The "ayenbite of inwyt", or the "prick of one's conscious" to us normals, let's just call it, "regret." Or, maybe we should call it The Donk. I learned of The Donk today and am filled with ayenbite, probably of inwyt and sausage. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. On Thursdays, I have drinks with the fellas, and I indulge. I occasionally over-indulge. Tonight, for this mid week interlude, I will tell you all about it.
After work on Thursdays, I sit through the happiest traffic in the world because I am going to meet the fellas for a beers. Generally speaking, I get to look forward to 45 minutes to an hour of traffic, and it is worth it. I actually look forward to it. Not only am I out of work for the day, but I'm on my way to drinking night. This week, I only met up with Diego, because Omar was sick, and Thomas has "responsibilities" (like a chump). We met at Mr. Tramps.
Sometimes Mr. Tramps has trivia night, so we don't go there on those nights. We also don't eat there anymore, having learned our lesson in our bathrooms late at night. When I arrived tonight, Diego was already one beer ahead of me, the sneaky bastard. So I sat down and ordered one of what he was having, a nitous infused double chocolate stout, and a side of onion rings. I was hungry enough to risk the food, which was a mistake. The beer was delightful, full bodied, frothy, rich, malty, and everything it should be. A fine post-work starter beer. The onion rings... well, I knew better, and I now I felt that specter, that ghoul, that ayenbite of inwyt (to stretch a definition way too far). A plate of greasy, crunchy circles both delicious and revolting. We ate them with gusto and remorse (and some kind of dipping sauce). That was the first regret of the evening. Then we left to get bar-b-que.
I had never been to Slab BBQ, but I saw they had an all-day special on "domestic" beer and sliders. When we got there I learned two very important things: 1, don't let Diego pick our your dinner, and 2, I seem to have been very confused about what the word "domestic" means.
First, let us talk about The Donk. This is what Diego decided I should eat for dinner, and I, like a lemming, decided to go with it. Here is a link to the menu for Slab BBQ (http://realdopebbq.com/menu/). Go, and see the description of The Donk. Begin to understand my pain. I ate that. All of that. I am not proud. The cute bar tender egged me on maliciously. Diego was remorseless. Even now, I have gut-full of hate for him and another regret for the evening. Later, I will begin to partially rid myself of this hate, most likely starting at 3 in the morning. Did I mention the cute bar tender? She was cute.
Secondly, the word "domestic" seems to mean "shitty". That's just an FYI, at a bar domestic = shitty, and those rates definitely don't apply to any beer you would ever want to drink.
I skipped the "domestic" beer and had a cider. According to my note, I had a TV Honkey Cider. Perhaps I wrote that down poorly. It was a tasty cider all the same. I wonder what it was really called. Unlike the cider brewing in my kitchen, this one was sweet and crisp. Sadly, it had to fight for attention with The Donk. The Goddam Donk. Despite (or because of) the adorable chiding of the cute bartender, I finished The Donk (pictured below).
Who's hungry? Not friggin' me. I had regrets, so, I had a Robert Honey Pils. That's a different kind of beer. I drank it. It wasn't half bad. To be honest, I don't remember it. I think I was still reeling from The Donk when I drank it, but I have no negative feelings about the beer so I couldn't have been too bad.
We drank, we solved many of the world's problems, there were some pop culture references, I think I probably said something embarrassing or awkward. I love drinking night with the guy(s).
And then I got home OK.
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