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.

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.

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.

A mini revalation

Bourbon Samurai once wrote about how a drunk loves a dog, because they now have the same intellectual capacity and can now interact in an exciting new way that was previously unavailable. I have found a similar connection; one between a drunkard and someone else’s baby.

I was out to dinner at a new sushi restaurant in Queens with Hubris and a bunch of his work friends. I had gone out drinking with Hubris beforehand, and was downing sake and beers pretty quickly, so the buzz was a-forming. Now, one of the guys at the table invited his brother, and said brother came to the sushi place with his wife and baby. The wife and baby sat right behind me, and I was entranced. I looked into those large brown eyes and saw an instant kinship. For we both were filled with a curious awe at the confusing sights and sounds that bombarded us. Now, the baby’s mother was there to hold and take care of the child, who made the baby safe, but I just stared at the creature like its giggles held the answers to all of life’s questions. Seriously, go get bombed and stare at someone’s else’s baby, and see how you feel.

In other news, I have begun the process of moving, with is both a huge pain in the ass and an exciting adventure into change. This does suggest a lack in blogging and blog-inspiring activity (ie. Drinking until I am a jackass) but we shall see. I also now know how to play darts, and desire to improve at it. More as that develops.

The guys go to a classy event. Stupidity ensues.

A word about young Wall Street types. They spend so much time working, that they have a hard time meeting people outside of their office (aka, people they don’t hate). So, in order to meet people, they join charity groups that on the weekend help the community. The Banker is in one of these groups. His particular charity is connected to a larger charity group, which last night had a huge fundraiser. It had free booze. Game on.

The actual event is called “Taste of the Lower East Side”. Basically, you buy a ticket, and all the best restaurants in that area set up stands in a ballroom and serve some food or drink from their restaurant. It is as awesome as it sounds. I grab two tickets (steep, but hey, it’s Charity) and brought Bourbon along (I considered bringing a date, but then the sad fact that I am me hit me).

When we get there, we waste no time going to work, eating everything in sight and drinking whatever is available. Its clear that all the liquor is donated, so the beer is not great (I am fairly sure that I could get a keg of Brooklyn Lager donated to me for a Its-Tuesday-and-I-am-bored party), but apparently one of the sponsors is Grey Goose, so we make do. The Grey Goose table is easy to find, as it has a giant ice sculpture of the Grey Goose seal. A couple of cocktails from them (including a great Tom Collins, which is not really at Tom Collins with vodka, but screw it, it was tasty) and I was ready to keep eating.

We eventually met up with Banker and his buddy Spring roll, who were working the room. We grabbed them and headed deeper into the maze of amazing food stands. As we go further, I see a large sign for Tequilla, so I head over. Now, next to the tequila stall, serving some anchovies is none other than Mark from this season of Top Chef. We bug the hell out. Normally, I am pretty cool when running into celebrities, but for some reason this sighting was freaking me out. I try his anchovies, and tell him “I am probably the 100th dude to tell you this, and there will be 100 more, but you were the bomb on Top Chef”. He was very touched and thanks me for the support. Later in the night, I gave him a beer and toasted his awesomeness. That kiwi is the man!

We ran into some other people we knew. The Banker’s parents were there, and we caught up with them. Banker’s parents are quality people who do a great job of turning their back on what an alcoholic retard I am. I have one fond memory of crashing at Banker’s parents place right after college, and having an hour long conversation with Banker’s dad, while I was hammered and Banker was showering off his own vomit. Good Times. Eventually I ran into my old buddy Duke, who was there with a date. We caught up over a couple of drinks, and compared notes on the food/ Top Chef sightings. Duke is a great guy who I see too rarely.

We continued to eat anything in sight, and drink whatever was available. The highlights was a margarita, Tequila aged 18 months in whiskey barrels, a mushroom tart thing, Shrimp in a shot of mango juice, cupcakes, and a bunch of other things that I forget because I was eating and drinking too much. By the time the event began to wind down, I would just take a bite of something, and throw the rest of it away, not because it wasn’t good but because space in my stomach had become a precious commodity.

The evening got to the point where the lights came up and the music stopped playing. However, we are still buzzing on about a dozen different sugars, so didn’t want to go home. While Banker said goodbye to people, I decided the most logical thing to do is lick the Grey Goose ice sculpture. Bourbon captures the event on my IPhone, but is unable to get a good shot, so I have to lick the damn thing three times before an acceptable shot was taken (Good thing, because at shot three, people started to get wise to me).

We pop into a bar across the street, which appears to be slammed. I walk towards the back looking for a table, but find a staircase that leads to a basement bar about the size of my living room. Weird, but it was quiet, so we hunkered down and drank some Stellas. Eventually Hubris poped up, right around the time Banker and Spring roll remembered its Thursday, and should attempt sleep before work tomorrow. We finish our drinks, and debate a similar course of action. Then Teach called me, and said he would be out of work in ten minutes and wanted to grab a drink. At this point the night has gone pear shaped, so why not?

