A Day With The Drunken Tomato

I should say, as a preface to this post, that I am currently aiming to make this blog a bit wider or more general in scope.  As it is now, there are stories and unspecific rambles.  However, so often both story and ramble are inspired by real life events.  I am planning on writing out some of these non fictional events and include them in my blog.  That said, let me welcome you to my world, my life, my recent Saturday.

We walked into Mother’s Bistro and Bar in Portland on the nicest day the city had seen all year.  The weather had enticed seemingly all the residents into shorts, sandals or sundresses, but we were on a mission that would take us indoors.
‘We’ was myself, of course, and my friend Shelley, or as she is more famously known, The Drunken Tomato.  The man at the host podium asked us how many, and his face exploded with energy as Shelley stated we were with The Drunken Tomato.
“Oh, we’ve been expecting you.  We'll have a table for you right away, I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re here.” The man scurried off, and I sheepishly glanced at the other patrons waiting for tables.  None of them seemed to have noticed, and I looked back to Shelley, who gave me an exaggerated nod and grin.  This was the life of a famous bloody mary blogger.
Whisked off to a nice table for two, our waitress was there nearly instantly with the same question that begins any dining experience.  Shelley beamed and blurted, “Two bloodies, please.”
I felt strangely excited as our cocktails arrived.  I’m not a big bloody mary fan, myself, but knowing I would be taking part in this process, I’d sampled several in town over the past month.  I took a sip, savoring the tomato and spice.  Shelley had not tried hers, as she was busy taking about a thousand pictures of the drink.  I tried to help stage a good photo, as to not feel entirely useless.
Satisfied with her camera work, she started to drink hers as well.  I tried my best to offer some review, but as I am by no means an expert, I did a lot of nodding and agreeing.  They were good, I will say.  Very good, but if you really want to know why, you’ll have to read her blog.
What was exceptional, and I am more qualified to speak on, was the service.  Our table was visited by numerous employees, all excited to meet Shelley and hear what she thought.  We met servers, managers and chefs, all of whom were charming, fun, and best of all, seemed completely genuine.  
Our conversation, unsurprisingly, revolved around the bistro and her blog.  We talked about expanding it to cover brunch (expect me to guest write at least once, if this happens), doing a once a month random bloody mary (just walking the streets until she finds a place that “calls” to her), and some of the more exotic and unique beverages that she has been served.
As we left I was feeling pretty good.  Between the great service and company, the bloody in my belly, and the sunshine, I could tell this day was going to do me no wrong.
It was decided that we would start the first of the random establishment reviews.  We debated neighborhood, and decided on one with which both of us had little experience.  We proved this point by getting lost on the way, but soon found ourselves driving down NE Mississippi.  
“The Publican!” Shelley screamed, pointing to one of the bars.  Sure enough, there is was, Interurban Publican’s Table.  We couldn’t expect a greater sign or calling than something with Publican in the name.  Not that common a word, and the title for my first round NYC Midnight story, it had to be our place.
When we stepped inside, this became even more true.  Dark wood everything, animal heads on the wall, and lots of whiskey, this place was certainly made for me.  Shelley ordered herself a bloody, but I decided on a manhattan.  Convinced that my opinions on the drink would have no influence on her reviews, it was time to drink for me.
Again, we had great service.  The bartender was funny, and not afraid to make jokes just on the far side of wrong, which are my favorite.  I also discovered that bars often have hooks under them when Shelley hung her purse on one.  I was at first flabbergasted and impressed with her ability to discover such a random thing, but she told me they are almost everywhere, and I have found this to be true everywhere I have checked in the days since. 
Hours passed, and our tab built.  There were no repeat drinks, I think I tried every whiskey cocktail on their menu.   I can say as well, they were all amazing!  I can be more picky with whiskey than a bloody, as I’ve had vast amounts more.  The drinks were balanced and well crafted.  For me though, drinking is about the company, and that was exceptionally spectacular.
Conversation here was more varied, to include updates on friends, horoscopes, and Shelley’s fiery hatred of neutrality. We discussed her recent move from NYC, a city we both think is very good fit for her, to California. As much as she is not a California girl, her reasons for moving could not be better. As a romantic, an emotion obsessed writer, and basically just a goofy, sentimental fool, I approve of the 3000 mile move for love.  I encouraged her too, as she wondered what to do in her new city, to pursue her blog and other writing more.  Besides being an expert on bloody marys, she is a fantastically gifted writer and storyteller.
