Picking up the ingredients at Carrefour before, I was disappointed to learn that they did not have Jose Cuervo but instead had San Jose and instead of sour mix , I had to improvise with "Pulco", a lime based concentrate. I had never taken on the task of making Margaritas in Paris before, so this was going to be adventure. For all.
I got home and lined up all my goodies for the night's festivities; tomatoes, red onions, avocados, lime, garlic, chips, Tequila and "Pulco". I put a flower in my hair, played some Manu Chao when the doorbell rang. It was May, ready to partake in 'Girlz Gone Wild: Gettin' Down in the Marais Part I'. Beurk! I have to stop with my super sleazy references. We were just planning on drinks and food, not flashing each other and uploading them on dirty websites to be voted on who is hotter. I just grossed myself out writing that. Back to real-life, May's job was to take on the guacamole while I started mix-mastering the drinks. A few minutes later, I heard a scream in the kitchen. Upon opening the avocado, this is what May found..
...avocado death. We opened all of them and 1 out of every 3 looked like we opened a casket in a vegetable cemetery. We googled black avocados and apparently there's nothing wrong with it, so May continued making the guac with our Little Shop of Horrors avocados. One little bump in the road, no biggie. My pitcher of margaritas would vanish all brown guacamole woes. Within minutes, a frothy pitcher of heaven was staring back at me. I took the first sip of my south of the border elixir and immediately spit it out. I might as well have been sucking on a lime, I didn't realize that there wasn't any sugar in Pulco and it was pure lime. The only solution to balance the taste out was to add more tequila. Naturally.
To add to the guacamole drama, there were brown stringy roots that we had to pull out with each bite that we made a pile of that ended up stacking higher than the actual guacamole. After 3 margaritas, we didn't really care what it tasted like. We just didn't look at it while eating.
Before we knew it, 2am came around and we were sitting around the kitchen table 5 margaritas in, complaining about how we hate slang spellings and abbreviations that are commonly used in texting and instant messaging. Things like replacing an 's' with a 'z' or "to" with "2". Just like in The States, these abbreviations exist here too and are just as ugly. May who is petite and has a fondness for the 60's and all thing mod, oddly attracts young, suburban self-proclaimed bad boys who text her raw things like "Koi 2 9 ma meuf? Jé pa ton email Don moi. Wesh." Luckily, I've had only had one date here in Paris that crossed these kind of bounderies. It was a week after MF had ended things and me thinking that it would be wise to 'get back out there' accepted a date from a guy I met at an art show. He seemed alright at the show and the following week he showed up to my house in a crisp, flat Dogder's hat, Rayban Wayfarers, a black jean jacket and pencil mustache and kept trying to stick his tongue down my throat at lunch at La Carette. It was really embarrassing. Needless to say, we didn't have a follow up date.
We capped our night, dancing around Phil's living room to an eclectic mix of The Kinks, France Gall and Britney Spears. I tried to slip in a little Beyonce, who she loathes and immediately vetoed. The perfect cure for break-up blues is dancing with your girlfriends with about a liter of tequila in your blood stream to pop music. In your panties.
