Pitcher of Margaritas
Loud motorcycle, muffled manhood. Recently a group of my friends decided to meet for brunch, ideally in a spot with a great outdoor patio where we could enjoy the glorious weather. Tired of our normal routine, we hit on El Noa Noa, a Mexican mainstay that dates back to long before Santa Fe was a hip arts district. Our first order of business: a pitcher of margaritas ($17), which my güera friend asked the waiter to make "estilo mexicano" -- less mix, more tequila. Normally there's an extra fee for that, but this beautiful, buxom blonde charmed the upcharge right out of the waiter, who couldn't have been happier to serve her and us. For a few delightful hours, we sat on El Noa's sprawling, shaded patio, sipping margs, chatting with pals and relaxing beside a fountain that looks like it was picked up in Mexico City and plopped down on Santa Fe Drive. The burble of the fountain softened the occasional loud noises coming from the restaurant's urban neighborhood -- but it wasn't enough to cover the sound of the dumbasses who got up from the table next to us, moved over to their motorcycles parked by the patio wall, then proceeded to rev up their exceedingly loud engines for five minutes. The revving of the motorcycle is a desperate cry for attention, the cultural equivalent of short, balding men driving tall blondes around in red sports cars or construction workers catcalling women who are clearly out of their league. Men, gunning your engine does not increase your masculinity, dominance or power. Instead, rev softly and carry a big stick.
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