I like to go out and get blotto as much as the next self-respect-less drunk. I do not, however, like having to piece together whole portions of benders using leftover evidence and eyewitness accounts. Yet this is exactly my fate the morning after spending a solid six hours at Zio Romolo's Alley Bar, the cozy-yet-narrow lounge next to the Pasquini's in Highland.
Did I say goodbye to everyone? (Text a friend, wait four hours: yes.)
Did I pay for the pizza? (Find wallet, find receipt: yes.)
Zio Romolo's Alley Bar
2400 West 32nd Avenue
Did I lose a bunch of money throwing dice on the bar? (Check pockets, count cash, give up: probably.)
Did I invite a bunch of people over to watch the Olympics afterward and immediately pass out on the couch? (Wake up wife, wait for her to remember: yes.)
So on and so forth and what the fuck happened? Vodka happened. Vodka and ginger beer and fresh-squeezed lime. The goddamn Moscow Mule, except no copper cups. Pint glasses of vodka is what happened. Lots of 'em. And that's not the half of it.
Hours before the Mules, beginning at 1 p.m. on a sunny Sunday, three Manmosas — bottles of High Life with sidecars of OJ — happened. Then a Non-Virgin Mary, made with homemade infused vodka (rosemary, basil, oregano, garlic, etc.) and served with an Italian skewer (prosciutto, capicola, salami, mozzarella, etc.), happened. From there, I remember two bottles of Session lager — one red and one black, simultaneously, because I didn't even know the black existed and wanted to drink them side by side — happened.
What else? Oh, yeah, then some Lone Stars, served with adorable glass boots, happened, which got everyone guessing the riddles underneath the caps, which got my wife trying to throw the caps into the porcelain tip jar behind the bar, which got the bartender betting her a shot on the house that she couldn't sink two in a row. Which got us all taking shots when she did, against all odds, considering she'd missed the first eight.
Then the Moscow Mules started to happen. I guess I must have said something to someone about how I could go for one, how hardly anyone carried ginger beer or copper cups, how it's a shame. A shame! And the bartender must have perked up, said Zio Romolo's has ginger beer even if it doesn't have the copper cups — but oh-fucking-well, right?
And then somewhere in there, unsolicited, more shots showed up. So those happened. Along with four more Mules (according to my receipt). Which coincided with the dice-throwing. The losing. The pizza-ordering. The inviting-people-over-for-the-Olympics. The paying and tipping and saying goodbye but not remembering. The ride home...
Wait. The ride home. How did that happen? (Call wife from work, wait for her to remember: a sober friend. Yes!)
So much happened. Zio Romolo's on a sunny Sunday afternoon happened.
The goddamn Moscow Mule happened.
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