Some of my friends, you just can't take anywhere.

Thursday, I cancelled my Italian class-- well, rescheduled it for Friday, anyway. Did I mention that I went to The Pub after PWA Wednesday night? So I was a wee bit sleepy at 7:30 Thursday morning, plus I had to go to this restaurant for lunch, and when I looked up the address it was off the map. I figured I'd need all the time I could get to figure out where it was, much less get there.

Which I did, after walking a long, long way from the Metro. In fact, I was almost tempted to allow the asshole who thought he was God's gift to blondes that I passed on the way there buy me a lobster and some champagne, as long as it was CLOSE BY.

This lunch is a monthly thing for the Orientals Abroad group, which I belong to despite the fact that I am not oriental. I figure that it's good enough that I'm a broad, although I like to think of myself as more dainty and classy than that. (Yes, I can hear the laughter way over here. A girl can dream, you know.) I belong, basically, for the food. Every month there is talk on an Asian country, followed by lunch at a matching restaurant. I find it interesting that to Europeans an Asian is from the continent of Asia-- China, Japan, Turkey, India, the Middle East, possibly Russia: Americans, however, tend to think of Asians only as from "the Far East". Anyway, I usually skip the talk because I have Italian lessons on Thursday mornings, and go straight for the lunch.

Thursday's talk was on China, probably to tie in with the Chinese New Year. Imagine my suprise when I trudged up to the restaurant and found it to be Italian. Interesting place though: it had a garden center, and gardens, and an hebalist shop. It also had the blandest pasta immaginable. We finally got some salt and pepper, which helped muchly, but no grana, which would have helped more. The risotto was fab, though. And they had a nice Merlot. We had two bottles among the four of us at our section of the table, which wasn't much considering we ate a four course meal, but apparently this is where the problem began, so pay attention.

After lunch, I asked Angie and Maggie if they wanted to go to this wine tasting with me. Free, and you didn't need to reserve, so I figured it would be ok to bring friends. We had over an hour to get there, so we walked-walked-walked back to the metro, making a few stops along the way, then transfered to the tram. In retrospect, I should have noticed the swaying, but hey, everyone sways on the tram, especially those old ones. In any case, got there in plenty of time.

And it was nice. Two whites, three reds, two desserts. (Too sweet, unfortunately.) The others were good though, especially the last red. Seems the producer owns a vinyard in the US, imported some Zinfandel and Petit Syrah vines. He mixed them with a bit of Marzemino (as mentioned in Don Giovanni--ooh!), oaked them a bit, bottled it up, and wow is it interesting. Tasty too. So tasty, in fact, that I wanted to buy a bottle. Sad thing is, you can't yet-- this is the very first release, they just bottle it two weeks ago (it's still a bit unbalanced), and therefore we were the first to try it. Aside from presumably the vintner, but close enough as far as I'm concerned. So I settled for a bottle of Red Number 2. Good stuff, that, as well. The dry Moscato was interesting as well. Probably great with curry or something, so I decided to keep it in mind.

This is when I noticed there was a problem. Angie stated that they were, and I quote, three sheets to the wind. Surely not, I said, we've been here an hour and a half, and only had five "tasting" glasses. Well, plus the two sweets, which I conveniently forgot. Aha, says she, plus the two bottles at lunch. I disregarded this, as it came to a half bottle each, over two hours and four courses.

Then my attention was drawn to Maggie, who was trying to get the wonderfully patient and lovely owner of the enoteca to sell her some white wine. She didn't care for the ones we tasted, or not enough to buy some, in any case. Well, says Mr. Owner, what do you like, and I will help you find something.

Greco di Tufo, says Maggie. I Lo-ove Him! Now this is the equivalent of saying "Here comes Barolo, or Merlot, or Cab. Sauv.-- I love him!" And she was speaking english, doesn't speak italian, so she didn't have the funny gender-specific-pronoun thing going on. Not that this would have helped, as she was LOUD. Everyone in the place turned to stare-- Italians don't do drunk in public places, and certainly not at wine tastings. Mr. Owner kept his cool though, recommended a nice Greco from Calabria. I bought one, too. Thought it might help. Plus something called Vincotto, to feed my condiment addiction. Not sure what to do with it though; Mr. O suggested splashing some on ricotta. Must buy some ricotta.

We're invited back for the next one, on March 7.

All three of us.

Oh My God.

It got better. Saw Leslie on the street as we left. I see you've been to the wine tasting, she said. Ah, says I, You noticed the bags of wine, eh. No, she says. I noticed Maggie weaving. Then Angie, who was behind us a bit, caught up. "Her too."

Leslie, being American, thought it was funny. She was the one who had told me about it in the first place, and is a friend of Mr. O's. She was late, although she said she wished she hadn't been, as obviously we are three women who know how to have some fun.

And you know what? We did.

Who cares what other people think, anyway.

Although Leslie now probably thinks that I'm a lush.