Sobering reality

Last night, my evening started with a bang and ended with a whimper.

Here’s how is happened.

I had read about Tonteria, a new “proper tequila bar” that opened near Sloane Square.  The owner is the notorious Guy Pelly, a posh bad-boy and FOW (Friend of William, as in Prince).  Pelly is an acclaimed trend setter and creator of hot spots throughout London that attract media buzz and model beauty.

Clearly, this is a place I needed to check out!

I called my trusty girlfriends and headed out for drinks, enticed by the promise of a good margarita.  We got more than we bargained for.

First, there are many liquor-laden group drinks to share communally with up to 8 straws.  Move over scorpion bowls!  Tonteria’s drinks arrive in a large skull covered by what appears to be a Mexican wrestling mask.  Think Jack Black in the movie, Nacho Libre.  Or that scary masked man chained in the basement of Pulp Fiction.  Whichever image you choose, you get the picture.  Best of all, the drink is delivered by a parade of guys, one carrying a sparkler torch and the other masked and caped to match the drink.  My friend thought it looked like the Mutant Ninja Turtles got lost and turned up in an underground London bar!


Note:  Blurred photo credited to Tequila

If you are bold enough to order tequila shots, (some varieties cost £5,000!), the shots are delivered to you on the back of a toy locomotive train that whistles as it chugs along the tracks suspended from the ceiling.  Chugga Chugga Whoo Hoooo!

Food is sparse and salty to encourage more drinking.  Tables are small, and we learned that they are packed away at 10:30 when the place transforms into a hip nightclub.  The ceiling becomes an arcade of colorful blinking lights, the DJ starts spinning club beats, and each drink has its signature song and dance routine performed by the masked men mentioned above.

By 10:15, our waiter was ready to clear us out and make room for the younger crowd that started appearing in slinky outfits.  One girl’s chosen nightclub attire was a combination of 6 inch gold platform heels, shiny lycra pants that aggressively hugged their long lean legs (stolen from slutty Sandy in Grease?), glittery cropped top, and long glossy locks.  My friend asked if the women were hookers.  I had to ask her to repeat her question because the music was suddenly too loud.

I was reminded of a T-shirt I saw on a young guy recently:  If it’s too loud, you’re too old.

We got the hint, and we headed home tipsy from tequila and giddy from giggling.

Before I left for the evening, I had asked Jackie to clean up the kitchen and run the dishwasher.  I found this note on the counter:


And so there you have it.  My attempt at being young and hip ended with the mundane domestic task of turning on the dishwasher…which is apparently “my job anyways”.  Because, seriously, “what else do I do?”

How’s that for a sobering moment?…

…at least she loves me. 






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