I am of the opinion that when someone gives you free food, and you’re a poor 20-something, you don’t ask questions. You eat whatever is put in front of you, even if you try to be a vegetarian, even if as a vegetarian someone places two types of ceviche, a bacon-wrapped date, striped sea bass sitting on top bits of serrano ham, and some sort of steak in front of you. You could start protesting. You could say, “But I don’t eat animals.” But then you could have flashbacks to all that money you wasted on no-kill sonic buzzers that didn’t scare mice off which then forced you to set trap after trap that actually killed them.
Hence, my glorious, not-vegetarian but utterly delicious meal at Calle Ocho last night. I was there as a representative of FFBR amidst other bloggers, foodie and otherwise, who were being treated to the finest food I’ve probably had in a long time. ‘Cuz I’m real poor.
Before I left the Gemini told me to make sure I grabbed her some of the bread they serve, if possible. At first, I thought this was going to be an impossible task because I Don’t Like to Bother People. I worry if I ask for something extra, or if I start sneaking spare rolls into my purse, I start to resemble some base creature, like the mice who feasted on my special flax-heavy cereal. But the very fabulous server, Antonio (ask for him, he’s a godsend), didn’t mind when I told him, “My roommate couldn’t be here tonight, and she loves the bread. Is it possible to bring her some home? I know it’s not classy of me, but…”
I arrived home with a paper bag full of delicious gluten-free rolls (made of yucca flour, if I remember correctly, and some sort of cheese and sugar, and some sort of amazing holy spirit, not sure). And the Gemini was pleased, and she feasted, and everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.
Not only was my meal kind of blowing my mind, but I was hanging out with Bright Lights, My City & Fritos and Foie Gras & Searching For Never Never Land. The great thing about meeting other ladies who care about writing their lives is they all seem to have the same boy problems as I do, which results in conversations that sound eerily similar to scenes from “Sex and the City.”
It’s true, ladies. You move to New York City, and you start to wear expensive shoes and have conversations that go, “Girl, it’s not your fault,” and “Girl, he needs therapy,” and “Girl, he’s just a womanizer–womanizer–womanizer.”
One man did grace our company– NYC Foodie. It should be noted this guy does magic tricks, like including card tricks that made my mind melt, which is hard to do since I’ve literally been to shamans before. And rather than applaud like a normal human being, I kind of turned into this:
The meal came to a close with the most perfect dessert I’ve had in a while, and it was just small enough so that I didn’t announce to the ladies: GUYZ SO FAT HERE. Which women can do when they get put in groups together. And actually, I think a couple of us had already announced something about the exact measured width of our thighs.
You know, things girls do.
I’m a really difficult person. I understand this, I do. But last night? Why, I was a real sweetheart. You wouldn’t have recognized me. Good food and good company changes everything. I wonder if FFBR can market this for more comped meals: The Campaign to Make the Writers of FFBR Demure, Sweet Girls.
JK, NEVER GONNA WORK!