This past weekend, Mister and I decided to walk about a mile or so to dinner. By walking, we would eliminate the need for one of us to be the designated driver and therefore we could both get our wine on. It was a simple plan. For a simple night. Simple, of course, never showed up.
We did indeed walk to dinner. This being L.A., our 5:30 arrival time was too early for the kitchen. So we sat at the bar and ordered glasses of champers. We also ordered cheese fritters (the only “bar” food available), and waited patiently for them to arrive. By the time that little schmibble was placed before us, we had finished our champers and were drinking white wine. We finished off the fritters (awesome, by the way) and then shared a tray of oysters. You’d think that was enough, but nooooooooo. After the empty oyster shells were removed, our real food arrived: roasted quail with white truffles for Mister and whole fried red snapper for me. And an entire bottle of red wine.
We feasted and drinked-ed. By the time we had taken our last bite and drained the bottle of red, we had made so many friends at the then-packed bar that we had to say goodbye to folks on all sides. (I don’t know what to tell you – drunk Mister and Mikki are fun, y’all). We headed out the door, with the intention of walking home. But when we reached the nearest street corner, we saw a lot of nightlife going on down the block. So we zigged instead of zagging, and before we knew it, some dude on the sidewalk was telling us we should saunter into a small theater, where a free show was about to take place. We were just drunk enough to bite, and so we went inside and found a couple of seats.
Mister and I love theater, but we don’t actually go too often. It’s tricky, because there are about a jillion theaters in and around L.A., and – with all due respect – not everything is good. Most of it, in fact, is probably forgettable, with some of it being downright abysmal. We usually don’t risk it, and instead wait for someone to tell us about a play or show we should see. So far, that’s working. When we found ourselves sitting in the less-than-50-seat venue this past weekend, I was unsure. We were told the show would be about an hour and a half, and that there would be 10 performers, each doing a one-actor piece. I asked Mister if he wanted to bolt before the house lights went down, but he was game to see what might happen. So we stayed.
Remember on Friends when Chandler ends up at a one-woman show, alone, because everyone else is at Joey’s rooftop party and they all completely forgot about him? And when the actress takes the stage to begin her show, she screams her first line: “Why don’t you like me?” I’m not gonna lie – I was braced for a similar experience. But that isn’t what happened. The 10 actors took the stage, one by one, and performed their individual pieces. Nothing was particularly memorable, but nothing sent me to my mental “bunnies in a field” safe place either. It was just a thang. And when it was finished, Mister and I should have made our way back down the street, toward home. But our night was already an adventure, so we moseyed to another restaurant, sat at its bar, ordered a late-night pizza and a couple of drinks (I kid you not) and kicked it old-school until we were sufficiently stuffed and puffed. We asked the maitre d’ to call us a cab, which pulled up shortly thereafter and then we headed home.
After chug-a-lugging a ton of water, we conked out. Woke the next morning, feeling fine.
I don’t want to get blotto-ed too often, but it’s nice to know I can still pull it off with little to no pain. Maybe the secret is good food. And lots of it. Maybe it’s starting off in a good mood. Maybe it’s being open to adventure. Whatever the secret, it was a good night. Weird, sure. But mighty good. And a whole lot of fun.