Margarita Love

February is the month of love.

Oh, margaritas!  How I love you.

How do I love thee?  Let me count thy ways:

1. You are deliciously icy cold lemony-limey salty tequila-ey goodness.
2. You can salvage many an otherwise poor evening.
3. You cover the major food groups of Salt, Fruit, and Tequila.
4. You are so wonderful that you require a special glass.
5. You are the perfect compliment to Mexican food.

How does the magic of the margarita work?  Let me give you an example.

Last Friday night, a friend of ours who is obviously a sadist asked if all three of our children could spend the night at her house.  Her children are of the same genders and approximate ages, so I said, "Well, if you're sure..." and then dropped my kids off before she could change her mind.

This left Current Husband and I with no children on a Friday night.  I've read about these in Cosmo.  I believe they are called Date Nights.  My understanding is that Date Nights can be classified into two types:

Pre-Children - these nights involve dinner at a restaurant nicer than Taco Bell, a movie, a couple of drinks, some heavy petting and innuendo, lacy edible lingerie, refrigerator scene from 9 1/2 weeks, slow removal of lingerie, protracted sex session, broken furniture, sleeping in, possible pregnancy.

Post-Children - might get you Taco Bell and sex lasting longer than 5 minutes from start to finish.   

With no children to be found, I talked CH into trying a new restaurant.  A few friends recommended it as the best authentic Mexican food in the area, so I called to make sure they served margaritas.  Because unless you are Taco Bell, I don't do Mexican without Jose Cuervo on the guest list.

CH was not really convinced.  It's hard to get him to try new things.  The last three times he did, we ended up with babies.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me.  Fool me three times, you're knocked up again with kids in the house until after you're 50.  I told him they served drinks, and how bad can you mess up chips, salsa, and tacos?  Right?

We had to Garmin our way to the restaurant, as it was a bit out of the way.  As we pulled up to the old brick building with bars on the windows, CH said, "Charming.  Are you sure this is it?"  to which I replied, "These are the kind of places where you find the best food.  It will be great!"

We got out of the car and looked at the building.  There was no clear direction on how to get in.  We finally opted for the back door, which looked a like a place where you need a secret handshake and a mob connection to enter.  We walked in, and the eight people in the place turned and looked at us.  I smiled, walked over to a booth and sat down like I belonged there.  If you look like a regular, they might believe you are one.

Twenty minutes later, an older looking woman stopped by our table and gave us menus.  She had already served menus, chips and drinks to the other group that sat in the booth behind us five minutes after we walked in.  That group brought the total number of tables with people at them to three.  We had resorted to staring at her and mouthing the word "parched" until she came to us.


HER:  "Here you go!" and started to walk away.
CH:  "Could we order some margaritas?"
HER:  Stops, turns around, comes back.  "Sure, sure.  You want salt?"
CH:  "Yes, and some chips please."
HER:  Sighs.  Looks at him like he's her annoying stepchild.  "Okay."  Walks away.


Man in chair not four feet from me lifts his left buttcheek.  "BRRRRTTTT!!!"


ME:  (whispering)  "Did you just hear that?"
CH:  "What?"
ME:  "That guy at the table next to us just ripped a huge fart!"
CH:  "I think that was his vinyl chair squeaking."
ME:  "Yes, because he just ripped a huge fart on it."
CH:  "Nah...people don't do that in restaurants."
ME:  "The hell they don't!  He just did."


Twenty minutes later, our margaritas and chips arrive.  CH stops waitress before she tries to run away again and we give her our order.


Tooter McGee lifts his left buttcheek, again.  "BLAAATTTT!!!"

CH:  "Okay, I heard that one."
ME:  "So I wasn't imagining it.  You are willing to admit I was right."
CH:  "Yes.  That was definitely a fart.  But I thought you just blogged that farting is okay.  You defended Jessica Simpson."
ME:  "If Jessica Simpson farted four feet away from me in a restaurant it would not be okay.  There is farting, and there is farting.  Farting near food is unacceptable."
CH:  "At least we have THAT cleared up." 


Waitress who hates us puts two plates in front of us.  Mine is a beef-filled corn tortilla so overdone it is splitting down the middle.  CH called after her that he wanted another margarita as she was running away from our table.  She is long gone, so I eat what I can of the dish, and pretend I am one of my friends who apparently eat delicious, authentic Mexican food at this place.


Phil McCracken lets another one fly.  "GRROOOONNNKKK!!!"


CH:  "Okay, this is getting both gross and hilarious."
ME:  "Do the women he is sitting with not HEAR that?  Are they legally deaf?"
CH:  "Or maybe scent-impaired."
ME:  "I can't believe that he isn't even TRYING to be subtle about it.  He is lifting his CHEEK!"

Soon, Gaston Leaksalot is letting his booze show.  He has been looking at a framed picture of Miss Illinois 2008, Katie Lopez, who is wearing a blue bathing suit, crown, and her Miss Illimois sash.  Her framed photo in the restaurant would indicate she has some sort of relationship, or at least a place of respect, with the owners of the establishment.  This is lost on Jack Daniels and his table companions, three women who look like they should be sitting in front of slot machines.


HIM:  "That is a fake.  It is such a bad fake."
WOMAN:  "What are you talking about?"
HIM:  "That picture.  You can tell that thing that says Miss Illinois (that would be a sash, dumbass) has been added by a computer or something."
WOMAN:  (turns to look) "Nah - that's really her.  You think that's fake?"
HIM:  "You can tell it's fake.  I've been looking at it a long time (Really?  A photo of a hot chick and a bathing suit distracted you from your dinner companions?  Shocking.) and that's not real."


Clearly, he is right.  Either the people who own the place want to make themselves look better by faking a photo of a woman to LOOK like she is Miss Illinois to impress their patrons, OR the woman in the photo electronically faked a Miss Illinois sash on a photo of her in a crown and royal blue standard pageant bathing suit to impress her friends.  I bet this flatulent, clever man works for CSI:  Miami or is in the FBI.

Our food is burned.  The second margarita has become just a dream.  Two young boys in the other room are now threatening each other with pool cues.  And Lifty Buttcheeks is...
CRRROOOONNNNNKKKK!  And that would be four.

That just did it.

CH and I are giggling hysterically as we pull on our coats.  Just then, The Accidental Waitress puts a margarita in front of CH and runs away faster than you can say "Check please!"  But there sits a margarita, glistening in its salty icy goodness, beckoning us to stay for just a little bit longer.  We share this last margarita.  It is bliss.


We pay $50 for the privilege of eating in this lovely establishment, and go home.  And despite the fact that we are belching burned tortillas and getting the smell of man fart out of our clothing, we still have no children in our home, and we still had our margaritas.  All told, the night was a success.


And that is the magic of the margarita.