After leaving Judy's, Bonnie talked me into meeting her and Greg for drinks and dinner in the Mission. I arrived to find an emprty pitcher of margaritas and some sauced up friends. We admired the lunar eclipse, as Greg passed me the "wine list" with it's one four dollar glas of red. Sold.
Then we ordered. Bonnie ordered something entitled "Number 24" and I must say, when it arrived, I was pretty impressed. Greg deemed it Chicken Fried Carne Asada and it was fabulous. Even my wine was good. I was digging this place.
Bonnie and Greg had another pitcher of margaritas, as I pointed out to them that this would most definitely appear on the blog, prompting the genius line, "I'm not falling tonight, Spotswood." Bon then pointed out that she did, indeed, feel like throwing up.
That's when Greg and I compared notes on the most disgusting thing we've ever seen on the streets of San Francisco. Greg wins hands down. I won't butcher his beautiful story by re-telling it here, but I want to have a party for the sole purpose of having Greg stand up and re-enact his experience.
At this point, a woman arrives selling flowers, and as Bonnie and I politely refuse, Greg screams, "My bitches don't like flowers."
Now, the two of them have had a pitcher of margaritas each, but I wanted another drink. So, Greg and I forced Bonnie into Limon, a restaurant and wine bar next door. Limon has a very cool vibe, a very good wine list, and a very hot bartender. But Miss "I'm not falling tonight, Spotswood...although I may throw up" was ready to go. Fair enough. We down our beautiful Pinot Noir and head back out into the night, the streets of the Mission now filled with 3 more crazies...