The margarita was way too salty (and other sensory experiences)
The gang and I went to c. o. jones for dinner and drinks yesterday evening. It was the third night in as many nights that I'd gone out and had a really good time. As a result, there's been less angst to report over the past 72 hours. For a change of pace from the usual soul-probing thought excavation, here's a five-point all-sensory account of last night's bacchanal:
Tactile: A triangular patch of cold on my right thigh. I was wearing my favorite (and currently sole) pair of corduroy pants last night. They've got a right angle-shaped rip on the right leg, which has been there for a while. Sometimes I put a piece of duct tape behind it to keep it closed, but last night I'd forgotten and so the ripped piece was folded over to expose a small portion of my leg. I wore my hat and gloves, so the only part of me that was cold outside was that little triangle.
Visual: A big, black "9.00" on the screen of the cash register behind the bar. c. o. jones is a Mexican restuarant (get it? like cojones?) that is well-known for it's 5-7 p.m. margarita happy hour. When we first arrived, I ordered a margarita called the "Parrot Head " from the drink menu, and put a five dollar bill on the counter (assuming my drink would be around $3). The bar tender raised an eyebrow at me and said, "That's a nine dollar drink. Only house margaritas are half-off." I sheepishly reached into my wallet for another five. I didn't order any more drinks.
Auditory: Lots of noise. The restuarant is tiny--just a single room that holds, at best, maybe 5o people. Every word any one of us spoke to each other had to be shouted. But we were all half in the bag anyway, so we didn't really mind.
Gustatory: Carina's salty margarita. Tequila, lime juice and ice were flowing freely to our table last night, but unfortunately, so was salt. Carina ordered one last drink toward the end of the meal, which ended up sitting, practically untouched, in the center of the table for the last 15 minutes that we were there. She asked if I wanted it, so I took a sip--it was like taking a big, unexpected gulp of seawater. It was vile.
Olfactory: My car smells like cigarettes. In the car on the way home from Starbucks on Sunday, Carina (again) was smoking a cigarette and telling me the story of how she once threw a butt out the window of a moving car and it flew back in and landed on her lap. I told her to make sure that she did a good job of throwing her current butt out. She assured me she would. When I got back to my house, I made a quick, paranoid check of the back seat, and sure enough, there was a cigarette butt on the floor of the car. It had burned a hole in the mat. Last night my car still smelled like cigarettes.
In spite of a $9.00 margarita, a mouthful of salt, a cold thigh, a loud restaurant and a car that smelled like cigarettes, it was a very pleasant night.
Tactile: A triangular patch of cold on my right thigh. I was wearing my favorite (and currently sole) pair of corduroy pants last night. They've got a right angle-shaped rip on the right leg, which has been there for a while. Sometimes I put a piece of duct tape behind it to keep it closed, but last night I'd forgotten and so the ripped piece was folded over to expose a small portion of my leg. I wore my hat and gloves, so the only part of me that was cold outside was that little triangle.
Visual: A big, black "9.00" on the screen of the cash register behind the bar. c. o. jones is a Mexican restuarant (get it? like cojones?) that is well-known for it's 5-7 p.m. margarita happy hour. When we first arrived, I ordered a margarita called the "Parrot Head " from the drink menu, and put a five dollar bill on the counter (assuming my drink would be around $3). The bar tender raised an eyebrow at me and said, "That's a nine dollar drink. Only house margaritas are half-off." I sheepishly reached into my wallet for another five. I didn't order any more drinks.
Auditory: Lots of noise. The restuarant is tiny--just a single room that holds, at best, maybe 5o people. Every word any one of us spoke to each other had to be shouted. But we were all half in the bag anyway, so we didn't really mind.
Gustatory: Carina's salty margarita. Tequila, lime juice and ice were flowing freely to our table last night, but unfortunately, so was salt. Carina ordered one last drink toward the end of the meal, which ended up sitting, practically untouched, in the center of the table for the last 15 minutes that we were there. She asked if I wanted it, so I took a sip--it was like taking a big, unexpected gulp of seawater. It was vile.
Olfactory: My car smells like cigarettes. In the car on the way home from Starbucks on Sunday, Carina (again) was smoking a cigarette and telling me the story of how she once threw a butt out the window of a moving car and it flew back in and landed on her lap. I told her to make sure that she did a good job of throwing her current butt out. She assured me she would. When I got back to my house, I made a quick, paranoid check of the back seat, and sure enough, there was a cigarette butt on the floor of the car. It had burned a hole in the mat. Last night my car still smelled like cigarettes.
In spite of a $9.00 margarita, a mouthful of salt, a cold thigh, a loud restaurant and a car that smelled like cigarettes, it was a very pleasant night.
posted by temporarily unemployed at 13:07
1 Comments:
you know that when your pants rip you can sew them up if you are cold. sheesh. duct tape.
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