Everything I think to write about last night needs to go in the journal. I can't write about it here. I've tried, sitting in my usual chair later in the morning after a night out, thought about how to make a BIG statement peppered with a few details so that I can make a point without naming names or discrediting anyone. To defame is never my purpose unless I am the brunt of the joke. Or, you know, if, like Brando, the person is dead. I'll kid. C.C., Q, Tennessee. . . but not defame. And never an old love. No. There is no benefit to anyone.
Tennessee called me mid-afternoon.
"You want me to pick you up?"
"No, I'll drive myself. I don't want to get stuck if I want to bail."
"Nooooo. . . we'll bail after the first place if it sucks. We can go have a drink at the good Italian place."
"Yea. . . I'll meet you there."
"Bullshit. You won't go. I'll pick you up."
"I still have to get ready. I just got back from the gym. I'll text you when I'm done."
Stepping out of the shower, I heard someone knock on the kitchen door, then a voice. What the fuck?
"You'd better be packing heat, motherfucker."
I walked out with a towel wrapped around me. There was Tennessee.
"What the fuck, man. I told you I'd let you know when I was ready."
"I didn't trust you. I figured you'd take off somewhere."
I'm always the one eager to leave the crowd and go home. I like it for a minute or two, but at some point it always become tedious and I'm ready to bolt.
I got ready while he putzed around the house. When I was done, it was still too early to go.
"You want a beer?"
In a while, we jumped into his new BMW SUV. You need a pilot's license to drive one of those it seemed. It does shit a simple car should never do.
"Fuck. I don't know how to drive this. My wife told me to take her car because my truck was dirty. She can track me on this thing."
"It probably has recording devices. Hell. . . she might be listening to us right now!"
"I wouldn't doubt it."
After a lot of flashing lights, clicks, and high pitched beeps, he got his phone paired with the stereo. I'd sent him The Gourd's "Gin and Juice" a few weeks ago.
"Rolling down the street smokin' indo, sipping on gin and juice. . . ."
"I ate a gummy before I came over."
When we got to the bowling alley, the parking lot was full. There was one space left, but T passed it up.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you just want to drop me off at the door? Did your gummy just kick in?"
He circled back. Inside, the crew was waiting at the bar. We moved to a table and the drinks came. Palomas with tajin. Icy on a hot summer's day. The first one went down easy.
"Do you have a reuben or a corned beef sandwich?"
"No. That was on the old menu."
There was nothing substantial on the new menu. A few plates of wings and an artichoke dip showed up with the next round. The wings sucked.
A third Paloma arrived. I'd only had a piece of avocado toast all day. I needed grub, not more tequila. All agreed. We headed for the Moderne.
I've shown this before. I stumbled upon the place one Sunday morning when the streets were closed. I've been intrigued since, but I'd never been. Alain had been there the week before and said the cocktails and food was great. But. . . six guys. . . we sat in low slung chairs waiting for something to open up at the very full bar.
Drinks arrived. Fancy drinks. I am not sure what they were, but I think it was the cocktail with Santa Teresa 1796 rum, Amabuki Rosè sake, strawberry mint jam, lemon, honey. Maybe. We sat and drank and waited. A fellow approached.
"There are three of us leaving if you want to take these."
Tennessee and I went over and planted ourselves at the bar. On the other side, the boys had garnered two others places. I was sitting next to a woman who had two empty seats beside her, a handbag on one. I was five cocktails and a beer in and I was hungry. Somehow, the boys talked the girls into trading seats with them on the other side of the bar. Five of the six of us were now sitting together. Then the 6th.
Here's a photo of the bar from that Sunday morning when the place was closed. It is a lovely bar, but the food is all small plates and servings. We got menus. We ordered. Everyone's food came but mine. I had a small plate of edamame. Another cocktail. Confusion over the food, then my tuna kabachi. Small plates, sticky Asian ribs, skewers of chicken, pork Goyza. . . then, in the confusion, an extra Wagu bibimbap. It was a big bowl. Nobody claimed it. At last, some real food.
And more cocktails.
There is the sanitized version of part of the evening. Nothing untoward written here.
Oh. . . I ate a gummy, too. I woke up half crazed in the belly of the night.
In a couple hours, I will meet C.C. at another fancy place for lunch.
I think I won't mind staying home alone sipping tea on a sultry Friday night. I need to dry out.
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