Hello Reader(s?)
You may have noticed a dramatic decrease in output in the last three months. This is due both to increase in work and a lack of storied party nights (ah, the curse of aging). However, I have found (mostly to my shock) that I really like having this blog, so I will be altering its mission statement a bit.
I still will chronicle the ridiculous drinking habits of myself and my associates, but will also post about other things. I may go on rants about tourists or the increased prices at Grey’s Popayas. I may occasionally critique art is some capacity. I may also go on long depressing tangents about the nature of life and being a mid twenties doof living in the big city.
I will admit in advance, occasionally I will post something that is of no interest to anyone but me. Feel free to skip these posts and wait for the posts where Hubris and I get drunk at 9 am and assault NYU students on the street (EPL season beginning is August, and since Hubris is blogging less and less, I may blog more on the subject). Just know that this site will be for great drinking stories as well as a soap box for my rants and my navel gazing.
I do ask that you please keep checking, as I am sure to do something hilarious at some point, and you may find me bitching about stuff hilarious as well.
Thanks
Q.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
A Drinker's Journey
The other Saturday I was the NY drunkard Odysseus, wandering the Adriatic Sea of Manhattan attempting to return to my beloved wife, A Good Drunken Time.
The Trojan War that had taken me away, work, required me to be at the theatre from 1 to 2pm. As soon as I was out, I headed down to Nevada Smiths to some of the Euro Cup. It was a true mini-homecoming, returning to this dark crowded bar as the sun burned brightly outside, the noble bartender Jack the Irish offering me a warm hello and a cold ale. Hubris and I drank up and watched Cristiano Ronaldo possibly break the diving record, taking a pratfall about 7 seconds into the match. Much lamentable, Hubris had to face his own war (being a waiter), and we departed after the first half.
Wandering without friends, and with 3 hours to kill before returning to battle (work) I decided to take in a show. The best available option fitting my journey was You Don’t Mess with the Zohan. The picture was about has good as to be expected, with moments of inspired brilliance (Michael Buffer as a bad guy!) and many a flat falling dick joke. When the film concluded, I journeyed back to the Upper West Side, for another round of battle (work).
Once battle (work) was concluded, I needed to find a safe harbor to plan my next move. Beloved Stout, where noble Teach tends bar, proved to be the perfect option. I rode the 2 line, Quick of Wheel and Heavy of Smell, down to the Garment District, and traveled deep into the bowels of Stout, to famed Dart Alley, where Teach and this adorable young lass, “Yank”, tended bar. I feasted upon much ale and dined upon an acceptable tuna salad. I send various missives out to comrades in arms, hoping to unite in revelry. As I waited, a bachelor party came down to dart alley and demanded a plethora of car bombs. Teach and I did mock them via text message as they chugged. In time the Valiant Bourbon Samurai took up the call and arrived at Dart Alley, craving ale and entertainment. We stayed and laid waste to the Smithwick keg until the Bachelor party made use of the karaoke machine. Their wails shall sound in the darkest pits of Tatarus. We needed a new quest, and decided to join The Banker at a bar on the Upper East Side.
Bourbon Samurai and I hailed a noble yellow traveling steed (cab) and went to the address the Banker had texted me. Alas, the bar was not there, only mass construction for the mythical 2nd Ave. line. There was fear we had been set up for an ambush! I texted Banker again, and a new address arose, leading us around the corner. We traveled about, again no bar. I finally use the phone part of my phone to call the crafty Banker and find where the battlefield lay. A final address was offered, and a bar located.
Banker, his comrade in arms Espny, and Espny’s woman Mrs. Espny, were in attendance of a friend’s birthday. We joined them for festivities, myself knowing the birthday boy in question. As an added bonus, our friend Chipmunk happened to work at said bar, and we were able to catch up with her. The Birthday boy and his colleagues were impressed with our company (despite her nickname, Chipmunk is well above average in appearance). As time passed, Bourbon and I craved new adventures, and send missives to our comrades. The Gymnast hailed to us from a gathering on the Upper West Side, and requested our presence. This seemed like the path to travel, so we made plans to head west. We, being men of honor, bought a round of shots for the birthday boy and our friends, then journeyed westward.