We debated staying, as dinner time rolled around, but decided to shove off and find someplace else.  Marrakesh came to mind, a moroccan restaurant in NW neither of us had been to few a few years, and so we made our way over.  We sat on floor cushions around a tiny table, ordered our food and mango mimosas, and took in our surroundings.  There seemed to be a couple groups of prom kids, a sweet sixteen party, and families. 
The mimosas were incredibly delicious and refreshing.  So much so that I had four or five over the course of our meal, which was multiple courses that expertly balanced sweet and savory.
Between courses and awkward hand washings, we discussed proms.  Neither of us had ever attended a prom, and we wondered if we could sneak in to one.  We continued on to debate what it takes for a vest to qualify as a vest, and not just a shirt fashioned to look as such.  Finally, we got to overhear the complaints of the father chaperoning the sweet sixteen.
Apparently, some food was dropped on his leg, and he didn’t want to pay the mandatory 18% gratuity for a party of his size.  I was able to stifle laughter as he went on and on to multiple servers and eventually the manager, before he gave up, declaring that “the food was great, so I guess we’ll be back.”
As his party exited, Shelley and I discussed the absurdity of his complaints.  We then proceeded to shower our server in compliments, and scribble additional ones on our receipt.  Satisfied that we had balanced out our negative neighbor, we left with full bellies and smiles on our faces.
Jumping back over the Willamette, we ended up at Morrison Hotel Bar to meet up with my friends Jason and Ricky.  Probably our most regular haunt, with friendly staff, good beer, and classic bar fare.  We relaxed to some cocktails before plotting our next move.  Nightfall was upon us, and we felt like having some fun that only an arcade could provide.
So it came to be that we journeyed to the Avalon Wunderland.  We slaughtered zombies, battled robots, faced a crisis of time, and, of course, partook in some skee ball.  We had an absolute blast, and the night seemed like it couldn’t get any better.  Yet, it did.
We were preparing to leave, dumping our remaining coins into a simple game to try and get some extra tickets for candy, when it happened.  A simple malfunction brought much unexpected joy, as tickets began to pour out of the machine.  It seemed that every nickel produced twenty or so tickets.  Ricky and I cackled as we pumped coin after coin into the machine, and began to drape the tickets over our bodies.  After receiving a few sideways glances from employees, we decided to not press our luck, and see what could be purchased with our bounty.
Behind the prize counter, the girl weighed the tickets to determine how many we had.  She informed us we could get most anything on the wall.  I’d already spotted a blue inflatable pony, and pointed it out to the others.  They agreed it was probably the best option.
“Too bad it isn’t pink,” I said as I turned back to the prize counter girl.  She grinned, dug under the counter for a moment, and then dropped a folded, deflated, pink plastic square on the counter.  My heart singing, I lifted it over my head in triumph!  
Wandering back out onto Belmont St, I tore the pony from its packaging and began to blow into it.  It inflated quickly, in fact, by the time we reached Aalto Lounge, just one block away, it was completely blown up.
The four of us walked to the back of the bar, where there were couches, chairs, and generally a quieter environment.  Immediately after getting more drinks, we began to play with the pony.  We came up with the incredibly uninspired yet perfectly appropriate name of Pinky.  
I kissed Pinky deeply at one point, which I thought was magical and special, but it proved not to be as he then kissed several other members of our group.  He then began to dance provocatively on the bar, and on us, grinding against everyone he could get his hooves on.  The bartenders never asked him to stop, they probably were enjoying his dancing too much to put an end to it.
A few drinks later Pinky had calmed down, and the rest of us had grown hungry.  We  ducked into a pizza place there on the block for a quick bite before calling it a night.  
Shelley and I went back to my truck and I drove her back to where she was staying.  It had been an absurd, random, wonderful day.  The kind of day you wish everyday could be.  A day that was full of fun, laughter, conversation, and nothing regrettable.  As I pulled into the driveway, I said the only thing I could think in that moment.
“I’m so glad you’re my friend.”
Shelley laughed and grinned, “Yea!”