Day 2 of London: After spending the day sampling our way through Borough Market and hunting around town for a hiking backpack in Soho (since mine busted at the seems at Friday night's hostel), my Irish friend and I decided to keep our girl's day going and denied our American friend from our attempt at the United Nations (Mr. Butterwall) from our evening plans. Since the trip was arranged solely for the reunion of Irish Coffee and Americano, We scheduled a "party pub crawl" for our girls only night. What's humorous and not ironic in the slightest is how girls' nights usually involve pursuing or being pursued by guys. We begun our crawl by arriving at the WRONG BAR for starters. We registered at the hostel, which furnished us a brochure with the first bar's meeting point. When we arrived at the bar, they informed us they haven't been part of the crawl in TWO YEARS. Fabulous. We proceeded to the next bar listed on the brochure and hoped for the best. Arriving at the correct bar, we informed the crawl leaders of the misguidance and they showed no remorse and shoved drink coupons in our hand. Okay... We waited at the bar for 28 minutes (yes, we counted) to get our free shots. The bartender seemed so overwhelmed with more than one person standing before him, his hands tremored as he poured one shot at a time. After taking our shot, we returned to two open seats next to two American-looking guys. Both had fair skin, medium builds, and were engaged in quiet conversation. We, and I mean I, struck up conversation with them about God knows what (hey! That was at least three dozen drinks ago and four countries ago), and was shocked to hear a heavy German accent. It's official. I've lost my ability to successfully judge where anyone is from. I guess in hindsight, that's a good thing because mama always taught you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.... Crazy coincidence we learned early in the night is we were staying in the same hostel! Instantly, my Irish friend and I knew that if nothing else, we could have escorts home at the break of dawn, if club music permits. Well, these two German lads became our shadows at every bar we ventured to. The second bar on the crawl had a great DJ, but no dancing space, so the taller one with hardly peach fuzz as hair danced in the narrow space between two cocktail tables. I have to say, that man has more confidence in his big toe than I do my whole body. He was peanut butter and JAMIN'. Irish and I danced in the corner, pressed against the DJ booth as we sipped on pink gin....bloody hell. I tried to order some food since it had been four hours since my last snack (yes, I am a child that has to eat every few hours... hangry is a state you never want to see me in). I was informed the kitchen was closed at 9:30 on a Saturday. WHAT? The next few places were a blur-- not because I was intoxicated, but because they were dimly lit and the shots were the same quality you drink when you're underage because you don't know any better. ;) Also, the music was the early 2000's American pop.... gosh, just because you escape the states, doesn't mean you can escape the music. We approached the last stop, which was a hot-shot club at the break of 12. The boys became a little friendlier and continued to reveal things, like the taller one has a thing for Americans (#merica) and the other one is highly intelligent. He didn't boldly make that declaration, it was evident with the things he talked about and his response to things, even as his intoxication level rose. Announcing that they were heading back to the hostel. Honestly, I wasn't deterred by the idea of heading back early. After a little coaxing, I got my Irish friend to agree. We had paired off by this point, and to no surprise, the intellect with thick rimmed glasses and a smug smile that only whiskey could provoke, started walking alongside me. On the walk back, we passed through Chinatown and my Irish friend remembered how famished I was. So we stopped in a restaurant that, by definition, was groundbreaking. The bar was upstairs, but the whole downstairs was comprised of tables walled in by slot machines hung on two adjacent walls and a ceiling of joker cards stapled to it. This place was a real gem. The guys were getting antsy as one o'clock escaped us. "Are you guys ready? We are going to head back." In her lovely Irish accent, Nicola responded, "but it's not even two." "Yeah, but..." The taller one said as he gestured for the checks. The German with glasses was also adamant about returning to the hostel. Snickering to myself, I thought, who knew Cinderella wasn't the only one with a curfew. Returning the hostel was weird... I thought for sure one of them would make a move since we were already paired off, but once we stepped inside the locked hostel doors and climbed the three flights of stairs, they bid us adieu. Puzzled, my Irish friend and I looked at each other and then our phones almost at the exact same time. 2 am on the dot. Strange... To each their own? The obvious ingredient to shine here is PUMPKINI cut this recipe in half like the time out in London SHOULD be
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AuthorChef Steph cooking up trouble. If she can't find anything real, she bakes real good sweets. Chocolate really may mend a broken heart... Archives
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