Or, Tequila, Trolls and Barry-Bothering
Dear friend Deven (aka Tequila and Donuts) has just lost her mom. It’s a terrible loss—Betty was beloved by thousands through Deven’s posts at the now defunct site Open Salon with stories that left people rolling on the floor. Antics, conversations, meals out on the town, movie night at the care center all added up to an endearing love shared between the two told through the wicked wit of the scribe. I’m sorry for your loss Deven, as are the untold number who loved you both.
The following is a post on Open Salon from October of 2008 following a get together the bride and I had with Deven and her late husband Dan in Dallas.
So the bride and I arranged to meet and have dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Tequila and Donuts as they were in town escaping creditors and family in the PNW.
The myth exploded or what? The first of our group to meet and greet and eat with The Divine Miss D was leaving me with some trepidation. Some reputations preceded, and I just wasn’t sure what to expect. I was not disappointed, but wondered if our waiter Santiago had a hole in his shirt pocket and misplaced some blotter acid in my drinking water.
What follows is, more or less, what happened:
We get to the restaurant just about spot on time, go in and ask for a table. Chuy’s is like Chili’s used to be, but not as desperate. Clearly a funky eatery, but not without it’s manufactured charm.
Once we get settled, we order up some drinks and wait, Pacifico for me and just water for the bride. It had been planned that I would wear my Hockey Night in Canada jersey so that we could find each other, but we had no idea what the Divine Double D or Mr. T&D really looked like–all the stuff on the interwebs could have been an elaborate ruse.
As we waited and sipped our drinks, we anxiously watched as people came and went. We would get kind of excited when we spotted someone who looked like they knew their way around a place serving fried and greasy food, only to be disappointed again and again.
An hour passes. We look at each other and get ready to leave.
That’s when an odd looking man came in. He was wearing what must have been the typical uniform for Ralph Kramden on bowling night, but with a sombrero with little dangly things. He pushed past the hostess, saw my shirt and rushed up to me.
“You bbd?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, slightly taken aback.
Pulling up a chair and sitting down, the stranger said “I’m a clever guy.”
(I probably look like a deer in the headlights, but it comes to me that I remember something T&D said about how he refers to himself.)
It’s hard to describe exactly what he looks like, or even who he may resemble. But I can say with certainty that he looks exactly like all his pictures. Except…except that he’s huge. Not just “big” or “plus sized.” He’s Sasquatch tall and proportioned with about the same amount of stubble if Sasquatch had attempted to shave with a dull axe.
He then ordered 3 beers, telling the waiter to “make it snappy, food-boy.”
“Do you like to bowl,” said Eve. She had seen the embroidered 7 and 10 pin split on the back of his shirt.
“Oh, I’m no bowler,” he said. He then throws back his head and laughs long and hard. But not a ‘ha-ha funny’ laugh. More of a ‘I’m over/under medicated’ laugh. The beers arrive and he quickly drinks two of them before saying anything else.
As he grabbed the third beer, he looks around suspiciously and says, “Sure, you can travel in Dallas, just don’t drink the water.” He laughs again and empties the bottle. “More!” he bellows to the shaken waiter, our own dear gay Santiago.
“Never drink the water here,” he began, popping a single eye nearly out of his face as he looks at the bride and her choice of beverage.
“The city has only one water-treatment facility over in South Dallas where they do experiments on the locals. They call it a treatment plant, but it’s really just a line of rope with some aquarium filter bags attached with duct tape strung across the river there, just near the main water pumps. They say it takes the crawdad and catfish piss out, but I don’t believe them.”
We spend the next 20 minutes or so like this. He’s drinking beer and telling us how every male Seattlean has to eat his own weight in salmon before he is considered a man. The bride and I sit there wondering what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into.
That’s when an honest-to-god diva walks in with an entourage. Oddly, she carrried what appeared to be a donut-shaped pinata. After her came three bikini clad young men, each sporting a pair of Uggs proudly twirling to show off their ass-tats, pausing once in a while to wiggle said asses.
Turning toward our table, she glares for a momnent before yelling “NUMBER ONE!” Striding up, she begins planting big wet sloppy kisses everyone. “I’m Deven! And these are my concubines! I’ve decided that I firmly believe in polyandry from now on!” She glares at the first one daring him to say anything.
“Concubines?” asks Eve.
“Yeah,” she explains, “in Seattle you can wed up to 5 people so you have a full “team.” 2 forwards, a center, 2 guards and a “coach.” ”
(I’m desperately thinking “WTF?”)
More beer is ordered. Great steaming piles of enchiladas on immense platters are brought to our table as Mr. T&D, Mrs. T&D and her entourage begin feasting and singing Broadway show tunes. I must admit, she has a beautiful singing voice. Her rendition of “Voulez-Vous” from Abba/Mamma Mia left everyone in slack-jawed.
The gratuitous décolletage shot hidden from Mr. T&D’s view by the menu
Without any warning, Tequila jumps up on the table and hangs the donut pinata from a light fixture. She explains that it’s a traditional Washingtonian activity at Tex-Mex restaurants.
Mr. T&D glares at me and says “The addition of rules of engagement at restaurants in the Seattle area has ruined all spontaneity,” and then throws an an empenada from the next table at the donut hanging above our heads. Tequila and her concubines give a shout of approval and join in. The air is filled with bits of the piñata and the innards of the empenadas until finally the Donut bursts open, spilling out hundreds of stale ‘tim-bits.’ As one, our table-mates let out a yelp of “EH!” and eat the doughnut holes.
Mr. T&D then gets up and says he has to visit the “Little Cabellero Room” and dashes off towards the restrooms.
Then, again without warning, Mrs. T&D jumps up from the table and goes over to the hostess. The bride and I can’t hear what she says to her, but she suddenly takes off her clothes, revealing a diamond encrusted air pump Victoria Secrets Wonder Bra. She runs from the restaurant, followed closely by her three other spouses. She gives us a wave through the window and disappears from sight.
My bride and I just sit and stare at the table, covered in ruins. Another 30 minutes pass before I decide to get up and check the bathroom for Mr. T&D. All I find is his bowling outfit and an empty bottle of hair dye underneath a forced-open window. He, too had left.
The waiter then brings us a $500 bill for the beer, food and damages. We reluctantly pay it after the the manager threatens to call the police.
Still dazed, we head for home.
NB: the subtitle is a reference to the practice of “chicken-bothering.” T&D carries around a couple of fake chickens in her car, a hen and rooster, and on the off chance see sees some loose or feral chickens, she plants the fakes and films the ensuing mayhem:
This was not a post, it was a pinata of words that spilled out after being hit with the walking stick of James Joyce.
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Oh My! 🙂 That was fun.
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