Went out last night to a Spanish tapas bar in Chelsea, and I have to say that tapas may be the future of fine cuisine. Small portions of gourmet shit that you can share with other people and get stuffed on, and sample tons of different foods. It’s like what I love about going out for Chinese and Indian food with amigos–you alway order different shit and then share it. You could do Indian tapas, Mexican tapas, California cuisine tapas, and so forth, and it would be perfect cuz you could just sample tons of different shit instead of having to limit yourself to one dish. Good New York fancy schmancy eating experience, all trendy and shit, with a good wine selection and a militantly fashionable and attractive staff. For dessert, even though we were stuffed, I just had to try the flan de naranja, simply because I love any dessert item coupled with orange. Now, a word firstly on flan. Let’s be honest, flan is generally never that good. You always eat it and then are like, ok, that wasn’t amazing. But there’s always something about it that makes you order again later on down the road. Like, there’s this potentiality in flan to be amazing, it just never quite measures up. But last night, this orange flan was some good shit, I mean, that potentiality of amazingness in flan came to the fore and smacked you in the gizzard. I was stoked that I had made the choice to order it. And I was by that point into my second glass of vino tinto, which for me these days is enough to get me feeling warm, fuzzy, and conversationally inclined.
Then we went to a some random bar to get out of the rain. I had a Glenlivet on the rocks, and we ended up playing pool with a big black dude named Charles who was apparently on a combination of drugs mixed with his alcohol–as in, the dude would try to say something to you, but it would mostly end up coming out as sputtered, laughing nonsense, as if he had taken ecstacy and then snorted cocaine and then drank way too much, and his verbalization abilities were somehow getting shortcircuited. It seemed like he had good intent, so I would just nod my head and smile, and we were all equally horrible at pool, so it made for an interesting pass of time, if weird and somewhat disturbing. When we made our hurried exit, he was trying to get our phone number, but we cheerfully informed him that it would be pointless for us to give him our number because we were only visiting and lived far, far away. “Israel?” he slurred sputteringly. We nodded and ran back out into the rain. Might as well be Mars, given where good ol’ Charles was currently at in headspace. The dude was strangely fashionably attired, though, given his state of fucked-upness. He had a Jets sweatshirt paired with intent to jeans with designer silver spraypaint.
We then made our way to a restaurant that had a bar that served drinks in ginormous goblets, guaranteed to fuck you up to high heaven. I got a strawberry margarita, and every suck you took of this adult slurpee contained enough alcohol to kill a small child, not to mention that there was an extra shot nonchalantly placed into the goblet in a plastic shot tube, like a cinammon stick in a hot chocolate. At the bar, I briefly conversed with one of those dudes who sit at bars by themselves and order drinks and look about them, waiting for the chance conversation or single woman to come by (I have myself been that dude many a time, especially in foreign countries). He was sippin’ on a long island ice tea, and he informed me that it would fuck up a rhinocerous for your money. Having been a student in LA, and thus having learned what drinks to get in expensive bars to maximize fucked-upness with coverage of alcohol taste for less money, I then gave this dude the advice to either try an Adios Motherfucker, which is yet stronger than a Long Island Iced Tea, or for an even stronger drink that is still yet drinkable, a Zombie, which is probably one of the strongest mixed drinks you can get. Have one, and you’re drunk. Have two, and you’re fucked up. Have three, and good luck, unless you’re an elephant.
Then we went to an improv show, the Stepfathers at the Upright Citizens Brigade theater. It was only the second improv show that I’ve been to thus far in my existence, and it was pretty funny, especially given that I was quite sauced as this point. It was different then the other improv I’ve seen, in that the comedian-audience interaction was pretty minimal, and I was a little disappointed by that, because what has always interested me about improv was that connection where the comedians are feeding off of audience feedback. But it was still pretty funny and creative nonetheless. I think the lack of audience interaction was mainly due to the audience itself, anyway–the people who spoke up for the word from which the comedians were going to act out scenes based on could only come up with “plane,” and “Fred.”
I have another thing to add to my list of what I like so far about New Yorkers: they all wear dark colors. You don’t see any pinks, yellows, any of that kind of pastel colored crap that Americans have an embarassing tendency to wear.