On the fourth day of fuckery the cosmos gave to me...
Four hours sleep,
Three breakfasts
Two drunken brawls
And a cheater in a white teeeeeeeeee!
Again, I am awakened at the asscrack of dawn. M is determined not to waste her last full day in town, and she has been dying to get to some place for breakfast burritos. (Breakfast burritos: M as beef chow fun: Sid)
I am a) exhausted, since I am going on day four of less than 5 hours sleep, b) still all wonky from the night before, c) really just wanting my French toast and snausages. I whine a little bit and try to either cajole them into a place with a bit more variety or convince myself breakfast isn't worth it and I should go back to sleep.
M pretty much says, fuck you, I'm getting breakfast burritos, bitch, make up your mind or get out of my way. You know, except without the cussing. I am such a fucking sucker for indifference.
A half hour later I'm marching (stumbling) through the brisk San Francisco morning toward a new breakfast frontier.
I can't even remember the name of the place. I only recall that it was perhaps the only place in town that had neither French toast nor sausage of any kind. I had a bagel sandwich. M and C had ginormous burrito things and seemed quite satisfied with them. Later, I stop in a 7-11 and hook myself up with a big ass, day-old apple frittery thing to simulate the fat-sugar-starch triumvirate of wonder that is the French toast breakfast. We lurch on to a farmer's market somewhere near the water, M and C will have to fill you in here, I don't remember the details.
I do, however, remember hanging around said market just long enough to get hungry again and eat Aidell's maple-bacon sausages from a booth.
Do you copy? Bacon in a sausage. There are no words for how obscene (genius) a concept this is. But it's a chicken sausage, and it also has sweet potato in it, so it isn't really as bad as it's made out to be.
Much like this trip, eh?
We work our way back to Fisherman's Wharf, hop a cable car, and by 1 p.m. we are back at the hotel. M and I have kicked around the idea of some mani/pedi time, but I am truly too goddamn tired by this point to even pretend I care how my extremities look, let alone fall for that old indifference trick again. I opt for a nap and pass the hell out.
I vaguely recall M coming in at some point and then going back out. When I wake, it is after 3 and she and C are nowhere to be found. I mean, I don't actually look very hard. I call them.
They took a tour of her old stomping grounds and are now at some little Belgian frites and beer cafe called Frjtz (579 Hayes St.) I hop in a cab and meet them for a little pre-dinner eat-and-drink. When I get there, I find them in the back garden, sucking down Hoegardens and chowing on frites and mayo. Yum. I put in my order, pick up another round for the table, and we relax under toasty heat lamps in the rear garden, under the setting sun.
After, we head out to the Haight-Ashbury area for dinner at a place M calls Curry Club. It is called Citrus Club (1790 Haight St.). (See "Bombay Club," "Le Colonial," Day One) It is very cute and has a great Southeast Asian menu. The wait for a table ends up taking forever. By the time we are seated, I am in a funk.
M and C are tired. We are all, however, excited by the prospect of satay and spring rolls and sake martinis. They all get high marks. The entrees are good, too, but not great. I ordered pad Thai, and it was oddly creamy. Eh. M's tom kha was good though, and served in a bowl that looked like it was designed to feed 6. C said his noodle dish was satisfactory
We head out and M feels like she has failed us because dinner wasn't as good as expected and we're all low key and quiet. I think we were all just tired as hell. We march up to another brew-hall she used to haunt and after a while (*cough*MM and Coke*cough*) we are all quite cheery again.
We head out. Do we sensibly go back to the Fairmont to pack and rest? No...Blackthorn.
We really should know better than this, as everyone has an earlyish flight the next day. Oh well.
We all roll in like we own that place, and some big fellow has the goddamn nerve to stop us at the door and card. He looks at my shit like he's memorizing my address. Hmph.
