In Which San Francisco Impresses Me With Free Things And I Shoot A Sea Urchin

It was kind of cruel if you ask me. My manager Christian had an invitation to an "Exposicion Exclusivo de Mezcales Artisanales" (Exclusive Exposition of Artisan Mezcals) and he had tacked it to the bulletin board at work to stare at us as we boxed wings and breasts and potato salad.

It was kind of like "look how cool I am, I go to exclusive booze fiestas. Don't you wish people wanted you to drink their artisan mezcal instead of just bag their french fries and wings?" I suppose he felt bad about it (after I affixed a Post-It note to invite that expressed my thoughts on the matter), so yesterday, the day of the fest, he commuted his exclusive invite to yours truly. "Better RSVP now," he cautioned.

So here's me RSVPing.
Voicemail message: "Hi, you've reached bla bla bla. Bla bla bla. If you're RSVPing for the mezcal party, leave your name and the name of the restaurant you represent."
Me: (professional voice) "Hello, this is Caitlin Donohue of _____ restaurant and I'd like to RSVP for two. If you don't call me back I'll assume we're on the list."

It's fair to say I do not make the liquor buying decisions for the restaurant I work for. But, as a hostess two nights a week, I do come into contact with lots of liquor buying guests. Surely, this is a position of influence that artisan mezcal makers cannot well overlook.

It didn't even matter, anyways. Erik and I rolled up on our bikes to a long line in front of the club wherein the party was being held, a line that terminated at two large men who merely sniffed at my Oregon driver's license (I'll admit, the card's seen better days) and waved us through.

Inside we were bombarded with a club stuffed with Mexicana. Everywhere. Necklaces with strobing Mary medallions flashing red and green. Small men wandering about with mariachi guitars. Mayan inspired animal masks I refused to put on (what was this, Eyes Wide Shut?), odd life sized wooden dolls of old men and sheep wearing dresses. Agave plants.

And refreshments! A table full of tamales and tortilla chips, and most importantly, a bar full of Los Danzantes mezcal. For those of you who don't know, mezcal, like tequila is an alcohol made from fermenting the agave plant. But where tequila purveyors remove the pulp and other solids from the agave before putting it all in the still, mezcal is fermenting pulp and all. This lends it a much richer flavor, smokier and spicier than tequila. Mezcal, contrary to popular belief, is the one that gets the worm in the bottle that is said to produce hallucinations.

Agave plant. Looks like an artichoke

Donkey making mezcal. Clever donkey.

I didn't take those two pictures by the way. I don't know who did, either.

This being San Francisco, we couldn't drink the liquor without some trendy gimmick, and true to form the mezcal shooters each had a small piece of sea urchin in the bottom of the glass. I wouldn't say it was the best entree to sea urchin, but whatever, I appreciate the gesture.

So anyways, we got drunk, fed and stocked up on all the Mexican souveniers we didn't buy while we were actually in Mexico. For free! Oh, and a leggy blonde took a photo of Erik and I with her 35mm that I'm sure will immortalize me on some crappy nightlife website as being drunk and awkward-looking.

A job well done. The moral? Pester your boss about anything and everything. This will get results.

Much love,
CD