I know about as much about food as my HLP Joe knows about music. That said, I was extremely proud of Joe yesterday at his annual CHEF DEATH MATCH when he relinquished the control of the musical selections played to the guests of his party. The theme of the party was to eat, drink and listen to the things that you would want to experience on your last day on earth. Due to the fact that there were about 20 participants and an additional 30 or so guests, this resulted in a playlist that ranged from ELO to Opeth and foods as disparate as pulled pork on a little fluffy bun (croquette? I dunno) to the meat shaved from the leg of a pig fed only acorns in France. There was wine and beer aplenty and everyone had a lot of everything. After already having had a couple of beers and sharing a $70 bottle of Champagne with my sister, Tim Emery and his ladyfriend I rolled directly into the party dressed head to toe in black (at the request of the hosts) on my newly purchased 1976 Vespa Ciao
Of course I received compliments on my entrance (frankly because it was perfect) and walked in not only to be greeted by some of my favorite drinking partners, (Kate Schier and Jessica Joseph) but was handed a delicious glass of red wine (What was it? Who gives a fuck? It was delicious) and heard one of the songs I had chosen, "Low C" by Supergrass, playing in Joe's livingroom. This was the only one of my songs that I heard that day. Surely it had something to do with the fact that it was a 60+ song playlist and aided by Joe eventually abandoning the guest's and chef's selections in favor of blasting Motley Crue while spilling rose into his mouth and groping the womenfolk. What makes my friendship with Joe so spectacular is the fact that one night we can be drinking wine in my studio watching Yacht Rock and I'll scream at him about his shitty taste in music, then the next day we'll be drinking Chambly Noir at Local 188 and he'll remind me of my "complete lack of palette" because I said I didn't think Mexico Lindo was too terrible for Mexican Food in Portland.
SATURDAY NIGHT: DEEP RESEARCH, PORTLAND, ME JR: ...Home Sweet home is only one of the best songs in the world. SA: (Throws down slice of Red Baron pizza on the stove) JOE! That song is appealing to morons and rapists. It is the lowest common denominator of music and it's insulting enough that I have to hear it out in the world, I will not have you laud that shit in my own home. JR: We just have different tastes dude... SA: NO! You know what? You have the worst taste in music in the world. I, I, I HATE ALL YOUR MUSIC!!! (drunkenly scampers to the basement and smokes quietly in the farthest corner by the washing machine, reaches in dryer to make sure his Radiohead T-shirt isn't getting wrinkled.)
SUNDAY NIGHT: LOCAL 188, Portland, ME SA: ...I had the pork mole at Mexico Lindo the other night and it was pretty good. JR: (spits out beer on Jessica) WHAT?!?! You're a fucking idiot. Mexico Lindo sucks so much that it makes me want to cut myself. If you think that Mexico Lindo is in any way decent Mexican food, it's clear that you know nothing about food at all, let alone Mexican Food. SA: I just thought it wasn't that... JR: Enough! Shut the fuck up before you say anything else stupid. Mexico Lindo is the worst fucking restaurant on the planet. I'd rather eat shit than eat there. In fact, if you eat there you're probably eating shit. SA: OK, geesh.
Then we hugged it out and ordered some Papa John's. All told, the music was great (but not loud enough) and the food and drink were outstanding. It's unclear but I think I got kissed by Big Jay and at some point I definitely had my mouth jammed full of bacon treats by a blond girl in her underwear followed by a Calvin Klein clad Ricchio topping it off with mayonnaise from a squirt bottle. Homoerotic? No, Just gross. Katie took pictures on her fancy cam that I'm sure will prove to be incriminating. Sarah Jump left just in time before the weiss beer took control and Jessica tried to keep me from riding my moped home. Oddly enough, despite all the evening's debaucheries, that's the only thing that brought me shame the next morning.
Before the sun set and the party dissolved into straight NC-17 behavior, we were treated to this shining example of parenting.
Though I still equate pregnancy as an STD, this somehow makes me think parenting could possibly be in my future. Still though, no. Good job cool wine dad (AKA foodie Quatto.)