We arrived on the Upper West Side, a tad buzzed and without bearings. We buzzed on the wrong door, and walked by the some disreputable groups of man, fearing our journey would end in ruin. But after much wanderings, we found the castle at which Gymnast and his twin were revealing. We drank of ales and met many of Gymnast’s comrades, and had a grand conversation with two brave lads who plowed the trade of Stage Combat. This quite delighted Bourbon, and they shared stories of (staged) combat. Gymnast and I went in search of herbal sustenance, but found ourselves too late. Time passed and we became weary, deciding time had come to take a yellow steed (cab) back to the home fort.
Thus ended a night filled with travel, where I was to drank in many harbors, and raised toasts with many a good friend across with isle we call Manhattan. Good cheer.
The Trojan War that had taken me away, work, required me to be at the theatre from 1 to 2pm. As soon as I was out, I headed down to Nevada Smiths to some of the Euro Cup. It was a true mini-homecoming, returning to this dark crowded bar as the sun burned brightly outside, the noble bartender Jack the Irish offering me a warm hello and a cold ale. Hubris and I drank up and watched Cristiano Ronaldo possibly break the diving record, taking a pratfall about 7 seconds into the match. Much lamentable, Hubris had to face his own war (being a waiter), and we departed after the first half.
Wandering without friends, and with 3 hours to kill before returning to battle (work) I decided to take in a show. The best available option fitting my journey was You Don’t Mess with the Zohan. The picture was about has good as to be expected, with moments of inspired brilliance (Michael Buffer as a bad guy!) and many a flat falling dick joke. When the film concluded, I journeyed back to the Upper West Side, for another round of battle (work).
Once battle (work) was concluded, I needed to find a safe harbor to plan my next move. Beloved Stout, where noble Teach tends bar, proved to be the perfect option. I rode the 2 line, Quick of Wheel and Heavy of Smell, down to the Garment District, and traveled deep into the bowels of Stout, to famed Dart Alley, where Teach and this adorable young lass, “Yank”, tended bar. I feasted upon much ale and dined upon an acceptable tuna salad. I send various missives out to comrades in arms, hoping to unite in revelry. As I waited, a bachelor party came down to dart alley and demanded a plethora of car bombs. Teach and I did mock them via text message as they chugged. In time the Valiant Bourbon Samurai took up the call and arrived at Dart Alley, craving ale and entertainment. We stayed and laid waste to the Smithwick keg until the Bachelor party made use of the karaoke machine. Their wails shall sound in the darkest pits of Tatarus. We needed a new quest, and decided to join The Banker at a bar on the Upper East Side.
Bourbon Samurai and I hailed a noble yellow traveling steed (cab) and went to the address the Banker had texted me. Alas, the bar was not there, only mass construction for the mythical 2nd Ave. line. There was fear we had been set up for an ambush! I texted Banker again, and a new address arose, leading us around the corner. We traveled about, again no bar. I finally use the phone part of my phone to call the crafty Banker and find where the battlefield lay. A final address was offered, and a bar located.
Banker, his comrade in arms Espny, and Espny’s woman Mrs. Espny, were in attendance of a friend’s birthday. We joined them for festivities, myself knowing the birthday boy in question. As an added bonus, our friend Chipmunk happened to work at said bar, and we were able to catch up with her. The Birthday boy and his colleagues were impressed with our company (despite her nickname, Chipmunk is well above average in appearance). As time passed, Bourbon and I craved new adventures, and send missives to our comrades. The Gymnast hailed to us from a gathering on the Upper West Side, and requested our presence. This seemed like the path to travel, so we made plans to head west. We, being men of honor, bought a round of shots for the birthday boy and our friends, then journeyed westward.
