Da Andrea
As a response to all the articles I’ve read lately about the decline in the level of service in New York City restaurants...
Last night my boy and I went to our
favorite local Italian restaurant. We used to go there every couple of weeks when we first moved to the neighborhood, but hadn't been back in a few months. But our usual waiter recognized us right away.
“Boy! Girl!” he said, quickly wending his way over to our table. “How are you? We haven’t seen you in such a long time.”
“We’ve been away,” my boy told him, not entirely truthfully. More truthfully, he added, “and we got engaged.”
Waiter stopped, and put his hands on his heart in melodramatic Italian-restaurant-waiter fashion. “Congratulations!” he said. “Many, many congratulations!” He chatted with us for a few minutes, then left us with the menus. A busboy appeared a moment later with a basket of bread. Two minutes later Waiter reappeared, bearing two flutes of champagne.
“For you,” he said, setting them down. “Congratulations.”
We were touched, and thanked him profusely. A few minutes later he came back to take our order. My boy got the mixed green salad and the pappardelle with sausage and truffle oil. I got the lentil soup and the spaghetti Bolognese. It was a Wednesday night and we both had early meetings the next morning, so we limited ourselves to a half-carafe of the house red. The food was, as always, delicious.
Eventually, we finished our meals, the table was cleared, and dessert menus were offered. It was a Wednesday night and swimsuit weather was approaching, so we turned them down. “Just the check, please,” my boy said.
But Waiter wasn't done with us yet. Before the check, he brought us an artfully arranged plate of biscotti, a delightful custard, and a couple of other little treats. He also shook both of our hands. “Congratulations again,” he told us.
We ate, and it was delicious. We got the check, and we paid. Waiter gave us one last “Congratulations” and we walked out.
It was a Wednesday night and, for one brief moment, all felt right with the world.
St. Patrick's Day
One you may have seen before, but funny enough to post again.
ST. PATRICK'S DAY SELF-HELP GUIDE
St. Patrick's Day: the one day of the year when the 2% of the world's population that's Irish gets the other 98% completely shitfaced.
Leg 1: 7a.m. to 9 a.m.
Rise and shine early. Take a long, hot shower, and liberally use aftershave, perfume, cologne, deodorant and powders afterwards, because by p.m., you will be excreting raw alcohol and other poisons, and without proper preparations, you will smell like a three-day dead cat wrapped in a fraternity carpet. The bars open at 9, so use this time to prepare.
Collect the following supplies and put them in a place where you will easily be able to find it in an impaired condition. (We recommend the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the baseboard heater, since that's where you'll probably end up):
1 quart spring water
1 bottle aspirin
5 pairs Depends undergarment
1 bottle Percocet
1 gram morphine sulfate
1 oz. human adrenaline extract
1 recharged electric defibrillator
4 Cardiac needles
1 trauma surgeon
Brew a strong pot of coffee. Add 9oz. Jameson rish whiskey and drink. ote that coffee should be drunk liberally throughout the day. There is a reason that the Irish invented Irish Coffee; unless you ingest a large volume of artificial stimulants throughout the course of St. Patrick's Day, you are going to die.
Arrange to be picked up to be taken to the bar by 8:45 a.m. We cannot stress enough that you should not drink and drive. There is no reason to chance losing your license or killing someone in a drunken state, when you have plenty of idiot friends willing to take that risk on your behalf.
Leg 2: 9 a.m. to 11 a.m.
Arrive at the bar right when it opens. Make sure this is an Irish bar, if at all possible. An Irish bar in Boston is the best, since 'Boston' in Gaelic means 'West Kilarney'. However, almost every city in America has bars called 'The Blarney Stone', 'McSomethings', or 'The Dirty Mick'. (Just try to ignore the fact that the bar is probably owned by Koreans).
Secure a barstool, and do not leave it under any circumstances. The bar is liable to be packed by noon, and real Irish people do not wait in line for drinks-- no matter what the consequences. While we do recommend the use of an adult undergarment to mask unpleasant smells, it really doesn't matter. By afternoon, you'll be sopping wet with spilled beer anyway, and your mild urine smell will be completely overpowered by the toxic stench of vomit.
We recommend starting out with a few more Irish Coffees to spike the stimulant level, however, you should not order an "Irish Coffee," as you will be given a fruity little glass mug topped with whipped cream and a cherry, and some guy named Seamus will call you a yuppie poseur while putting a cigarette out on your neck. Ask for coffee with whiskey and ask the bartender to leave the whipped cream can, as nothing will add spice to your day like the occasional whippet.
Leg 3: 11 a.m. to 2 p.m.
It's lunchtime! You may not be hungry, but it's important to eat something, because like Sheriff Bart said in Blazing Saddles: "Man drink like that, and don't eat-- he is going to die."
If you want to maintain your buzz and not get that hideous, bloated feeling that could slow down your drinking, there are only two options: popcorn or Pop Tarts. Both have the carbohydrates you'll need to give you energy, both will soak up excess bile in your stomach, and both have names that are hard to slur. If you start slurring your words too early, you'll hear the most frightening phrase in the English language on St.Patrick's Day besides "I'm pregnant": "You're cut off".
By now, you should switch off of coffee drinks to beer. You have only one option here: Guinness stout. You may be tempted to order green beer, but remember: beer doesn't always turn green because of food coloring.
Leg 3: 2 p.m. to 7 p.m.
By now, the bar is definitely crowded, as people take long lunches and bail out of work early to tie one on. If you're doing your job correctly, the bar should look twice or three times as crowded as it really is.
By now, you may be in conversation with some real Irish people, since the person you came with has likely been taken away by ambulance. Some conversational points to remember when talking to the Irish are: Football really means Soccer, and you should be more passionate about it than you are about your wife or husband. ...AND The English are all piss-arsed, pig-fucking bastards who should be lined up and kicked into the Liffey. If you remember those two points, as well at least three derogatory names for Margaret Thatcher, you can talk to the Irish for hours.
You should continue to drink Guinness throughout this leg, although you may want to have another Irish Coffee if your heartbeat has become irregular.
The Home Stretch: 7 p.m. to Closing
Your goal, of course, is to be the last person to leave the bar at closing time. This will be impossible, since a blood alcohol content of .50 usually equals death, and you should be pushing a .35 or .40 by now.
The only way for a true Irishman/woman to leave a bar before closing time with honor is to be hauled away by the police. Throw a punch. It doesn't matter who you hit or why; no one's made any sense since 3 o'clock, anyway. You will be beaten mercilessly, since your fine motor control has been gone since the late morning, but it doesn't matter since you can't feel anything.
Depending on your community, the police should arrive within fifteen minutes to scrape you off the floor and clap you in irons. The final impression you leave is the most important: as you are being dragged from the bar, begin screaming that you want to take your drink with you. You will be a legend, and by now the friend who took you to the bar should have had his or her stomach pumped, and will be able to bail you out.
By following these simple guidelines, your St.Patrick's Day experience would be one you would never forget if it weren't physically and biologically impossible for you to remember any of it.
Tune in next month for our next self-help guide: The Pros and Cons of Waking Up Naked In a Dumpster
Etiquette
Yikes. Ran into a friend's ex-husband last night. Unfortunately, he's also someone I used to work with, so I felt like I had to be polite. Even though she's told me all sorts of evil things about him so I'll never look at him the same way again.
For example, she told me that when they were dating, he made her BUY A NEW BED before he'd stay over her apartment because he didn't want to sleep in the same bed in which she'd had sex with other men. Other men meaning, in this situation, the two long-term boyfriends she'd had in the five years she'd lived in New York.
Umm...think that should have been a signal that this was NOT the man of her dreams?
