7pm. Dinner with my friend Sofia at Souen, who just turned in a hundred page thesis like the newly married professional adult that she is. (You know you worked your ass off when you're concerned about how much it might cost to print two copies of a paper.)
Considering I'm on a strict nutritionist diet that doesn't really leave room for "beef drippings" and "duck fat fries" and all of the other things I'd take a pants-too-tight bullet for in life, I tend to eat like a health nut half of the day (hence, bean soup and futo maki for dinner) and spend the rest like a seventh grader who was told she could make her own after-school snack for the first time. I love this crazy vegan-y place as much as I love a wheel of brie, or the frozen yogurt I had an hour before dinner. Well, almost as much.
8pm. Got leftovers bagged up for lunch the following day, talked to Sofia about honeymoon plans and I have no idea what happened after that because Alec Baldwin walked in, sat two tables away and the entire restaurant froze. One quick way to figure out if a dining establishment is entirely full of women is to have a blue-eyed celebrity in a full-on suit squeeze into a booth in the middle of a restaurant because time will stop for about 45 seconds. or, in my case, a half hour. We ordered plant twig tea (I'll seriously eat anything you put in front of me, as proven by bark broth) and talked about nothingness while fielding texties from my mother about what I should do now that Alec Doomsday had arrived upon us.
Let me explain. Ever since I was about nine years old, my mother ingrained in my and my brother's heads that if we are ever in the event of meeting, seeing or being near Alec Baldwin, her one and only true celebrity love, to do whatever necessary to get a photo, or a phone call, or an autograph, ANYTHING. Which, I've been prepared for. I've been walking around this city ready to pop out of a wall of bodega bouquets to accost and conquer. But, seeing him with his fiance and her mother, stuck inside a benched table that made it logistically impossible to take a photo of or with him without bringing an entire veganland to a halt and humiliating myself was something I was not prepared for. Tried to do it, tried to do it, tried to do it...
9pm. Couldn't do it. Failure. I pussed out. This will forever go down as the Mother's Day I didn't molest Alec Baldwin on my mother's account.
9:30pm. Dinner at Jeffrey's Grocery. Didn't I already have dinner? Didn't I just eat an entire meal at a meat-free palace? Didn't stop me from splitting a silver platter of a dozen oysters, one of which tasted exactly like Great Gillson Day Camp on the days when all the fish would wash ashore onto the sand and the campers were all grossed out except for the token creepy kid who liked to play with their bones.
10pm. A second drink with an umbrella in it? On a Tuesday? Why not! There's a vacation in my mouth. Bring a coconut.
11pm. The kitchen magically split up my boyfriend's gargantuan portion of lobster spaghetti into two servings! Those silly cooks knew me well enough to know I'd never skip a bonus meal and a chance to scarf down lobster, but my significant other knows better and made me pool the rest onto his plate so i wouldn't gobble up all the good bits like a cartoon seagull. Looks like my drunken sing-song about how I was gonna eat his dinner before he could wouldn't make it to the second verse.
11:15pm. Proposed this last night but didn't get a conclusive answer, so I'll repeat: I can break up with someone for not announcing that he finished the last bite of dessert and left me with a plate of sauce scraps, correct? Fool me once by sucking all the pork belly out of our grilled cheese at Earl's, shame on me, but eat the other half of the chocolate ganache-topped sugar cookie while I'm looking away, shame on you and only you. Backwards, but appropriate.
11:30pm. Another dark and stormy to mimic how my brain feels, sounds great. Oh fuck, there was a Jameson shot in here somewhere too.
12am. Drunkenly trot home feeling light and free, pop in the elevator and get to the front door to realize I don't have my keys. Or my credit cards. Or my money, because they are all inside my purse which is still hanging on a hook at the restaurant.
What I did have in my hand? Four rolls of futo maki.
Responsible enough to remember a half-portion of salmon sushi, not responsible enough to remember every credit card, ID and the only access I have to money, apartment and mailbox. Luckily for me, the bartender remembered us telling him our address (clearly the Jameson kicked in if I was talking to strangers about exactly where I live) and his sweet boyfriend was downstairs, purse in hand, having chased after us to retrieve it.
Which brings us to today's question: what type of pastry says "sorry I got so drunk at your bar that your boyfriend had to run an errand for me after midnight?" A doughnut? A scone? I think I'm going to go with a scone.