As my faithful readers know, I cooked Thanksgiving dinner for my local (which isn’t really local anymore) yesterday. It was yummy and it was well received. Here’s the thing though: there were a couple of guys who had been there since the bar opened (NOON) and as it was nearly seven in the evening they were well in their cups. They were youngsters from Britain. I’m sure that when they first entered the dank dive bar they were perfectly charming young men. One of them was actually quite fetching–dark hair and eyes, nicely built…good teeth…that’s neither here nor there, really because they were effing obnoxious. The daytime bartender is Canadian and I suppose her youth and desire to have a good night tip wise caused her to be a bit more lenient than desired. They remained until change of shift, which occurs at NINE of the clock. Well, there I was setting up the food and reminding all those concerned that I have a real, REAL problem with cross contamination when the taller and more boisterous of the two gatelegged it over to peer under the foil. I nearly wet my pants, such was my discomfort. I told him rather pointedly that I would prepare his plate for him and that if he didn’t leave off with the manhandling I would in good fact slap the snot out of him. No need to mince words.
Well, as I began preparing his grub, he complained that I didn’t load it up with more food. I wanted to slap him but I remembered that all Brits aren’t well mannered–especially after several hours of drinking spirits. (But I suspect this specimen was a jerk drunk or sober) I stayed the course and handed him his plate. No thanks were offered. His compatriot, having witnessed the shenanigans and my ill humor, decided to just let me do my thing and thanked me profusely. No need for the gushing, my good man; it’s annoying. I made plates for everyone who asked and settled in for a bit of a rest.
Loudmouth Louie, let’s call him, decides that he wants more. No worries. I tell him that I need to take a breather and upon my return he will get his food. He gives me the fish eye. Actually, in retrospect it may very well just have been the drunk eye. No matter…all was swell. They got seconds and they continued to be annoying. Al, the resident elder statesman and bar fly was peeved beyond compare. I think he may have wanted a gun. When Loudmouth Louie approached thanking me for the grub, Al said, “Talk is cheap. How about you give her a couple bucks for her effort? She does this for nothing, ya know.” LL would hear none of that because he kept talking, talking about how ‘that’s typical New York. Money talks here, idnit?’ Al was clearly about to pimp slap him and I knew it. I was powerless to stop him, but he kept his cool and went back to his corner. LL staggered back to his bar stool and promptly spilled his beer uponst himself. I shrugged. Al commenced to curse and rant about the kid. He was a marked man, lemme tell ya.
I love Al, though. He’s a stand up guy for sure. He wanted me to be compensated. That really defeats the purpose of my doing it, but it doesn’t stop me from looking for free cocktails for my efforts. Somehow it seems less offensive if someone buys me a drink. If I received money, then it wouldn’t be a true act of thanksgiving for me. There is honor among drunks, I tell you.
Okay enough of them…here’s the good stuff: There were a couple of really cute guys in there. That’s a rarity. Oh, and a chick I hadn’t seen since G-d was young sauntered up to me and we had a good laugh what with note passing all night. She’s a kick in the pants that kid. Weighs about 10 pounds soaking wet, but can eat like a stevedore. I appreciate that. Who needs to hang out with people who are gonna order a salad and barely eat THAT? No, friends. If you’re gonna hang with me in a restaurant, you’d better know that we are gonna grub. All right, back to the action with the cute boys: I was in my corner, serving up the goods so I couldn’t really do what I like to call ‘quality perving’ so I watched the menfolk and appreciated their youth and beauty from afar. I was spoken to by one of them briefly, but I sensed that he was going out to smoke some pot and would return for food and little else. Pity as he was tall, dark and had excellent teeth. Lovely, really…pretty even. Mama like. Mama like a lot. I’ve since forgotten his name. Like that has ever stopped me before. With the first of my pretties off to make nice with the ganja, I occupied my time with scattered conversation with folks around me. Some of the conversation was hilarious and some of it was just plain weird, but I forged ahead. While I may appear to be a social critter, I am not. No, no no. Not by a long shot. I am empathetic, however so perhaps that is what creates the ‘must speak with Pfunk’ dynamic.
As I was pondering that very thing, I sensed someone at my shoulder. I turned and looked up into a most fetching face. I smiled like a kid with Halloween candy. He looked familiar. Had we a drunken make out session in common? No, I’m sure I would remember him. Hmm…did I owe him money? No, too cute to borrow money from. Hmmm…then he spoke and reminded me that we had a conversation (people do this all the time. I’m old, how can you expect me to remem…but he was cute) a while back, he had gotten cranked in the head with a bottle at some point during the evening when we first met and he had been in the bar with a friend. I vaguely recalled the conversation (oddly, not the bottle incident) and his pal. Couldn’t remember his name. He told me that he couldn’t remember mine, which was comforting. I am nothing if not honest in that regard. That is why I give everyone nicknames. Makes it easier for me. To tell you the truth, I’ve forgotten his name already. He told me that he had to come over and say ‘hi’ but he was leaving. My heart sank. There had to be some way to get him to ahem…stay. No. I was there to feed folks, not engage in some alley way slap and tickle. Plus, I’m getting too old for that…aren’t I?
Long story short(too late): I made him try some of my food, told him I had a crush on him all giggly and funny-like and you know what that little pisher said?
“You’ve always had a crush on me!” It was a divine parting shot. I was joking about the crush, but damn, the guy got me. My response: “Did we…wait–did we have SEX?!”
The bar fell silent for a moment as everyone wondered what the hell just happened.
Man, I wish I could remember his name. AND if we DID have sex. I’M KIDDING.
Can’t be too careful.
The night was long, but I made some new friends and my friend George proposed to me. That was sweet. He’s five foot nothing and cute as hell. I’ve gotta get him married off soon. And teach the girl to cook. He likes to eat, goodness knows he proved that last night.
They liked my macaroni and cheese, what can I say? No leftovers, man. And I made a ton of food. Damn…I will make soup later tonight. I have the carcass of that poor bird.
Oh, fight club was in attendance. It was scary. I’ll write more on that later.
Wow, is all I’ve got to offer on that one.
So, my new friends…welcome! I hope you get something out of this blog and I know we’ll be in touch outside of the blogsphere.
Good times, good times AND another win/win sitch. You know how I love THAT.
Cute boys, free cocktails and great food…PLUS new pals? Dude, I’m a lottery winner.
Joanna…keep on truckin’ gal.
Sesame: you know i loves ya, miss celie. And darling, it IS Mister Tibbs, really.
The panty peeler is going down for the winter. Back to club soda and my ’special’ soda from now on. Say goodbye to Hollywood, say goodbye my baby. Lookathere…a Billy Joel reference apropos of absolutely nothin’.
Rock on.