This past Saturday, I forced CPenn to get over her aversion to unidentifiable meat and have Indian in East Village with Law. The food was cheap and spicy and delicious. I wanted to slather every inch of rice and naan with the vindaloo sauce. The restaurant’s BYOB policy was a lovely alcoholic bonus.
At the table next to us, in an extremely tiny hallway of a restaurant, a bunch of wannabe alpha males celebrated their bro’s 24th birthday. At one point, a dinner guest tapped his wine glass and called for silence. With the sincerity of a toast, he inquired, “Does anyone have any yay?” Moments later, the crew was doing lines on the table. Is this real life?
When one bro wandered over to apologize for their behavior, CPenn icily replied, “Oh, we didn’t even notice you guys.” They invited us to continue the festivities at a West Village brownstone. Thanks, but no thanks.
Jesus Christ…