We arrived on the Upper West Side, a tad buzzed and without bearings. We buzzed on the wrong door, and walked by the some disreputable groups of man, fearing our journey would end in ruin. But after much wanderings, we found the castle at which Gymnast and his twin were revealing. We drank of ales and met many of Gymnast’s comrades, and had a grand conversation with two brave lads who plowed the trade of Stage Combat. This quite delighted Bourbon, and they shared stories of (staged) combat. Gymnast and I went in search of herbal sustenance, but found ourselves too late. Time passed and we became weary, deciding time had come to take a yellow steed (cab) back to the home fort.
Thus ended a night filled with travel, where I was to drank in many harbors, and raised toasts with many a good friend across with isle we call Manhattan. Good cheer.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Some would call this poor time management
Memorial day weekend, I had two days off work. I have not had a day off in a month, and now I had 2. Of those 48 hours, I spent 24 piss drunk.
On Sunday, Hubris and I hit up Costco for booze/groceries. Costco has a little liquor store attached to it, with the standard Costco good prices and high quantity. We grabbed a couple cases of beer, lots of food, 4 bottles of wine, and a giant handle of both Seagram’s and Finlandia. Lock and Load!
We get back home and Hubris makes some drinks. Now Hubris’s idea of a Vodka Tonic is to take a pint glass, pour it a third full of Vodka, and throw in some Tonic and ice. After 2 of these, the world becomes a hilarious place. We then proceeded to break out my new game, Fifa Euro 08. We had been in withdrawal from the Beautiful Game, and it was great to get a little virtual Methadone. Eventually Kodez and Arsenal came by, and Bourbon Samurai returned home from being in a play. We pretty much sat there and played the game a lot while drinking giant mixed drinks. At one point, I was so bombed that I had to go to my room and listen to music for an hour so I could continue drinking/playing. Kodez at some point went to the bathroom and fell into the tub. A day in as only we can do it.
The next day was our supposed ‘house-warming’ party. It was an interesting all day affair, with the entire feel of the party constantly shifting. First it was just a couple of dudes hanging out, then a friend of Bourbon brought a dozen people over, who literally stayed for as long as it took to eat Bourbon’s delicious hamburgers. We did challenge them to a football game, so not a total loss. After that mild blow to morale, we fired up the X-box for another couple of Fifa games. Eventually more people showed up, and the game was banished. Bourbon hit the high point of the evening with a day long marinated set of ribs that literally fell off the bone. The last memory I have was the remaining 10 people at the party huddling together singing “The Weight”. The full day of drinking caught up to me around 10pm, and with an early day at work coming up, I went to pass out as the party began to die down.
We still have not come up for a name for our new home. We have now been there a month and such things must be addressed. Alas, it is rare that the three of us are ever all there and conscious at the same time, so a meeting seems unlikely. I continue to work like a maniac, but should see a decrease in that in 2 weeks or so.
So until then, take the load off Quantum, take the load for free….
On Sunday, Hubris and I hit up Costco for booze/groceries. Costco has a little liquor store attached to it, with the standard Costco good prices and high quantity. We grabbed a couple cases of beer, lots of food, 4 bottles of wine, and a giant handle of both Seagram’s and Finlandia. Lock and Load!
We get back home and Hubris makes some drinks. Now Hubris’s idea of a Vodka Tonic is to take a pint glass, pour it a third full of Vodka, and throw in some Tonic and ice. After 2 of these, the world becomes a hilarious place. We then proceeded to break out my new game, Fifa Euro 08. We had been in withdrawal from the Beautiful Game, and it was great to get a little virtual Methadone. Eventually Kodez and Arsenal came by, and Bourbon Samurai returned home from being in a play. We pretty much sat there and played the game a lot while drinking giant mixed drinks. At one point, I was so bombed that I had to go to my room and listen to music for an hour so I could continue drinking/playing. Kodez at some point went to the bathroom and fell into the tub. A day in as only we can do it.
