When my friend asked me to join her for dinner my eyes widened a little bit. The thing is – it had been a year since I stepped foot in the place. Back then I was a regular. I knew all of the line cooks and of course – the bartender. The bartender and I were on a first name basis which is so funny now because I can’t remember what his name is.
It was Friday night in Chinatown, Washington DC. Vapianos was packed from the window to the wall. I came armed with my Odwalla, Mango Tango. Dammit! Since when did waitresses start coming around inquiring about happy hour drink orders?
“No!” I shouted before I remembered to relax.
Not everyone knows I am a recovering alcoholic.
If I hadn’t managed to press my tense shoulders down I would have shoved the Mango Tango in her face and screamed, “Don’t you see I have my Odwalla! Now you get the hell outta here asking crazy questions.”