the messy business and vindictive nature of the gargoyle
Jason posted on May 1st, 2008
There are three Mexican places that I love in NYC and eat at regularly (in order of cheapest to priciest, which not coincidentally is also the order of most frequently-visited to least frequently-visited):1) Festival Mexicano (Rivington Street between Essex and Norfolk in the Lower East Side). This is a dive Mexican place with authentic Mexican food, but also with authentic Mexican hygiene standards. Their food is phenomenal and cheap - the picadillo nachos, piled with spicy ground beef with chunks of potatoes, may be the best nachos you’ll ever have - but every time I leave this place, I can’t walk the 15 minutes back to my apartment. Instead I need to flag down a cab, preferably one with a toilet in it, to accommodate the imminent explosions that immediately burst forth from my colon as soon as step outside the restaurant. Seriously, last time I ate here, I went home, pooped like a crazy person, and then looked down into the toilet bowl and saw a hand. No idea what that was about. Anyway, great food, but not for the faint of heart (or intestine).
2) Pio Maya (8th Street between Macdougal and 6th Avenue). This is a small place, which, unlike Festival, is very clean and colon-friendly. Also unlike Festival, which uses beef made up of a mix of cow, horse and kidnap victim, when Pio Maya says "beef" they really mean "steak" - and steak of surprisingly high quality. No need to eat at your own risk - sit down, relax and enjoy. (And then walk home - no need for the toilet cab.)
3) Agave (7th Ave, a few blocks north of W 4th Street). Good food, good drinks, reasonably priced, and a good date spot because of its location. This is where I ate Thursday night with my friend Stacy (who sadly was not my date).
Another reason why Agave is a good date place is because the Mexicans, god bless them, make drinking fun. For example, you could take a date to an Irish pub, have burgers and fries and shepard’s pie, and then drink twelve pints of beer between the two of you. Or you could go to Agave, order dips and chips and things with fun names like "enchiladas" and "chimichangas," and sip margaritas, mohitos, daquiris or sangria. I ask you: which environment is more conducive to getting laid (as long as, of course, your date is not supremely racist toward Mexicans, which is most often not the case with me)? Also, the meal is much longer and laid back - start with some guacamole and margaritas, work on those for a while, more margaritas, then the entrees and maybe a pitcher of sangria, and before you know it, you’re drunk and your hand is down your pants.
This is pretty much exactly what happened with Stacy and I on Thursday night (although my pants were too tight to fit my hand down them). We started with guacamole and margaritas, each had two of those, and then ordered our entrees and more margaritas. I went with the beef machaca enchiladas, slathered in a delicious sauce and covered in mushrooms and cheese. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I have no idea what Stacy ordered. I was so drunk by the end of the night that I don’t remember what it was, and even looking at the menu didn’t jog my memory. I blame this on the two pitchers of sangria we split, which I’m guessing I drank at least 72% of. Whoops.
The real fireworks didn’t start until well after midnight, hours after Stacy and I had parted ways. I went to bed that night with a heavy buzz and a belly full of Mexican, feeling terrific and loving life. At around 4am, I woke up with a sharp pain in my belly that made me sit up in bed. I stood up and immediately doubled over, unsure if I had to shit, throw up or if I had been stabbed. To be safe I ran to the bathroom and fell on the toilet. And then it came:
The Gargoyle.
For those of you unfamiliar with it, a gargoyle is a traumatic and very personal event during which a person shits and vomits at the same time. I had only done this once before, my freshman year of college, after eating Beef Wellington from the dining hall on Upper at Boston College. I was struck so suddenly that I couldn’t even make it to the communal bathroom in the hall and instead opened my dorm room window and vomited, pooping myself more and more with each heave (our room was in the back and faced away from the quad). I’m tempted to say that thankfully, I was wearing sweatpants at the time so the mess was minimized and limited to my legs and thighs and not my room, but there’s nothing to be thankful for when you’re in that situation. The gargoyle deserves no gratitude under any circumstances.
On Thursday night, I was at least sitting on the toilet when the gargoyle struck. Also adding to my luck was the fact that the bathroom trash can was not one foot in front of me, so as the first eruptions came from my heinie and my mouth, I was able contain them (within reason).
Dear reader, you must understand that the gargoyle is so much more than just pooping and puking at the same time. It is also incredibly painful; it feels as though someone has stuck their hand inside your stomach and is gripping up and shaking around your intestines. I’m not ashamed to admit that whilst I gargoyled, I cried. The poop, the puke, the pain - it was too much for this man to bear.
(If you’re interested in the inventory, what was being released from my body was about two liters of margarita and sangria, a pile of guacamole and chips, the enchiladas, and a few beers that were consumed after the dinner. Making matters worse, I had had lobster and corn chowder for lunch. If you’ve never thrown up lobster and corn chowder, I would not recommend it. Not at all.)
Though I spent the rest of the night taking turns throwing up and puking (and cleaning out my trash can and bathroom), the gargoyle only struck once, only the second time in my life. The next day - or rather, two hours later - I called out of work, because I was too exhausted to drag myself out of bed. Also, though I was certain there wasn’t much left to expel from my body, I dare not run the risk of the gargoyle hitting me at work. I am a veteran of colonic wars and routinely have to duck into public or bar bathrooms to vacate my bowels, but even someone as experienced as I am would have little hope of not pooing his pants if the gargoyle swooped in while I sat at my desk, writing personal emails or making personal phone calls.
Now, fully recovered, I look back on the gargoyle with respect; like any traumatic event that involves pooping, I feel like I’m a stronger person because of what I went through. Sure, I may stay away from Agave for awhile, but I have emerged from my most recent dance with the gargoyle a better person, albeit a better person who will probably be eating mostly at Pio Maya for the next few weeks.