friday
23 May 2007
Indian food terrifies and delights me. I like danger, I like the unknown, and I like food. A meal at an Indian restaurant combines all three.
Friday was my friend Corinne’s birthday and to celebrate eight of us went to a restaurant on India Row in the East Village. We did this a few months ago and had a ball; there is something to be said for eating food you can’t pronounce, drinking a ton of cheap wine, and having an Indian man call you "my friend" over and over again and rub your back for just a little too long.
I have a friend who exclusively dates Indian men, and though she did not attend this dinner, I asked her advice about what I should order, as she knows how afraid I am of unknown foods. She replied via email with a list of the safest of safe Indian food: korma, tikka masala, garlic nan, etc. Her email, though helpful, proved somewhat useless, since we ordered "for the table." This is a phrase that gives me pause me when eating unfamiliar cuisine with a group, for two reasons. One, I have rather strict tastes. For example, I can’t eat anything spicy, I dislike 80% of vegetables (a number that jumps to 97% when Cheez Whiz is not involved), and won’t eat any foods handled by a man with a moustache (long, incredibly painful story). It seems like when people order for the table, the table winds up getting all manner of dishes that frighten and disgust me, like spicy octopus (with grilled vegetables) or chicken feet (with grilled vegetables) or grilled vegetables (with grilled vegetables). Meanwhile, I find myself standing near the kitchen, bribing the waiter to bring me some cow-derived meat or at least a few extra pats of butter.
This relates to the second reason I don’t like ordering for the table: I am fat. Therefore, I want food. A lot of it. When I find something I like in an ethnic dish, I want it for me and not to share. In this case, it was korma, creamy delicious korma. I think I have had korma before, but after trying it on Friday night, I want to marry it, or at least have a torrid affair with it that ends only when one of us is killed in a tragedy of epic portions (I’m thinking of some sort of duel or Titanic-like boating disaster). Korma was one of the few things I liked (really liked) during our meal and though I tried my best not to bogart the korma, it was inevitable. The korma was mine, all the korma. But really, my friends should expect this from me.
The good news is that everyone got very drunk very quickly. The best part of these big Indian meals is that they have cheap wine that they just keep pouring and pouring and pouring. Things quickly accelerate.
Not only that, but Brian upped the ante by bringing a bottle of Disaronno to the Indian restaurant. My friends and I have a private joke about Disaronno, which basically revolves around how stupid/erotic the commercials are (I won’t get into it, since it’s totally not worth explaining and it involves me pretending to have too much Disaronno and slowly stripping to that song "Dancin’ In The Moonlight"). But none of us had ever actually had Disaronno – we just liked to make fun of it.
Well, let me tell you something: Disaronno is delicious. It’s an amaretto-type drink that tastes like the juice from a jar of maraschino cherries - at least, that’s what I thought after all the korma and nan and wine and such. We all had a little bit, then, taken as I was with it, I had a little more. And then a little more. And then the rest. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I love Disaronno.
We were at the Tile Bar, also known as the James Fucking Iha Bar, also known was WCOU Radio, by 9:30pm. Normally, we get to this bar around 1am, after sitting and drinking in my apartment for several hours. To be there so early…well, we weren’t prepared. Any by "we weren’t" I mean "I wasn’t." At least I was still drinking the Disaronno.
There are times when you’re out with friends, hanging out, having fun, thinking it’s another harmless evening, when unbeknownst to you the Perfect Storm of Drunkeness is gathering around you. There I was: already half in the bag with a belly full of korma, cheap red wine, and Disaronno, after an especially hellish end of the work week, feeling very sexually aggressive, and, simply, things fell apart.
Just after midnight, I was so drunk that I asked my old roommate Brian to walk across the street with me so that I could get a Red Bull and "some air." I can’t explain the depth of the irony of this statement. Brian is usually the one blacked out, acting like a zombie, smoking cigarettes in the bar and drinking other people’s drinks; I’m the one who’s usually together, talking to some poor, trapped woman, asking her if she’s ever heard of the internet and/or if she’s into failed TV writers. Me asking Brian for help sobering up is like saying to the late Jeffrey Dahmer, "Dude, I need some advice because trying to stop murdering and eating gay men – think you could help me out here?"
It was about this time that my cell phone came out, a development that resulted in dire consequences. Let’s just get this out in the open right now: Ladies, please don’t give me your number. Ever. Just make out with me and then give me a fake number. This is really the best option for everyone involved. I’ll save you the trouble and tell you now that I am not "the one," so really, there’s no need to communicate with me after that initial make out session (not that many want to, but worth mentioning). Giving me your number will only result in embarrassment and awkwardness for both of us. Just trust me.
When I woke up the next day and checked it, my text message log read like the plotline of an episode of "Dynasty." So many complicated and tangled romantic situations aggressively brought to the fore, issues and grievances that were best left unsolved unceremoniously and intoxicatingly addressed; I was basically giving away the Upper Hand and my dignity across the board. Astonishing. And remember, this is someone who is so used to texting/sending/leaving "next day apology" texts/voicemails/emails that he had his lawyer draft a proper form response, and even I was appalled at what I did Friday night. Just…wow.
[Sadly, I can't get into specifics. We're gonna need a couple of weeks to let this settle.]
I don’t recall leaving the bar. Corinne was staying at my place that night (she’s living out in NJ temporarily) and she later told me I walked up to her and said, "I need to go home." I left. She came home later and found me asleep on the couch listening to - wait for it - the Phil Collins version of "You Can’t Hurry Love" on repeat on my iPod speakers and eating – wait for it – pie (I have no idea where the pie came from). Honestly, I don’t have a girlfriend. Amazing, I know, but true. I can’t believe it either.