The next day was our supposed ‘house-warming’ party. It was an interesting all day affair, with the entire feel of the party constantly shifting. First it was just a couple of dudes hanging out, then a friend of Bourbon brought a dozen people over, who literally stayed for as long as it took to eat Bourbon’s delicious hamburgers. We did challenge them to a football game, so not a total loss. After that mild blow to morale, we fired up the X-box for another couple of Fifa games. Eventually more people showed up, and the game was banished. Bourbon hit the high point of the evening with a day long marinated set of ribs that literally fell off the bone. The last memory I have was the remaining 10 people at the party huddling together singing “The Weight”. The full day of drinking caught up to me around 10pm, and with an early day at work coming up, I went to pass out as the party began to die down.
We still have not come up for a name for our new home. We have now been there a month and such things must be addressed. Alas, it is rare that the three of us are ever all there and conscious at the same time, so a meeting seems unlikely. I continue to work like a maniac, but should see a decrease in that in 2 weeks or so.
So until then, take the load off Quantum, take the load for free….
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Off Season laments
I have only recently become a sports fan, and have learned that being a sports fan means you can have random conversations at bars much easier. Now being a fan of a sport not popular in these United States means that I can talk to the random-est of people.
I was having a couple of drinks with Brownsox at Nevada Smith’s, our beloved futbol bar. We were talking to the manager (a woman, which I did not think was allowed there) when a crusty looking Englishman came up to the bar. He started talking to the manager, and clearly was another futbol regular. When this bloke, whose name was Martin, asked the manager what she thought of the game last night (The UEFA Champions League final), she claimed to not be much of a sports fan, which makes no sense given her employment. Mildly dismayed, Martin turned to us to discuss the footer. He was from Liverpool (which I could tell by his Beatles-like accent), an Everton fan (which is basically like growing up in Chicago and being a White Sox fan pre 2005) and really chill. He, like many people, pointed out that Arsenal plays the beautiful game and began talking trash about Chelsea and Cashly Cole. To top it off, his son is a Mets fan. Cool dude.
After talking to this bloke for a while, we headed downstairs for a couple more drinks. One of our favorite bartenders, Guzo, was working and he chatted us up for a while. He was showing a couple of B movies on the TVs, which I thought was a nice touch. Brownsox and I began work on a pitcher of Bud Light (it was cheap) and other people began trickling in. I don’t remember how, but Brownsox started up a conversation with a dude down the bar who was a fan of Barcelona. He was a cool dude, and we shared laments about both our team’s woes from this just completed season. At one point, Brownsox went to have a smoke, which I used as an excuse to get another pitcher.
Around Midnight we headed back home. I grabbed a 40 of Coors light at the bodega next to my home; hoping one of my roommates would split it with me. When I returned home, one roommate was out and the other ‘didn’t want to drink’. So I drank half the 40, and passed out.
I was having a couple of drinks with Brownsox at Nevada Smith’s, our beloved futbol bar. We were talking to the manager (a woman, which I did not think was allowed there) when a crusty looking Englishman came up to the bar. He started talking to the manager, and clearly was another futbol regular. When this bloke, whose name was Martin, asked the manager what she thought of the game last night (The UEFA Champions League final), she claimed to not be much of a sports fan, which makes no sense given her employment. Mildly dismayed, Martin turned to us to discuss the footer. He was from Liverpool (which I could tell by his Beatles-like accent), an Everton fan (which is basically like growing up in Chicago and being a White Sox fan pre 2005) and really chill. He, like many people, pointed out that Arsenal plays the beautiful game and began talking trash about Chelsea and Cashly Cole. To top it off, his son is a Mets fan. Cool dude.
After talking to this bloke for a while, we headed downstairs for a couple more drinks. One of our favorite bartenders, Guzo, was working and he chatted us up for a while. He was showing a couple of B movies on the TVs, which I thought was a nice touch. Brownsox and I began work on a pitcher of Bud Light (it was cheap) and other people began trickling in. I don’t remember how, but Brownsox started up a conversation with a dude down the bar who was a fan of Barcelona. He was a cool dude, and we shared laments about both our team’s woes from this just completed season. At one point, Brownsox went to have a smoke, which I used as an excuse to get another pitcher.
