Dear Marin Joe,
I don’t know what you put in your “house wine” that gets me into so much trouble. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s served from a spigot on the wall. Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had anything to drink in a week (except for Monday, when I had the Cantina Rosarita Margarita. Twice.) Maybe it is simply my inability to say no to a free cocktail. But that truth of the matter is, every time I grace a barstool in your time machine establishment, I wake up with, at best, a pounding headache and a vague recollection saying something inappropriate.
After examining your menu, I can see why geriatrics party with you all the time. I mean, no one born after 1913 would ever order a chicken liver omelet. And I’m pretty sure Michael Mina doesn’t have a section of his menu where he lists all of the meats one can have broiled. My club sandwich was gigantic, and I’d be enjoying the remaining 75% of it right now, had I not left it under the piano.
All I’m saying is, it would be really helpful if you’d take a Polaroid of me and put it up in the kitchen or break room or something, instructing the staff to cut me off at midnight and call someone to come get me. Because as much as I hate to admit it, every time I hang out with you, it gets surprisingly crazy.
Love the special spinach,