WHAT THE WINE STEWARD RECOMMENDS

I should know by now that some combinations are inherently dangerous. Such as noshing on coconut Eggos, while enjoying some fine American whiskey. It just isn't a good interplay. It's NOT that Garden Bakery's fine product and Kentucky Bourbon don't see eye to eye -- they do, most marvelously -- but that it is wrong to snack on sweeties late at night. Primarily because the natural choice of beverage at three in the morning isn't warm milk-tea or coffee, but something less likely to stimulate and keep you up any further. Which, if you've just returned from a long instructional evening at San Francisco's finest indoor smoking establishment, is ill-advised. This blogger may have had a large quantity of Scotch that evening.
Didn't need any more alcohol.
Had it anyway.

Garden Bakery's Coconut Eggo (椰心卷), Wafer Rolls with coconut flavour filling, are yummy and delicious. The Garden Company (嘉頓有限公司) in Hong Kong makes stellar products. No home should be without them.
I sing their praises.

The next morning I wasn't feeling quite up to snuff.
I think I ate the whole pack.
Net Wt./Poids Net/净重: 150g (克) 5.3 oz (安士).
Unwise.


SATURDAY NIGHT MADNESS

The evening had started off relatively well, and on a rational note.
But once the Bloated Toad sat near me, I moved to a different seat, concerned that he would start haranguing the young ladies nearby about his divorce, his lack of a sex life, how he was contemplating suicide if he didn't get some poon soon, and would they like to go somewhere else. He's chunky, red faced, and reptilian. And cigar-smoking ladies are infinitely attractive to elderly cretins.
Naturally.

I positioned myself in between them and him. At the very least this would provide some insulation. Or dilute the ill-effect. I needn't have worried. They were, if possible, far too lively for the Bloated Toad. One of the phrases I overheard was "dammit, Estelle, your vibrator kept me up all night!".
Oh good, Estelle is in touch with her feelings.
Her friend is too. With Estelle's feelings.

We're all about feelings.

At the cigar bar.

If I had been Estelle, I would've claimed that it wasn't a vibrator but my "Little Miss Mayhem' girl's chainsaw", and that I was practicing for marriage. Well, what DOES one say when the other person bitches about vibrator noise? Especially in a crowded smoking establishment where ninety percent of the clientele consists of unaccompanied men with truly excellent hearing?

"That was a can-opener! I'm making a scale model of the Statue of Liberty out of cat-food!"

What Estelle actually said was "I used up the batteries, you're safe for the next two days". Which, when you think about it, is a profoundly un-encouraging statement.
Nevertheless, thank you for sharing, Estelle.
The Bloated Toad heard none of this, as he was far too busy telling some visiting lawyers from the East-Coast all about pre-nups and his frigid ex-wife trying to take him to the cleaners. And how his woman-hating big macho divorce lawyer would get her, but good.
Bitch should've stayed married to him, she'd have guaranteed vacations in Florida every year, and her own damned car.

If 'F' bombs were dollar bills, everyone within hearing distance of 'Bloaty' would've been rich. The Bloated Toad cannot speak without expletives. They're adverbs, adjectives, punctuation, and particles of emphasis.
His ex-wife had to put up with this for thirty-plus years.
I hope she strips him naked, and drains him dry.
Though not in public. He's an ugly man.
It's those mean piggy eyes.


Between the soon-to-be-permanently single slug and the two female electrical appliance salesmen, that end of the bar proved to be far too trying for a sensitive man such as myself. I moved back down to where some friends were chatting with a gentleman from Hong Kong feasting on clam and garlic pizza. All three of them were smoking cigars. The husband and wife were enjoying a Partagas and an Oliva (series 'O') respectively -- him maduro, her a dark Habano seed wrapper -- while the pizzathiast had a Monte Cristo Habana in his left hand. Listening in on their conversation was enjoyable, till they got to the subject of children. With which all three of them have some connection. I don't, I'm rather like the vibrator woman in that regard, though my batteries are still full of electricity. But children are not my favourite subject.
Which is something I keep to myself.

The gentleman from Hong Kong had just dropped off his daughter in Berkeley for the summer programme. His wife was in London with the boy child for a similar reason. Judging by the fact that he was scarfing down clam and garlic pizza, and smoking a big fat cigar, he was faithful to his wife.
Or at least planning to be.
Commendable.

This blogger, in addition to singing the praises of Garden Bakery, also greatly esteems constancy as a virtue.
Along with cheese, clam, garlic, and Havana breath.
These are all mighty things.


[Somewhere along the line, all conversations were interrupted for a sing-a-long. "I was drunk the day my momma got out of prison, and I went to pick her up in the rain; but before I could get to the station in my pick-up truck.....".
That happens regularly there.
As I may have mentioned, we're all about feelings. Nothing says "feelings" quite like Country-Western. It's an essential part of the mix. Only one of us is from the South.
But we're very spiritual.]


I seldom have clam and garlic pizza. Not because I wish to make a good impression on some young lady with a refined nose, but more because of gout. I and my fine breath desire a good night's sleep.
Which, given the way I ended that evening, did not happen.
In the grand scheme of things, gout would've been better.

If I had had clam and garlic pizza, I would not have been arguing with two women at the end of the evening after my friends had left. One of whom is out of batteries and bat-shit crazy, the other one of which is Australian.
One cannot win an argument with an Australian.

Maybe they need batteries. Batteries help.
They're kind of like Valium.

I don't think Kentucky Bourbon goes with clam and garlic.
But I could be wrong.

Before I left the Occidental Cigar Club, I quoted at length from The Song of Songs. Innocently erotic ancient Hebrew poetry. Which is always a good sign that I've had too much stimulation.
I was ravenous when I got home.
Blame the cigar smokers.
Very bad influence.


Egg-wafer rolls are cigar-shaped.
Quod erat demonstrandum.





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