Around Midnight we headed back home. I grabbed a 40 of Coors light at the bodega next to my home; hoping one of my roommates would split it with me. When I returned home, one roommate was out and the other ‘didn’t want to drink’. So I drank half the 40, and passed out.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
When work drinking goes south
On Monday, a show at the theatre company I work at had its press Opening. That means Opening Night party. That means free booze. That means trouble.
While the show was running, I went to Dalton’s, a local bar around the corner from the Theatre, with a bunch of co-workers, to have a drink before reporting to work at the party. Dalton's is a bar new to me, but is marked with really good food and a strong tap. Now if they just dropped the prices down, it would be a staple.
I had to work the coat check at the beginning of the party, which was fine and slowed (not stopped, mind you) the flow off free Bud Lights (we are a not-for-profit, so our booze ain’t top shelf) keeping me from leaving friendly buzzed and entering fire-able drunk (at least in front of the higher-ups). After I clocked out, I had a shot to tequila with my boss and a co-worker whose last day it was, which uped the emotional ‘I love you guys’ quotient of the evening.
The party began to wind down around 11:30, and some of the actors from the other show were heading to Brooklyn. I have one more drink, grabbed some co-workers who live in said borough, and hailed a cab.
We meet the actors at a place called Barcade, which is a dive bar filled with old arcade games. The first thing I do as a way to announce myself was order shots. JD was chosen, and off we went. I believe a co-worker described my facial expression post shot as “horrible pain”. Hey, it’s Jack, what ya gonna do?
The exact details of the bar are a tad fuzzy, as the many free beers and now two shots (tequila and Whiskey are not great bedmates) caught up to me. I did enjoy myself a lot, and have yet to be told I did something messed up. I did head out eventually, jumping a cab back to Astoria. My plan was to sleep it off and attempt to get to work near on time. When I enter my living room, I found Hubris and Brownsox drinking bourbon. Crap!
You see, Hubris’s waiter lifestyle allows for such late weeknight wackiness. Brownsox recently got a job that pays him to blog about politics (making him the only person I know who can do their job on the crapper), so he does not care about 2am house parties on a Monday. If I was a stronger or wiser man, I would have gone to bed, but I am what I am. I sat down and had some Knob Creek and attempted to explain my evening, but mostly made fun of Brownsox for wearing a black turtleneck sweater in May. Soon after I arrived, Bourbon Samurai gave up his attempt to be a mature adult (i.e. get a good sober night’s sleep before work in the morning), came out of his room, and drank with us. At some point I went to bed, slept, and got to work 90 minutes late.
My job rules.
While the show was running, I went to Dalton’s, a local bar around the corner from the Theatre, with a bunch of co-workers, to have a drink before reporting to work at the party. Dalton's is a bar new to me, but is marked with really good food and a strong tap. Now if they just dropped the prices down, it would be a staple.
I had to work the coat check at the beginning of the party, which was fine and slowed (not stopped, mind you) the flow off free Bud Lights (we are a not-for-profit, so our booze ain’t top shelf) keeping me from leaving friendly buzzed and entering fire-able drunk (at least in front of the higher-ups). After I clocked out, I had a shot to tequila with my boss and a co-worker whose last day it was, which uped the emotional ‘I love you guys’ quotient of the evening.
The party began to wind down around 11:30, and some of the actors from the other show were heading to Brooklyn. I have one more drink, grabbed some co-workers who live in said borough, and hailed a cab.
We meet the actors at a place called Barcade, which is a dive bar filled with old arcade games. The first thing I do as a way to announce myself was order shots. JD was chosen, and off we went. I believe a co-worker described my facial expression post shot as “horrible pain”. Hey, it’s Jack, what ya gonna do?
The exact details of the bar are a tad fuzzy, as the many free beers and now two shots (tequila and Whiskey are not great bedmates) caught up to me. I did enjoy myself a lot, and have yet to be told I did something messed up. I did head out eventually, jumping a cab back to Astoria. My plan was to sleep it off and attempt to get to work near on time. When I enter my living room, I found Hubris and Brownsox drinking bourbon. Crap!
