my happy place in this city.  For the brief, shameful, three weeks I tried my hand at online dating in Baltimore, the market was front and center on my profile.  "What do you do?"  Answer: I spend time at the market.  "Where are you on a typical Friday night?"  Answer: Thinking about the market.  

Perhaps it wasn't quite that bad, but nearly.  I mentioned it quite a bit and got many, "What do you like to cook??" messages.  Rolling in a little later than usual this morning, my kale guy was fresh out.  Devastated, he promised me he'd set a pound aside for me next week.  Still, I was able to walk out this week with zucchini, lesser kale from a different farmer, green beans, an eggplant, peaches, tomatoes, bell peppers, blueberries, my usual bag of kettle korn and a bouquet of flowers for under $25.  All fresh, all local.

To the right is a photo of Baltimore's most handsome basset hound mutt with my fresh flowers.  As you can tell, he just adores the forced glamor shots.

I can't give the market enough praise.  I love the omelet guy and the goodness you can buy from him for $7, I love that $3 will get me a bag of fresh kettle korn, I love the ginger cardamon lemonade when I'm sweating through my clothes, I love the man who plays his trashcan-turned-guitar, I love the children hula-hooping, the bike smoothie guy, the smoke from the pit beef, the man who's been giving me free samples of corn the past few trips, and just the energy of this city that pulsates throughout the bottom of the expressway between 8am and noon every Sunday.  

After the market today, I caught up with a friend at Charmington's,  hit up Wyman Park with little guy (little guy pictured above, and parks will be another post for another day) and then went to the BMA to check out the Sondheim exhibit for the finalists (and winner!) for this year's prize.  I ended my afternoon at the Whole Foods in Mt. Washington, where I realized that not only was my ten year-old Corolla to sketchy for the area, so was I.  I picked up another loaf of gluten-free bread, some goat's cheese, tofu, tamari for my asian kicks, and returned to downtown where my car and I fit in just fine.

For the first time in a long while, I was overwhelmed at my options come dinner time.  I settled on this frittata, regretting my lack of dill, and adding slices of my amazing tomatoes, plus an on-hand lemon to it.  Paired with a glass of sauvignon blanc and a cuddly dog, it was a lovely way to toast a relaxing weekend.  I'd say I'll eat my blueberries for dessert, but I've been snacking on them all day.

So, if you're new to Bmore, get yourself to the market!  Sundays 8am-noon, April through November.  I realize I have now made myself a resuable-bag-using, kale-purchasing, Whole Foods-patronizing, NYTimes Recipes For Health-making cliche, but I'm alright with that.  I also compost now, so I may as well just embrace my inner hippie and start making my own kombucha.  It's only a matter of time. (Sarcasm!  ...sort of)