Random drunkenness

Whenever I hang out with Gabe, I inevitably get drunk for no apparent reason. The last time was at a screening of Finding Neverland at the Loews in Manhattan’s Upper West Side. We smuggled in a six-pack of Heinekens in our coat pockets. And, the first time was on my first night ever in New York. We went to the Hole, where I found the only straight guy in the joint, and woke up the next morning with bruises all over and my contacts dried between dollar bills and receipts in my wallet.

This time, Gabe was in my town. I met him at One Bush Street, where his friend Yulie’s workplace was having a party and we were just going to show up. It was a frou-frou party in an eleventh floor law office. Among the crowd of suited men and heeled women, I felt slightly out of place in my jeans and Chucks. But, we were immediately shown to food and drink. The food was the usual Mediterranean plate with those spinach and feta fillo dough things, those cinnamon-tasting chicken fillo dough things, dolmas, humus, and those rolls of with feta and lettuce. The food was nothing spectacular but more than the cheese and crackers (which they had) plate that I was expecting. The wine was a crisp white that constantly filled my cup. Gabe made sure I was always topped off before we made our rounds through the crowd, chit-chatting with the local gay business association members, taking business cards of a dog portraiture photographer and an art gallery owner along the way.

As the blinking lights were telling us that the party was winding down, we finished off our wine and took a bottle to go. Scott, Gabe, and I then headed to Mi Lindo Yucatan for real food and more drinks. We ordered a large appetizer plate, the Poc Chuc, a grilled chicken dish, and two small carafes of sangria. The appetizer plate was a mix of various fried foods with a couple of tamales thrown in for good measure. The fried things were good, but I had no clue what was what and, at some point, everything started to taste very similar. The Poc Chuc, which was a grilled pork dish, was succulent and tender, although I had some bits of chewy cartilage and fat. The chicken was good too, and the slices of mandarin, which at first I found to be an odd accompaniment, was a nice contrast to the taste and texture of the chicken. The sangria went down without any complaints.

After our meal, we headed home to finish the bottle of wine from earlier in the night. There was no falling down in the streets, no finding my way back to the Upper West Side from Hell’s Kitchen practically blind, no mysterious bruises. We were in my town and my house, and spent the night chatting in my living room. Although I didn’t have splotches of purple and blue (although mine are sometimes green) on my body as evidence to the previous night’s drinks, I did wake up with an unhappy stomach and a grumpy hangover.