You see, Hubris’s waiter lifestyle allows for such late weeknight wackiness. Brownsox recently got a job that pays him to blog about politics (making him the only person I know who can do their job on the crapper), so he does not care about 2am house parties on a Monday. If I was a stronger or wiser man, I would have gone to bed, but I am what I am. I sat down and had some Knob Creek and attempted to explain my evening, but mostly made fun of Brownsox for wearing a black turtleneck sweater in May. Soon after I arrived, Bourbon Samurai gave up his attempt to be a mature adult (i.e. get a good sober night’s sleep before work in the morning), came out of his room, and drank with us. At some point I went to bed, slept, and got to work 90 minutes late.
My job rules.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Catching up with the fan(s?)
So what have I been up to since the blogging stopped?
1: I moved in with Hubris and Bourbon Samurai into a sweet new place in Astoria. Its awesome features include a HUGE living room, a really nice kitchen, and wacky but super-nice Croatian landlords. These features far outweigh the negatives (which include a temperamental toilet and being balls far away from the train).
In an attempt to make it to 30, we instituted some new house rules. Rule 1: No videogames in the living room, which helps Hubris with his addiction and eliminates the likelihood of the Dynasty Warriros time / baseball time knife fight between Bourbon and me. Rule 2, no more than 1 beer at a time in the house, an attempt to lose a little weight and not be drunk every night for no reason. This indirectly led to Hubris and I getting sloshed off Vodka Tonics and watching “Big Trouble in Little China” one lazy Sunday night. The only concern there was after I went to bed, Hubris kept drinking V & Ts, and convinced Bourbon to break into my room and startle me. When they did this, I instinctually grabbed the saber by my bed (our house is weird) and defended myself, which led to Hubris and I struggling over the sword and me getting a nice scrape on my back. The more I think about it, making it to 30 may just not be in the cards.
2: I got a semi-promotion at work, and now act as a company manager. This means that I need to be at every show, at least until Curtain and sometimes after. Basically I do not clock out until 8:30pm or so, but still have to be in the office during the day. Interestingly enough, this seems to be leading to a ton of casual weekday drinking, nothing crazy but lots of spending money on booze. As example, last night after I left the theatre I went down to Grassroots Tavern and split a pitcher with Brownsox, and then we went over to a nearby wine bar where Brownsox’s friend was working. Nothing crazy happened, save I am the only asshole who drinks beer at a wine bar (but Peroni is so delicious). Bourbon came by; we drank until 12:30; then headed home. We will see if this schedule shift leads to anything blog-worthy, or just me drinking a lot and never being home.
3: I have cut down on my morning drinking, part because of work/moving, but mostly because the EPL season has ended, so there is no credible excuse. I do plan to follow the EURO 2008 cup, but those games are later in the day. I need to find a futbol bar on the Upper West Side.
That’s the most of it. As summer comes in, expect more adventures.
1: I moved in with Hubris and Bourbon Samurai into a sweet new place in Astoria. Its awesome features include a HUGE living room, a really nice kitchen, and wacky but super-nice Croatian landlords. These features far outweigh the negatives (which include a temperamental toilet and being balls far away from the train).
In an attempt to make it to 30, we instituted some new house rules. Rule 1: No videogames in the living room, which helps Hubris with his addiction and eliminates the likelihood of the Dynasty Warriros time / baseball time knife fight between Bourbon and me. Rule 2, no more than 1 beer at a time in the house, an attempt to lose a little weight and not be drunk every night for no reason. This indirectly led to Hubris and I getting sloshed off Vodka Tonics and watching “Big Trouble in Little China” one lazy Sunday night. The only concern there was after I went to bed, Hubris kept drinking V & Ts, and convinced Bourbon to break into my room and startle me. When they did this, I instinctually grabbed the saber by my bed (our house is weird) and defended myself, which led to Hubris and I struggling over the sword and me getting a nice scrape on my back. The more I think about it, making it to 30 may just not be in the cards.
