So, Happy Hours last night at the Mardi Gras.

Hours, because just one hour was not enough to contain all the happiness we generated.

We were due to start at seven, so I got there fifteen minutes early to make sure everything was all set. It was my baby, you know, and I hate to look bad. Although, if things had gone wrong, and Tommy had forgotten about it or something, I don't know what I thought I'd be able to accomplish in fifteen minutes, anyway. But Tommy was there, and he told me everything was all set and ready to go. Food for fifty people.

Fifty?

We never have fifty for a happy hour. Maybe thirty. But we eat well, this group. We're like a swarm of locusts, given the opportunity.

But fifty?

That's OK, says Tommy. At least we know everyone will get plenty to eat. Which was certainly true, not to mention a glaring understatement. There were bbq chicken wings, quesadillas, thick sandwiches cut into cute little squares and stabbed with toothpicks. Fried meatballs, puffy balls of bread filled with meat, chips. Big platters of fried things: potatoes, zucchini, onion rings. Even the ubiquitous Chips and Salsa, without which no happy hour can be complete. So much food that when some drunk came upstairs, just before nine, we let him stay and eat even though we had no idea who he was. We just watched him go for it, then took bets on how long he'd last before passing out. Almost won that one, but sliding off the bar stool jolted him awake and he stumbled back downstairs.

Not that we were completely sober ourselves. Tommy made plenty of money off bar sales, as the one drink included with the buffet is certainly enough for anyone. So everyone was happy. Merry, even. Everyone had fun, and even though the official happy hour was over at nine, most folks stayed until eleven. Not us, of course, we stayed until sometime near closing.

Fun, fun, fun.

JC was there, as promised in her too-early morning call yesterday, and her husband as well. JC doesn't drink, which is just as well, since she already fulfills the role of DrunkenBoreWhoCornersYouAtEverySinglePartyAndWon'tLetYouEscape. Imagine if she did this when actually drunk? It doesn't bear thinking about. As it was, she and her husband double- teamed me. It was OK, though.

Talked to Tina for a while, which was interesting. She's from Manhattan, originally, but has been living in Italy for thirty years or something like that. She's now a hybrid of stereotypical NewYorker and a certain breed of Italian middle-aged woman that you see a lot of in Milan. Short spiky hairdo, leather pants, too much make-up. Love her shoes though. Uber-pointy. Like mine. Add a pack of cigarettes, and she's myself twenty years from now. I'm not sure how I feel about that, actually. Could be worse, I suppose. I'll need to lose some weight, though. Not that I'm fat now, but you really need to be downright scrawny to pull of those leather pants in your fifties.

Tina invested a lot of time in teaching the bartender how to make a Martini. The honest-to-God cocktail, not the Italian Martini, which is red vermouth on the rocks with maybe a slice of orange. Tina wanted the James Bond version, but made with gin and extra-dry. She was appalled that the barman had no clue what she was talking about.

"Tina, the kid's about twelve years old. He probably wasn't alive when people drank Martinis."

"But I heard they were coming back into fashion. The kid ought to know."

And she's right. The fact is, cocktails, proper cocktails, are coming back into fashion, and they're served all over the place in Milan. Very elegant, you know. Stylish. Looks good with the designer gear. But, to be fair to the kid, proper cocktails are a rarity at Tommy's. It's just not that kind of place. Beer, caiparihnas, things involving blenders: that's what you drink at the MG. Even a plain old glass of wine is an unusual order. Unfortunately for her, our Brazilian friend had the night off. I'll bet he knows how to make a proper cocktail.

But Tina persevered. And on the third try or so, the kid managed to produce something acceptable. Although after downing first two, I suspect that Tina was far less exacting when it came to the third. She is a tiny thing, and you do get your money's worth when it comes to drinking at Tommy's. It also helped that the kid had finally given up trying to serve it on the rocks.

But she was still appalled that the MG didn't have any proper Martini glasses. Oh, they have highball glasses, and wine glasses, and two sizes of beer glasses. None of the nifty cocktail glasses with long stems and vee shaped bowls, however: not much call for them.

As for me, I stuck to beer. Lots and lots of beer. Oceans of foamy malt-goodness.

But only beer.

Which is why I woke up with a smile on my face and a head blissfully free of hangover.

Which is why I'm capable of writing this now.

Tonight, Elvis and I have been invited to a "drinks party" at Emma's.

A Drinks Party.

There are some British expressions I just love, and that one is among my favorites. I don't know why, but it just tickles me.

So, we're off to a Party. Where we will Drink.

Last weekend we did sod all, and I sulked around in boredom. This week it's out on the town, three nights in a row.

I doubt my liver appreciates the irony.