Five to nine

Have a drink.

November 15, 2004

One. Two. Many.

While searching the web for booze-related knowledge, sometimes I come across some excellent booze-related promotional events. Last week, the good people at Chivas were sponsoring an open bar and whiskey tasting at Pearl, a chic restaurant and bar in West Hollywood. You could sign up for the early or the late tasting on wednesday or thursday, you were allowed to enlist up to three people, but you could only sign up once. Well, I'm not great at math, but this one was easy. I signed up for wednesday, Jared signed up for thursday, we invited each other so we could drink twice. On wednesday I invited a certain friend with whom I had a bet to account for. A friend who had just recently been very upset with me. I thought rivers of whiskey together would be just the thing to smooth over the rough. He ended up canceling on the last minute, but since we were in his neighborhood, he told us to come over after the tasting. Brother Klein would be around, and there was South Park. Score. When we arrived at his house, I suddenly realized the error in not having anything to eat beforehand, but it was too late. The process of gastric dumping had begun, and I had no choice but to hang on for the ride. I was ill, and it was obvious. To make matters worse, I am told i spilled a coke and made a mess on his lovely balcony. The straw that broke the camels back. I received a message the next morning informing me that I was to consider myself persona-non-grata.
So, it was thursday afternoon i had pissed of one of the big Jews, and Jesus, can you believe it? I was going to do it all over again! Whiskey tasting number two was under Jared, and the guest this time was of his choosing.
Allow me now to elaborate on the oh-so-important details of the event. The open drinks at the bar were chivas neat, chivas and water, chivas on the rocks, chivas and ginger ale, and a surprisingly tasty chivas apple cocktail. The cocktail waitresses were very shapely, very pretty, all in black, and most importantly, came by very often to replenish our drinks. The restaurant had indoor space for people to mingle or something, and tables outside for people to enjoy fresh air or cigarettes, whichever they prefered. The tables were under propane-fueled heat lamps, to ward off that chilly night desert air, which made them just right. And the hors d'oeuvres! oh, those appetizers. They included (but were not limited to) grilled ham and cheese sandwich bites (honey-cured ham, brie cheese), fried duck dumpling, roast beef and horseradish on some bread, parmesan crackers with sharp creme cheese, grilled shrimp, spring rolls, &c. Oh, and the music selection was very good two. (they played The gift by Way out West. It's the only specific track I remember, but it's one of those random tidbits that has won a permanent place in my heart. If you believe in electro-music, I suggest you check it out.) This, my friends, is how you get people to remember your brand.
My guest missed out on all this, and it cost me dearly. Jared's guest did not. I got to meet a chill dude whose name was, I kid you not, Swap. He had a good understanding of the value of such a big ticket open bar. And after the tasting he also had a good idea of what to do next. Introduce us to the Manhattan Beach bar scene. We went to some place called Dragon which had a long line, expensive beer, and was much too loud. This was not the place for anything less than a huge rowdy group, and that, we were not. I hate standing around staring at strangers almost as much as I hate strangers. We abandoned hope and drove a little further up the beach. We found a nice quiet and empty place in which to enjoy a nightcap. We did and then really enjoyed the slow cruise home. I was glad to have met Swap.
The moral of the story is: while moderation in all things would be ideal, in a pinch a good averaging of trouble and success will do.


At November 16, 2004 at 3:33 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Rest assured, matter how many future drinks you may spill on MY future lovely balconies, you will never be persona-non-grata with me. Cheers, Max.


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