Disaronno…you are a jealous and rageful bitch, you are.
Friday was my friend Corinne’s birthday and to celebrate eight of us went to a restaurant on India Row in the East Village. We did this a few months ago and had a ball; there is something to be said for eating food you can’t pronounce, drinking a ton of cheap wine, and having an Indian man call you "my friend" over and over again and rub your back for just a little too long.
I have a friend who exclusively dates Indian men, and though she did not attend this dinner, I asked her advice about what I should order, as she knows how afraid I am of unknown foods. She replied via email with a list of the safest of safe Indian food: korma, tikka masala, garlic nan, etc. Her email, though helpful, proved somewhat useless, since we ordered "for the table." This is a phrase that gives me pause me when eating unfamiliar cuisine with a group, for two reasons. One, I have rather strict tastes. For example, I can’t eat anything spicy, I dislike 80% of vegetables (a number that jumps to 97% when Cheez Whiz is not involved), and won’t eat any foods handled by a man with a moustache (long, incredibly painful story). It seems like when people order for the table, the table winds up getting all manner of dishes that frighten and disgust me, like spicy octopus (with grilled vegetables) or chicken feet (with grilled vegetables) or grilled vegetables (with grilled vegetables). Meanwhile, I find myself standing near the kitchen, bribing the waiter to bring me some cow-derived meat or at least a few extra pats of butter.
This relates to the second reason I don’t like ordering for the table: I am fat. Therefore, I want food. A lot of it. When I find something I like in an ethnic dish, I want it for me and not to share. In this case, it was korma, creamy delicious korma. I think I have had korma before, but after trying it on Friday night, I want to marry it, or at least have a torrid affair with it that ends only when one of us is killed in a tragedy of epic portions (I’m thinking of some sort of duel or Titanic-like boating disaster). Korma was one of the few things I liked (really liked) during our meal and though I tried my best not to bogart the korma, it was inevitable. The korma was mine, all the korma. But really, my friends should expect this from me.
The good news is that everyone got very drunk very quickly. The best part of these big Indian meals is that they have cheap wine that they just keep pouring and pouring and pouring. Things quickly accelerate.
Not only that, but Brian upped the ante by bringing a bottle of Disaronno to the Indian restaurant. My friends and I have a private joke about Disaronno, which basically revolves around how stupid/erotic the commercials are (I won’t get into it, since it’s totally not worth explaining and it involves me pretending to have too much Disaronno and slowly stripping to that song "Dancin’ In The Moonlight"). But none of us had ever actually had Disaronno – we just liked to make fun of it.
Well, let me tell you something: Disaronno is delicious. It’s an amaretto-type drink that tastes like the juice from a jar of maraschino cherries - at least, that’s what I thought after all the korma and nan and wine and such. We all had a little bit, then, taken as I was with it, I had a little more. And then a little more. And then the rest. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I love Disaronno.
We were at the Tile Bar, also known as the James Fucking Iha Bar, also known was WCOU Radio, by 9:30pm. Normally, we get to this bar around 1am, after sitting and drinking in my apartment for several hours. To be there so early…well, we weren’t prepared. Any by "we weren’t" I mean "I wasn’t." At least I was still drinking the Disaronno.
There are times when you’re out with friends, hanging out, having fun, thinking it’s another harmless evening, when unbeknownst to you the Perfect Storm of Drunkeness is gathering around you. There I was: already half in the bag with a belly full of korma, cheap red wine, and Disaronno, after an especially hellish end of the work week, feeling very sexually aggressive, and, simply, things fell apart.
Just after midnight, I was so drunk that I asked my old roommate Brian to walk across the street with me so that I could get a Red Bull and "some air." I can’t explain the depth of the irony of this statement. Brian is usually the one blacked out, acting like a zombie, smoking cigarettes in the bar and drinking other people’s drinks; I’m the one who’s usually together, talking to some poor, trapped woman, asking her if she’s ever heard of the internet and/or if she’s into failed TV writers. Me asking Brian for help sobering up is like saying to the late Jeffrey Dahmer, "Dude, I need some advice because trying to stop murdering and eating gay men – think you could help me out here?"
It was about this time that my cell phone came out, a development that resulted in dire consequences. Let’s just get this out in the open right now: Ladies, please don’t give me your number. Ever. Just make out with me and then give me a fake number. This is really the best option for everyone involved. I’ll save you the trouble and tell you now that I am not "the one," so really, there’s no need to communicate with me after that initial make out session (not that many want to, but worth mentioning). Giving me your number will only result in embarrassment and awkwardness for both of us. Just trust me.
When I woke up the next day and checked it, my text message log read like the plotline of an episode of "Dynasty." So many complicated and tangled romantic situations aggressively brought to the fore, issues and grievances that were best left unsolved unceremoniously and intoxicatingly addressed; I was basically giving away the Upper Hand and my dignity across the board. Astonishing. And remember, this is someone who is so used to texting/sending/leaving "next day apology" texts/voicemails/emails that he had his lawyer draft a proper form response, and even I was appalled at what I did Friday night. Just…wow.
[Sadly, I can't get into specifics. We're gonna need a couple of weeks to let this settle.]
I don’t recall leaving the bar. Corinne was staying at my place that night (she’s living out in NJ temporarily) and she later told me I walked up to her and said, "I need to go home." I left. She came home later and found me asleep on the couch listening to - wait for it - the Phil Collins version of "You Can’t Hurry Love" on repeat on my iPod speakers and eating – wait for it – pie (I have no idea where the pie came from). Honestly, I don’t have a girlfriend. Amazing, I know, but true. I can’t believe it either.
Disaronno…you are a jealous and rageful bitch, you are.