2: I got a semi-promotion at work, and now act as a company manager. This means that I need to be at every show, at least until Curtain and sometimes after. Basically I do not clock out until 8:30pm or so, but still have to be in the office during the day. Interestingly enough, this seems to be leading to a ton of casual weekday drinking, nothing crazy but lots of spending money on booze. As example, last night after I left the theatre I went down to Grassroots Tavern and split a pitcher with Brownsox, and then we went over to a nearby wine bar where Brownsox’s friend was working. Nothing crazy happened, save I am the only asshole who drinks beer at a wine bar (but Peroni is so delicious). Bourbon came by; we drank until 12:30; then headed home. We will see if this schedule shift leads to anything blog-worthy, or just me drinking a lot and never being home.
3: I have cut down on my morning drinking, part because of work/moving, but mostly because the EPL season has ended, so there is no credible excuse. I do plan to follow the EURO 2008 cup, but those games are later in the day. I need to find a futbol bar on the Upper West Side.
That’s the most of it. As summer comes in, expect more adventures.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Out of Towners mean I am allowed to drink extra!
Banker’s old college buddy Perfect Gentleman was in town this weekend. Banker, being a man of character, arranged a fancy dinner for P.G. and friends at Wolfgang’s Steakhouse. Banker, being a sentimental fool who should know better by now, invited me to attend.
Now, Banker was kind enough to move the reservation back a half an hour to accommodate my work schedule. He did however threaten excommunication if I was late, the evening being altered solely to fit my needs. Taking Banker very seriously, I arrive 15 minutes early. I was alone for the next 20 minutes.
This being a classy steakhouse, I grabbed a glass of Bourbon, a good aperitif for a steak dinner. When Banker and Perfect Gentleman arrive, Perfect Gentleman talks me (rather easily, to be honest) into having a Dirty Martini. I had forgotten that Martinis are both delicious and a rip off. I was charged 12 bucks for what was basically Stoli and olive juice. Tasty, but still, 12 bucks?
Spring Roll, Espny and the future Mrs. Espny all arrived in the next ten minutes, and we checked in with the lady at the desk. We were told to wait. We waited for a while. P.G. and I refreshed our martinis. We keep waiting. Banker does not take kindly to this blatant rudeness. I try to calm him down, but Banker has a history of handling dining related incompetence poorly. He goes outside to see if we can get a table at a nearby steakhouse. As he books us a table elsewhere, we are told our table is ready. It is 9:30; our reservation was for 8:30. This is going to go poorly.
Now I have been accused of having an odd air when I go out to eat with a large group of friends. The exact line, I believe, is I “act like a mafia don”. While I admit to a light gregariousness, I think that is a tad much. Yet again here I was put, accidentally I hope, at the head of the table, and charged with ordering the wine. Despite my palate for the Sauce, I am not much of a wine expert. I can bullshit my way pretty well, thanks to wonderful parents whose sense of the grape far outclasses my own, but that’s it. I did happen to stumble on a Magnum of a good bottle I knew about, and kept our inebriated crew going. Around the time of the appetizers, the three ‘cocktails’ (one bourbon and two vodkas-in-a-goofy-glass) caught up to me, so I kept quiet. When the steaks finally came (the service at the table was about as bad as the service to get to the table, although our waiter was very apologetic) I ate up and came back to play. I began egging on Perfect Gentleman, who is a lot of fun to get going once he has a couple of drinks in him. The rest of the table did a good job of pretending to find this amusing. I have good friends.
I do have to say, the steak was fantastic, but not worth the hassle we had to go through. We left the restaurant vowing not to return, Banker still riled with the treatment we had gotten. Mr. and Future Mrs. Espny headed uptown, while the remaining party headed downtown for more craziness. Spring Roll wanted to head to Alphabet City, because she lives there; Banker wanted to head to the LES, because there is a bar there he likes; Perfect Gentleman wanted to head to a nearby bar, because he is a crazy drunk. We got into a cab and headed south. I, who had to wake up early the next day in order to clean, move, then go to work, demanded that we stay as far uptown as possible. During the cab ride, I won P.G. to my cause, and we through sheer drunken belligerence, demand the cab stop so we can start drinking sooner. The cabbie complies, and we stop in the East Village. I not so much suggest that we go to Nevada’s as begin a march over, threatening any one who falls out of line. Once there, we hit the basement, and I grab a pitcher and drunkenly chat up the bartender (possibly hugging him, but its cool cause I am a regular). I attempt to drink my beer, but it becomes clear that if I want to wake up at 9 am tomorrow in any functioning shape, I had to go. So I bid my friends ado, apologized for leading them to a weird bar for no reason and leaving soon after (I hope) and jumped into a cab.
