Señor Rita’s

I'm considering having the health department launch an investigation into the margaritas at Señor Rita's (5007 East Colfax Avenue). Recently, all of the Institute of Drinking Studies' researchers plus several groupies descended on this new bar, which was brought to us by our heroes at the Elm next door, as well as the Irish Hound and Wyman's. In our arrogance, we were honestly concerned that the place might not be able to handle a full-blown Institute disaster. To say we were humbled is an understatement.

Although most of us are accustomed to doing a walk of shame the next morning, we typically understand that whatever indictments -- legal or moral -- result from the previous evening are our own damned fault. After Señor Rita's, however, the question was not "Do you remember what you did/said/touched last night?" No, the burning question was "What the [very naughty word] was in those margaritas?" We knew that badness on an obscene level had transpired, but none of us who'd imbibed the brilliant margaritas were able to reconstruct the night before without significant assistance.

The evening started innocently enough, with warm-up margs or other drinks and various appetizers. We fell in love with the rapidity of each round's arrival, as well as with the bottomless chips and salsa. The jalapeño poppers, made even more delicious and cardio-toxic by the slab of steak wrapped around each one, were an instant hit. At first bite, JP's heartburn kicked into overdrive at the thought of cholesterol bombs dropped into an already sluggish bloodstream, so he opted for a White Russian, thinking that some dairy product might coat his aching stomach. Had I not just seen him writhing in pain, I might have thought this was a weak attempt at maintaining his masculinity after ordering Brokeback Mountain's third-favorite drink. But since JP is currently on a campaign to get bars to stock Pepcid along with smokes, his beverage choice seemed far more legitimate than that of the Head of Instant Drunks -- who tried to justify his Greyhound (number two on the Brokeback list, preceded only by mojitos) by saying it would prevent scurvy.

Our drink justification was the last subject that was remotely G-rated. With the aid of a representative's handy copy of Profanisaurus Rex, our talk rapidly plunged into the sewer. Either the Oriental Representative's or the Jewish Representative's girlfriend started the discussion of whether a guy's chest area is an erogenous zone; about half of the guys said yes, and the other half lied. JP went too far and suggested that anywhere along the milk line is a good spot. Verbal foreplay like this almost always leads to some sort of conversational consummation. There were plenty of deviant climaxes in our group -- some hilarious, many outright terrifying. One representative claimed that his purported accomplishments were not the result of a faulty moral filter, but a bad case of pelvic Tourette's syndrome. Most of us said that we saw sex as a means to an end: pleasure, power, a notch on the belt. JP, on the other hand, revealed himself to be the ultimate Christian idealist: "I endure sex so I can be held afterward."

From then on, I really don't remember much. I'm pretty sure bras were bared. The Southern Representative held a long discourse on sexual power tools, and his pointedly vague description of a certain apparatus encouraged the wife of the Redneck Liaison to identify said device. Until then, I'd never even heard her drop an F-bomb; now she's even more special to the Institute.

All in all, it was an excellent evening, judging from what I can recall -- and what I can't recall proves it was even better than excellent. Now if the health department could just determine the secret ingredient in those killer margaritas...

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Patrick Osborn