Once or twice a year, my husband and his boys (aka Baz), along with their spouses, get together for a weekend of fun. These get-togethers are known as Baz Trips. We basically eat, joke, have meaningful (and meaningless) conversations and laugh. Sleeping is optional.
The latest Baz Trip was in Vegas. This trip shall not be discussed here. Whatever happened in Vegas will stay in Vegas! The one before that was in New York City. While this was not our first time gallivanting in the City, it was by far the most memorable.
The boys had plans to attend a basketball game and do whatever boys do when they’re together. The girls had a rather full day: shopping, brunch, Broadway show (my very first).
Finding a decent place to eat in NYC on a Saturday morning without a reservation is hard. The wait time is ridiculous. Who can afford to wait for 45 minutes for food? After walking away from four popular brunch spots, we hit the jackpot: southern-style buffet with bottomless mimosas for $25. There we were in a basement, in the middle of what looked like an ugly sweater party, sipping on mimosas and eating fried chicken and waffles. Heaven! By the time we left the restaurant, we were giggling like little girls. So much so that none of us thought about writing down the name of the place. This brunch spot will forever be known as The Basement.
Young and loud
Both groups reconvened at the hotel before heading out to dinner. And it all went down the hill from there.
We were having a very animated discussion—we could have been talking about anything from Beyoncé’s latest video to TEDTalks. We were loud and the walls were paper thin. We were interrupted by a knock on the door. One of the boys opened the door and came face-to-face with a very polite hotel security officer. We were so loud that more than one of our neighbors had complained. This was our first and final warning, he said; the next time, we would be kicked out of the hotel. We apologized and promised that we would keep it down. In order to keep that promise, we thought it wiser to get ready and head out.
Eating tapas for dinner is always a good idea. Eating tapas in a restaurant recommended by Val is an even better idea. Dude knows his food! Side note: you should go to Nai Tapas (Thursday and Saturday nights they host Flamenco Nights).
For a few hours, we immersed ourselves into the Spanish culture: food, wine, sangria and flamenco. While most of us were content with watching the dancers and listening to the music, two of the boys joined them on stage. They were busting moves as if Spaniard blood were running through their veins. We became the loudest table in an already loud restaurant. We were yelling Ole! and clapping vigorously. (No one asked us to keep it down!)
Do you know how hard it is to end a great night out in the city that never sleeps? It’s virtually impossible, especially when Val is present. He pointed out that the night was still very young and suggested that we hang out in a bar near our hotel instead turning in for the night.
And then Val (or was it Hug) ordered Fireball shots.
After the second round, Manise (one of the wives) dozed off and slid under the table. We all burst out laughing. She wakes up right away and wrongfully accuses me of pushing her. We all burst out laughing again. The photo on the right proves that I did no such thing: there were two other people between us all night. The sangria, wine and shot combo is definitely a bad one.
Now, whenever Manise starts to drink, we take photos (just in case we need evidence). And “Ayou pushed me” became a running joke.