I should not be aloud at nice restaurants without proper supervision.
Now, Banker was kind enough to move the reservation back a half an hour to accommodate my work schedule. He did however threaten excommunication if I was late, the evening being altered solely to fit my needs. Taking Banker very seriously, I arrive 15 minutes early. I was alone for the next 20 minutes.
This being a classy steakhouse, I grabbed a glass of Bourbon, a good aperitif for a steak dinner. When Banker and Perfect Gentleman arrive, Perfect Gentleman talks me (rather easily, to be honest) into having a Dirty Martini. I had forgotten that Martinis are both delicious and a rip off. I was charged 12 bucks for what was basically Stoli and olive juice. Tasty, but still, 12 bucks?
Spring Roll, Espny and the future Mrs. Espny all arrived in the next ten minutes, and we checked in with the lady at the desk. We were told to wait. We waited for a while. P.G. and I refreshed our martinis. We keep waiting. Banker does not take kindly to this blatant rudeness. I try to calm him down, but Banker has a history of handling dining related incompetence poorly. He goes outside to see if we can get a table at a nearby steakhouse. As he books us a table elsewhere, we are told our table is ready. It is 9:30; our reservation was for 8:30. This is going to go poorly.
Now I have been accused of having an odd air when I go out to eat with a large group of friends. The exact line, I believe, is I “act like a mafia don”. While I admit to a light gregariousness, I think that is a tad much. Yet again here I was put, accidentally I hope, at the head of the table, and charged with ordering the wine. Despite my palate for the Sauce, I am not much of a wine expert. I can bullshit my way pretty well, thanks to wonderful parents whose sense of the grape far outclasses my own, but that’s it. I did happen to stumble on a Magnum of a good bottle I knew about, and kept our inebriated crew going. Around the time of the appetizers, the three ‘cocktails’ (one bourbon and two vodkas-in-a-goofy-glass) caught up to me, so I kept quiet. When the steaks finally came (the service at the table was about as bad as the service to get to the table, although our waiter was very apologetic) I ate up and came back to play. I began egging on Perfect Gentleman, who is a lot of fun to get going once he has a couple of drinks in him. The rest of the table did a good job of pretending to find this amusing. I have good friends.
I do have to say, the steak was fantastic, but not worth the hassle we had to go through. We left the restaurant vowing not to return, Banker still riled with the treatment we had gotten. Mr. and Future Mrs. Espny headed uptown, while the remaining party headed downtown for more craziness. Spring Roll wanted to head to Alphabet City, because she lives there; Banker wanted to head to the LES, because there is a bar there he likes; Perfect Gentleman wanted to head to a nearby bar, because he is a crazy drunk. We got into a cab and headed south. I, who had to wake up early the next day in order to clean, move, then go to work, demanded that we stay as far uptown as possible. During the cab ride, I won P.G. to my cause, and we through sheer drunken belligerence, demand the cab stop so we can start drinking sooner. The cabbie complies, and we stop in the East Village. I not so much suggest that we go to Nevada’s as begin a march over, threatening any one who falls out of line. Once there, we hit the basement, and I grab a pitcher and drunkenly chat up the bartender (possibly hugging him, but its cool cause I am a regular). I attempt to drink my beer, but it becomes clear that if I want to wake up at 9 am tomorrow in any functioning shape, I had to go. So I bid my friends ado, apologized for leading them to a weird bar for no reason and leaving soon after (I hope) and jumped into a cab.
I should not be aloud at nice restaurants without proper supervision.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)