Stop whining and drink up.
Because there are no classes on Fridays, it has become somewhat of a tradition for my coworker and I to go out to dinner after we close up the store. Being located in the East Village, we never have to worry about restaurants being closed. The city is very much alive with a vast array of people. The East Village is, in my opinion, one of the most cultural diverse spots in New York City. Dallas BBQ, a Ukrainian restaurant, a pizza place, and a Japanese bar stand side by side along second avenue.
As I am from Florida and my coworker is from Hawaii, the diversity and wild nature of New York City at night is still relatively new to us, and we look forward to our every Thursday adventure. Last Thursday, we decided to take a bit of a walk and try out a Spanish restaurant she heard was relaxing, cheap, and open late. We end work at eleven, and often find that our conversation is only beginning to wind down as the clock approaches two, so we are always eager to find restaurants that will not kick us out as midnight strikes.
The restaurant was cozy, with an extremely authentic atmosphere. Spanish music floated lightly through the speakers, and each table was decorated with a quirky ceramic flower vase. The authenticity of the restaurant made us very excited and eager to try out the food.
Before we could even open the menus, a waiter came and plopped a huge pitcher of Sangria on our table and briskly walked away. We were at a loss for words. We had no idea what to do.
“Maybe it’s just grape juice?” I asked.
We leaned in to sniff the red liquid, and pulled back quickly. It was not grape juice. We shrugged and ordered our food when the waiter came back. The food arrived and we were about to dig in, when the waiter, a fat, jolly man, asked up why we were not partaking in the Sangria with our food. Glancing at each other, we began attempting to stutter out a reply.
He was having none of it, however, and poured the Sangria into our glasses for us. He would not leave the table until we each had sips, and he then proceeded to rave about the Sangria (which they make in the restaurant, fresh, every night!) for ten minutes. My coworker and I listened politely, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous situation we had gotten ourselves into. Apparently, the legal drinking age in Spain is 18, and the restaurant is so authentic that it decided to adopt Spanish laws on drinking as well. Only in the East Village.
