April 4, 2008

I used to spend a lot of time drinking at the Bushwick Country Club. A lot of time. Much of this time was spent drinking with my friends Kenny and Ryan. We drank a lot for cheap, and we drank often. One of these times our friend Viv joined us with her friends that were visiting from Australia. One thing led to another and, after a lot of drinks, Kenny and I ended up challenging these two Aussies to a drinking contest at Viv's upcoming party. To say again, we challenged Australians to a drinking contest.

The next day we texted each other, horrified at what we had done. We flung blame at each other (and in all honesty the blame was mostly mine) but at the end of the day there was no question as to whether we'd follow through. Our pride would allow no less.

The day of the party we boarded the subway from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side as doomed men. We were dour, yet we couldn't fully give in. We would give it our best shot, psyching each other up as if encouragement was all that was keeping Don Quijote from toppling those windmills. When we left the train Kenny broke out his secret weapon. He had a small bottle of olive oil, and he said if we each drank some it would coat our stomachs and give us a small advantage. In addition, the Aussies had left choice of drink up to us, and we chose malt liquor assuming the didn't have such a heinous equivalent where they were from.

I remember that trek to Viv's apartment, Olde English in hand, extra virgin olive oil swirling uselessly in my stomach. I remember approaching her door, resolute and determined. And I remember the bewilderment when those damned Aussies said they thought we were joking, and had no intention of having any kind of drinking contest against us. Ray and Mike (the guys on the far left and right of the picture) were civilized, you see. They thought our American bluster about something so trivial as drinking tolerance was hilarious. Kenny and I, meanwhile, were caught in a place between disappointed and extremely relieved. On the one hand our preparation was wasted, but on the other hand we had been sure we were in for one of the worst drunken nights of our lives.

The night turned into an impromptu vodka tasting (it's amazing hearing someone saying that they only drink Grey Goose pick Absolut as their favorite in a blind test) and an overall fun time. Viv's roommate played her violin, and beautifully. It was a far cry from the night we thought we were in for, and thankfully so. Really, that's a story of New York in itself. So many nights divert from where you thought they should go, but end up just being fantastic anyway. Especially those days where you don't have to drink against Australians.