We settle in and find the place lousy with Irish boys (*wink* Okay, there were maybe a half dozen. Whatever.). Score. At some point, we play darts and pool, neither of which I do at all well, in part because I haven't done either in at least three years, and in part because, hello, I've been tippling since sundown. M tells me later that I am really terrible at darts. 1. See prior sentence. 2. I wasn't the only one bouncing darts off the walls, damnit. I am so sensitive.
Anyway, at some point, I decide to get a snack. I head out and the bouncer points me to the market next door. I come back with a huge bag of cheesey flavored potato chips that I share with anybody who wants in (M, me, some guy on my other side at the bar.)
We are there for a long-ass time. Eventually, the crowd thins and it's just me, M, C, IB, the bouncer, and a few very drunk stragglers. Irish stragglers. At some point, I begin to flirt with the bouncer, who is large, thug-cute in that Cube-teddy bear sort of way. He's from Texas, so he gets a thumbs-up from M. He "works with kids" and used to play arena football. The latter, he says, gives him a size complex, since, at a full foot taller than me and enough over 6 feet that it's noticeable, he is "small." I really don't care about any of this, but I am reassured by his seemingly good heart and the alleged possession of a BA. I don't know why, leave me alone.
At some point I decide to go back to talking with M and C. One of the still straggling Irish guys decides to chat me up in the most charming of ways. He marches over, says, "Come over here and talk to us!" I say no, so he steals my drink. Stands up, takes it, and jogs back to his post. I think he might have actually patted the seat next to him.
God in heaven. Un-smooth. And he's not very cute. But that is funny as hell.
Let us just say I went over to retrieve the drink, declined a threesome, and a kiss, then settled for a little spank as compromise.
One loud, serious whack and a pinkened bottom later, I am reminded of IB's warning on the first night: never tangle with an Irishman in an Irish bar. (Later, M has a hand in ejecting this particular fellow from the bar. She manages not only to jokingly accuse one of the two Irish lads of being gay because of his lisp, she manages to lay the spanker out by tripping him. Really, this is teamwork at its finest: C handled drinkin', M held it down with the brawlin', I anchored with a little whorin'.)
This is about the time I decide that I'd be better off behind the bar (again), cleaning up with IB and the bouncer, whose name is Du-something. At some point, we play a little tonsil-hockey. Then, while we are waiting for the other staff folks to get ready to lock up, we chat some more at the bar. This is when he puts his hand on it and I notice two things: 1. His nails are too goddamn long. I can see white beyond the nail bed. I hate, hatehatehate, long nails on men. 2. He is wearing a very yellow-gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. Oh, barf.
Of course, I ask, "Is that a wedding ring?" because I'm real quick like that. He confirms it. At my "Oh hell, you're married?" (barf) he responds, "I never said I wasn't!" Cuh-lassy! (Says the girl only two paragraphs prior being publicly spanked.) And in case you were wondering, as I was by that point, yes he does have children. Three. Goddamnit. This man has led to the breaking of four of my top ten Will-Not-Considers: married, father, long-fucking-nails, name beginning with Du, La, Rae, or any other goddamn note. (While I am mortified by all this now, I am reminded that I really do need a lot more kissing in my life, stat.) I'd love to go hide immediately and for the duration of our trip, but it turns out Du-married is our ride back to the hotel. Also, he is huge and it is veryvery cold when we get outside so I avail myself of his frame between door and car, solely for protection from the cold, I assure you.
I'm not proud of myself. I happen to take fidelity very seriously. But it was cold as hell! And it's not like I kissed him after I found out! Um. Ahem.
Once again, we have shut down a bar. And it is after four in the morning and we have yet to pack and at least one of us has a flight before 10, in theory. So naturally we all go immediately to sleep.
We are damn fools.
Three breakfasts
Two drunken brawls
And a cheater in a white teeeeeeeeee!
