by Ed Sikov
"Who is Lady Gaga?" I asked in imperfect innocence, thus driving the table of six to a jolting silence.
They gaped at me. "What?" I shouted. Heads swiveled around the restaurant. I quickly regretted the stupid (and loud) joke. The maitre d' came over. "I'm not well," I explained, then beelined for the men's room, attempted to take three Advil without water, gagged and threw up, washed out my mouth, sampled the free facial moisturizer (wouldn't you?) and returned.
"Let's change the subject," I said as I plunked myself back into my chair. "We already have, doll," said Craig. "I've invited a guest – lucky number seven." "But there's no room!" I complained. Dan elbowed me so hard in the ribs that I coughed. " Garcon!" Craig shouted, though we were at an Austrian restaurant. The blond youth who sings "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" in Cabaret rushed over. "May I help you, sir?" "That's Madame, sonny," Craig replied. "Set another place – for my new boyfriend!"
Craig was now the object of the group gape. "Tell!" Paolo demanded. "Yeah, dude!" Sammy said. "Is he a chub, too?" Jack Fogg shot Sammy a withering look, but Sammy was undeterred. "You're way fat, dude. That's cool. I just want to know if he's chubby, too."
"Where is that Nazi Breck Girl when you need her?" I snarled. I felt an inexplicable anxiety on top of the residual Gaga humiliation and reverted to my Western Pennsylvania roots: I needed a shot and a beer. Two shots and a beer, actually: a double Absolut Peppar and a Hefeweisen, a yeasty German brew. (That's why I love New York. Order that combo in my embarrassingly named hometown – Beaver Falls – and you might get hurled out of the bar or worse. In Snatchville, a shot and a beer means rotgut whiskey and Pittsburgh's own, terrible Iron City.)
We scooted closer to make room – except for Craig, who sat regally still, smirking. I asked the waiter, "Could I have a…." "I'll take your drink orders in a minute, sir," the Aryan prototype sassed. "My name is Rolf – I'll be your server tonight." " Gevalt," I snorted.
"Hey!" Dan said. "That's Kyle at the front door. What a coincid…." "Ohmygod!" I gasped. "Jesus fucking Christ!" Sammy blurted. Dan, Paolo and Jack Fogg simply stared in wonderment as the adorable puppy Kyle strode to the table and sat down next to Craig. He blushed, shrugged and then kissed Craig on the lips. The rest of us were too stunned – and in my case, too psychotically jealous – to speak.
"You all know Kyle," Craig pointlessly announced. "Turns out he likes chubby daddies." Kyle demurely looked at his fingernails.
"Who knew?" I said as a montage providing vivid, horrifying answers to the question "who does what to whom?" in various lurid and upsetting ways looped through my brain. The next thing I knew, I was standing up and screaming across the room, " Rolf! Getten zie assen uber hier, schnell! Ich needen ein drink!"
The Boilermaker
It's just a shot of liquor with a beer chaser. Back home, you get cheap whiskey and local swill. In more cosmopolitan locales (Calgary, Oklahoma City, Denver), you can fearlessly order a shot of Jameson, Chivas, or even Absolut. I like a double shot of Peppar and a tasty beer: try a local microbrewery's offering (think globally, drink locally), a great American mass-market brand like Sam Adams, or an equally fine and widely available import like Stella Artois or Molson.
