E got a promotion, so we went out to celebrate.
we took the 33 Sacto. + cherry to haight, where we met em and van. em used to be a professional organizer -- she has firsthand stories about hoarders-- mostly men--people who could not be separated from towers of keepsakes, squalid crap bonanzas. her boyfriend, van, is studying library science. when we arrived, he looked like mr. rogers from the waist up, saturday morning cartoons from the drawstring down. em introduced her cat, jezebel, who matched the color scheme in the living room (gray, white, lime green). van's cat also greeted us -- a gray velvet conniver known as copernicus.
me: do you use his full name every time you call him?
van: no, his nickname is fuck ass.
we pryed van away from his take-home final and walked down haight in search of a bar called alembic.
van: you know what i can't stand? when people use digital terms in place of traditional words like, 'the four of us should find a time to interface about this issue'. '
E: right? have you ever hugged someone and said, "yep, i'm downloading this..." someone used the wrong tense of 'marinate' in a meeting today...'let's let them marinade in it for a while"...
alembic was packed.
em: alembic. leave it to san francisco to name a bar with a word that no one knows.
van: it's a tool used in the distillation process.
we stood in the clogged lane between the bar and the wall ledge where drinks passed by on damp trays, dirty looks exchanged, geometric prints on sheer tees, a man with a beard longer than the hair on his head.
the drink menu had a [23] in the upper left corner, and each drink had a paragraph describing the history of churned butter or porcelain china.
i ordered the gilded lily (complete with gin and a drop of gold) em, the love in vain (finished with a dash of orange bitters) van, a white russian.
no white russians, only vice grips. van settled.
vice grip: ¾ ounce araku rum
coffee liqueur
3 ounces brachetto d’aqui, chilled
2 ounces porter foam
van: you know what i hate about being a so-called "grown up"? that you can't do certain things anymore because they're "inappropriate". for example, i'd like to just jump up and sit on the ledge here, but you know i'd be asked to leave, or it would just break and fall off the wall...
E ordered a manhattan, told a story about his friend in ohio who used to make infused vodkas. cherries, sugar, brandy in a jam jar.
we sat down, in the corner. i faced the room, E sat to my right, van on my left, Em on the far left.
E ordered the entire appetizer menu: truffled popcorn, cheese platter, olives, sliders, potato chips and meyer lemon aioli, olives, shishito peppers. Em described her boss as a woman who is on a liquid diet but is, nonetheless, 300 pounds over the legal limit. she drinks potato leek soup for lunch. her first name is an adjective (with the vowel purposely reordered to spell mysti). i hoped her last name was a noun. and it was: a type of fruit.
van also has a boss. after checking a book out to a kindergartener that turned out to be a story about two male penguins that find an egg and raise the resulting chick. the kid's parents were inflamed. van was told by his boss that he must be informed, read: know what every book he scans and hands to a child is about.
the cheese inspired inappropriate references, anti-table talk.
E ordered a bottle of rose, which we drained over talk of hometowns. all refugees from some non-coastal town where dreams get squashed by religion or PhD's bag groceries... all generic and familiar tales of shelving shabby origins for a more glamorous spot on the map.
we left.
the 33 squeaked to a stop and without a farewell, E and I rambled down arguello.
we need to get you a bullhorn and a director's chair. and we still need to bake you a cake for mother's day. x
we took the 33 Sacto. + cherry to haight, where we met em and van. em used to be a professional organizer -- she has firsthand stories about hoarders-- mostly men--people who could not be separated from towers of keepsakes, squalid crap bonanzas. her boyfriend, van, is studying library science. when we arrived, he looked like mr. rogers from the waist up, saturday morning cartoons from the drawstring down. em introduced her cat, jezebel, who matched the color scheme in the living room (gray, white, lime green). van's cat also greeted us -- a gray velvet conniver known as copernicus.
me: do you use his full name every time you call him?
van: no, his nickname is fuck ass.
we pryed van away from his take-home final and walked down haight in search of a bar called alembic.
van: you know what i can't stand? when people use digital terms in place of traditional words like, 'the four of us should find a time to interface about this issue'. '
E: right? have you ever hugged someone and said, "yep, i'm downloading this..." someone used the wrong tense of 'marinate' in a meeting today...'let's let them marinade in it for a while"...
alembic was packed.
em: alembic. leave it to san francisco to name a bar with a word that no one knows.
van: it's a tool used in the distillation process.
we stood in the clogged lane between the bar and the wall ledge where drinks passed by on damp trays, dirty looks exchanged, geometric prints on sheer tees, a man with a beard longer than the hair on his head.
the drink menu had a [23] in the upper left corner, and each drink had a paragraph describing the history of churned butter or porcelain china.
i ordered the gilded lily (complete with gin and a drop of gold) em, the love in vain (finished with a dash of orange bitters) van, a white russian.
no white russians, only vice grips. van settled.
vice grip: ¾ ounce araku rum
coffee liqueur
3 ounces brachetto d’aqui, chilled
2 ounces porter foam
van: you know what i hate about being a so-called "grown up"? that you can't do certain things anymore because they're "inappropriate". for example, i'd like to just jump up and sit on the ledge here, but you know i'd be asked to leave, or it would just break and fall off the wall...
E ordered a manhattan, told a story about his friend in ohio who used to make infused vodkas. cherries, sugar, brandy in a jam jar.
we sat down, in the corner. i faced the room, E sat to my right, van on my left, Em on the far left.
E ordered the entire appetizer menu: truffled popcorn, cheese platter, olives, sliders, potato chips and meyer lemon aioli, olives, shishito peppers. Em described her boss as a woman who is on a liquid diet but is, nonetheless, 300 pounds over the legal limit. she drinks potato leek soup for lunch. her first name is an adjective (with the vowel purposely reordered to spell mysti). i hoped her last name was a noun. and it was: a type of fruit.
van also has a boss. after checking a book out to a kindergartener that turned out to be a story about two male penguins that find an egg and raise the resulting chick. the kid's parents were inflamed. van was told by his boss that he must be informed, read: know what every book he scans and hands to a child is about.
the cheese inspired inappropriate references, anti-table talk.
E ordered a bottle of rose, which we drained over talk of hometowns. all refugees from some non-coastal town where dreams get squashed by religion or PhD's bag groceries... all generic and familiar tales of shelving shabby origins for a more glamorous spot on the map.
we left.
the 33 squeaked to a stop and without a farewell, E and I rambled down arguello.
we need to get you a bullhorn and a director's chair. and we still need to bake you a cake for mother's day. x
No comments:
Post a Comment