Apr. 25th, 2009

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I knew at once something was up when I saw the man dressed as Jesus Christ in a pastel toga walk by. I wanted to point him out to [livejournal.com profile] monshu, but I was still struggling for the words when he and his companion turn in at the north edge of the windows and appear for a moment behind the door that linked the main room with the staircase. Soon more appeared, their faces ghastly with stage makeup, their clothes torn and bloodstained. Before long, we joined in directing them. A man in a suit with a necrotic face and a briefcase came in and, as he was glancing about, I leaned over and said, "If you're looking for brains, they're upstairs."

Little did we expect when we left the house in a lull between downpours that it was Zombie Pub Crawl Night in Andersonville. All we had in mind was picking up some paint chips at Thybony before stopping into In Fine Spirits for a cocktail and tapas in preparation for our dinner with friends in West Lakeview. (We're not accustomed to dining after eight.) The light fare, incidentally, was excellent. It's been far too long since we had cheddar that really tasted of cheddar, and the chicken tartine was a revelation with every bite.

Also, how could I not love a cocktail menu that lists eight times as many gin drinks as vodka-based ones? But what caught my eye was an aquavit cocktail flavoured with ginger liqueur that turned out to be more of a ginger liqueur cocktail flavoured with aquavit. When I mentioned this and asked if it would be possible to get a one-ounce shot of the hard stuff straight, they bent the rules to accommodate me. It was actually more present in the drink than I suspected; it tricked me by being more complex than just a fiery blast of caraway. Hard to guess what my Köm-swilling Hanseatic ancestors would've made of it--not to mention sage-scented gin in the GWO's modified Tom Collins.

(In the cab on the way south, I heard the final score in today's blowout and whooped with joy. The Old Man said, "So I take it you're happy your Cubs won--I mean, Cardinals." I eyed him balefully and replied, "Do I need to use shock therapy on you or something?")

We arrived at El Tapatío in plenty of time. After more than a half-hour of unanswered texts, we called for a second pitcher of margaritas and ordered our mains. Reviews online had recommended the crepas de pollo, but the best I can really say about mine is that the chicken wasn't dry. That this is considered the "best cheap Mexican in the neighbourhood" tells me all I need to know about neighbour pricing and the dearth of substantial competition.

But when you're loaded and teaching friends how to pronounce "zmrzlina" in preparation for their trip to Prague, it's petty to complain about such details as unexceptional food or the total absence of the guest of honour. I know I'll pay dearly for this tomorrow, but when I reread this through the haze of a splitting headache, I'll smile-wince and remember that it was worth it.

(In the cab on the way north, I noticed the bobblehead turtle on the dashboard and said to the driver, "Dilshadji, what's the turtle there for?" "That's to remind me don't drive fast and I'll still get there." "So what you're saying," I replied, "is that if I get into a taxi with a rabbit on the dashboard, I should be worried?" "Maybe he'll go to sleep!")

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