Again, I am awakened at the asscrack of dawn. M is determined not to waste her last full day in town, and she has been dying to get to some place for breakfast burritos. (Breakfast burritos: M as beef chow fun: Sid)
I am a) exhausted, since I am going on day four of less than 5 hours sleep, b) still all wonky from the night before, c) really just wanting my French toast and snausages. I whine a little bit and try to either cajole them into a place with a bit more variety or convince myself breakfast isn't worth it and I should go back to sleep.
M pretty much says, fuck you, I'm getting breakfast burritos, bitch, make up your mind or get out of my way. You know, except without the cussing. I am such a fucking sucker for indifference.
A half hour later I'm marching (stumbling) through the brisk San Francisco morning toward a new breakfast frontier.
I can't even remember the name of the place. I only recall that it was perhaps the only place in town that had neither French toast nor sausage of any kind. I had a bagel sandwich. M and C had ginormous burrito things and seemed quite satisfied with them. Later, I stop in a 7-11 and hook myself up with a big ass, day-old apple frittery thing to simulate the fat-sugar-starch triumvirate of wonder that is the French toast breakfast. We lurch on to a farmer's market somewhere near the water, M and C will have to fill you in here, I don't remember the details.
I do, however, remember hanging around said market just long enough to get hungry again and eat Aidell's maple-bacon sausages from a booth.
Do you copy? Bacon in a sausage. There are no words for how obscene (genius) a concept this is. But it's a chicken sausage, and it also has sweet potato in it, so it isn't really as bad as it's made out to be.
Much like this trip, eh?
We work our way back to Fisherman's Wharf, hop a cable car, and by 1 p.m. we are back at the hotel. M and I have kicked around the idea of some mani/pedi time, but I am truly too goddamn tired by this point to even pretend I care how my extremities look, let alone fall for that old indifference trick again. I opt for a nap and pass the hell out.
I vaguely recall M coming in at some point and then going back out. When I wake, it is after 3 and she and C are nowhere to be found. I mean, I don't actually look very hard. I call them.
They took a tour of her old stomping grounds and are now at some little Belgian frites and beer cafe called Frjtz (579 Hayes St.) I hop in a cab and meet them for a little pre-dinner eat-and-drink. When I get there, I find them in the back garden, sucking down Hoegardens and chowing on frites and mayo. Yum. I put in my order, pick up another round for the table, and we relax under toasty heat lamps in the rear garden, under the setting sun.
After, we head out to the Haight-Ashbury area for dinner at a place M calls Curry Club. It is called Citrus Club (1790 Haight St.). (See "Bombay Club," "Le Colonial," Day One) It is very cute and has a great Southeast Asian menu. The wait for a table ends up taking forever. By the time we are seated, I am in a funk.
M and C are tired. We are all, however, excited by the prospect of satay and spring rolls and sake martinis. They all get high marks. The entrees are good, too, but not great. I ordered pad Thai, and it was oddly creamy. Eh. M's tom kha was good though, and served in a bowl that looked like it was designed to feed 6. C said his noodle dish was satisfactory
We head out and M feels like she has failed us because dinner wasn't as good as expected and we're all low key and quiet. I think we were all just tired as hell. We march up to another brew-hall she used to haunt and after a while (*cough*MM and Coke*cough*) we are all quite cheery again.
We head out. Do we sensibly go back to the Fairmont to pack and rest? No...Blackthorn.
We really should know better than this, as everyone has an earlyish flight the next day. Oh well.
We all roll in like we own that place, and some big fellow has the goddamn nerve to stop us at the door and card. He looks at my shit like he's memorizing my address. Hmph.
We settle in and find the place lousy with Irish boys (*wink* Okay, there were maybe a half dozen. Whatever.). Score. At some point, we play darts and pool, neither of which I do at all well, in part because I haven't done either in at least three years, and in part because, hello, I've been tippling since sundown. M tells me later that I am really terrible at darts. 1. See prior sentence. 2. I wasn't the only one bouncing darts off the walls, damnit. I am so sensitive.