Teach works at Stout, which is a very nice midtown bar. We met him at the super generic Blarney Rock bar next store, which is not so nice. We order some drinks and I kindly grab a Sam Adams so the moment Teach arrives he will have a cold one. Teach does come by, but about at the end of the beer, I realize I need to get some sleep this night, and Bourbon looks like he has been stepped on by a giant. Hubris and Teach, who had not tried to eat and the drink the LES dry, opted to stay out, as we cabbed it back home in a stupor.

The next morning at work, I was unable to think about anything for more than 5 minutes. It was worth it though, and I am buying my tickets for next year tomorrow.

Grear bars in NYC: Campbell Apartments, when you need to class it up.

Campbell Apartments is the nicest bar I have ever frequented. This bar/lounge was originally Robber Barron John Campell’s office and prohibition era salon, and the décor has stayed the same since those Roaring Twenties. It’s a large cozy room with dark lighting, comfortable seating, and even a mock fireplace. Its location, inside Grand Central, makes it a hot spot of well off commuters. The drink menu specializes in Martinis and Prohibition era cocktails. The Flapper’s Delight, a mix of Amaretto, Champagne, and Papayas juice, is a personal favorite. Their Chocolate Martini is also well ranked.

I was introduced to the spot by my old college roommate Kingpin, whose taste this bar served perfectly. He loved the class of the joint, and the fact that they would serve minors if the minors dressed the part and did not balk at the bill (average drink price, $16). When I lived in Westchester, the bar served as a lovely spot for a drink before catching a train. I was having a drink there one time, waiting for a train and in a particularly depressed mood, when a woman, not a girl or a lady but very much a woman, started hitting on me. It became clear that her advances was more to do with getting rid of the sketchy dude hitting on her than any interest in me, but I am a man of manners and played along. After the other guy took the hint and moved on, the woman began telling me about her divorce and her concerns about finding another great love in her life. Heavy stuff for a 23 year old kind who just wanted a drink before catching a train. Still it was a neat moment when two random people can have a brief connection in a dark bar.

Clearly this is not a bar for crazy stories, but I have a great history with the joint. Its cocktails are amazing and its atmosphere is fabulous; its just not a bar I will go to more than once a quarter.

P.S. my other favorite bar in Grand Central, the beer stalls that see 2 dollar Coors Lite tall boys. Because no one should take a train sober. Hell, Brownsox and I are known to just go to Grand Central and walk around drinking Coors Lite killing time. It’s a nice change of pace from Campbell’s, to say the least.

Great bars in NYC: The Frying Pan, or 'The Boat'

Bourbon Samurai like going to plays. He had heard of a production of Pericles that was being done in an old boat, which is cool if you know the play. He convinced me to come check it out with him. What we didn’t know was besides enjoying an evening of Shakespeare, we would find arguably the coolest bar in Manhattan.

The boat in question was The Frying Pan, a decommissioned lightship docked at the Chelsea pier. When one arrives at this particular dock, one finds the boat, ample seating at the dock, and an outdoor bar and grille. We arrived early for the show, so we each grabbed a drink and sat on the dock, watched the dusk and drank beer/whiskey. After the show, we returned to the dock/bar, and had a slew of other drinks, as the dock erupted into a full out party. We had found the spot for the summer.

We would return several times that and next summer. While the best time to hit the place up was around sunset, its evening scene is great, with lots of seating and dancing and sometimes live music. The drinks are pricey, but not maddeningly so (at least to New Yorkers). The food is surprisingly good, and I remember one great lunch there where Hubris, Bourbon, and I celebrated ending the ’06 season with fried fish and beer at lunch, debating whether we should steal a water taxi, and how far we could go before we were caught.

The craziest memory I have of the spot was 2 summers ago. A group of us had two tables near the beginning of the dock, including Jersey and Jersey’s half-brother, who was visiting from out of town. We looked down the dock towards the bar and noticed some commotion. After a moment, we realized that a fist fight had broken out. A large clearly drunk man was throwing punches at another slightly less drunk man who was defending himself. The first guy’s buddies tried to pull him off. They finally calm the guy down, and he starts to head down towards us back to dry land. He gets within spitting distance of us, and then turns around and charges back towards the bar. One of his friends stands in his way, and gets a shot to the face for his trouble. Once again, the guy had to be cooled down, and dragged off the dock. I am glad Jersey’s half brother got a story out of his trip to the big city.

This place with its chill vibe and beautiful view makes it one of my favorite all time bars. It’s a little pricey and a pain to get to, but for a chance to sit on a dock with a cold one and some decent food while hanging with the crew, you do what you gotta do.