Anyway, at some point, I decide to get a snack. I head out and the bouncer points me to the market next door. I come back with a huge bag of cheesey flavored potato chips that I share with anybody who wants in (M, me, some guy on my other side at the bar.)
We are there for a long-ass time. Eventually, the crowd thins and it's just me, M, C, IB, the bouncer, and a few very drunk stragglers. Irish stragglers. At some point, I begin to flirt with the bouncer, who is large, thug-cute in that Cube-teddy bear sort of way. He's from Texas, so he gets a thumbs-up from M. He "works with kids" and used to play arena football. The latter, he says, gives him a size complex, since, at a full foot taller than me and enough over 6 feet that it's noticeable, he is "small." I really don't care about any of this, but I am reassured by his seemingly good heart and the alleged possession of a BA. I don't know why, leave me alone.
At some point I decide to go back to talking with M and C. One of the still straggling Irish guys decides to chat me up in the most charming of ways. He marches over, says, "Come over here and talk to us!" I say no, so he steals my drink. Stands up, takes it, and jogs back to his post. I think he might have actually patted the seat next to him.
God in heaven. Un-smooth. And he's not very cute. But that is funny as hell.
Let us just say I went over to retrieve the drink, declined a threesome, and a kiss, then settled for a little spank as compromise.
One loud, serious whack and a pinkened bottom later, I am reminded of IB's warning on the first night: never tangle with an Irishman in an Irish bar. (Later, M has a hand in ejecting this particular fellow from the bar. She manages not only to jokingly accuse one of the two Irish lads of being gay because of his lisp, she manages to lay the spanker out by tripping him. Really, this is teamwork at its finest: C handled drinkin', M held it down with the brawlin', I anchored with a little whorin'.)
This is about the time I decide that I'd be better off behind the bar (again), cleaning up with IB and the bouncer, whose name is Du-something. At some point, we play a little tonsil-hockey. Then, while we are waiting for the other staff folks to get ready to lock up, we chat some more at the bar. This is when he puts his hand on it and I notice two things: 1. His nails are too goddamn long. I can see white beyond the nail bed. I hate, hatehatehate, long nails on men. 2. He is wearing a very yellow-gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. Oh, barf.
Of course, I ask, "Is that a wedding ring?" because I'm real quick like that. He confirms it. At my "Oh hell, you're married?" (barf) he responds, "I never said I wasn't!" Cuh-lassy! (Says the girl only two paragraphs prior being publicly spanked.) And in case you were wondering, as I was by that point, yes he does have children. Three. Goddamnit. This man has led to the breaking of four of my top ten Will-Not-Considers: married, father, long-fucking-nails, name beginning with Du, La, Rae, or any other goddamn note. (While I am mortified by all this now, I am reminded that I really do need a lot more kissing in my life, stat.) I'd love to go hide immediately and for the duration of our trip, but it turns out Du-married is our ride back to the hotel. Also, he is huge and it is veryvery cold when we get outside so I avail myself of his frame between door and car, solely for protection from the cold, I assure you.
I'm not proud of myself. I happen to take fidelity very seriously. But it was cold as hell! And it's not like I kissed him after I found out! Um. Ahem.
Once again, we have shut down a bar. And it is after four in the morning and we have yet to pack and at least one of us has a flight before 10, in theory. So naturally we all go immediately to sleep.
We are damn fools.
posted by Sid at 1:02 AM
3 Comments:
Oh dear. That was a fun day! And despite the almost commandment breaking--I think it served as confirmation of our vibrancy as fabulous, sexy women. Especially you. 'Twas you beating them off on this day.
Please, please, please don't leave off day 5--you have to mention the leftover chow fun that almost made us barf for its smell and our inappropriately funny driver to the airport and the acquiring of your orange tshirt and whatnot.
The city has really changed since the last time I was (t)here. I am trying to browse through your list of places and thinking it would be great if you have a list in the sidebar like your regular blog with the ratings ;-)
Ok. You really do have something for Irish men. Or do they have something for you? Hmm.....
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