Q: How does a Free Eater benefit from her best friend's 18-girl birthday feast?
A: Two words: Doggy Bags.
Ten Crispo take-away containers to be exact; a record-breaking feat in the art of doggy baggage. Parparadelle with mushrooms, orecchiette with broccoli rabe and sausage, and more spaghetti and meatballs than I knew what to do with. Well, actually I had a plan of what to do with it.
The plan was to deliver it to homeless folks en route to our next party destination. In theory, all the girls were on board with the good Samaritan act, but with temperatures in the single digits, the novelty of searching for hungry homeless wore off quickly for most. Upon arrival at our next destination in the W. Village, I told everyone to head inside and I'd meet them there. After several laps around the local streets, it became very apparent that most homeless people had taken shelter and were not on the street, at least not in the W. Village.
Determined not to waste the food, I walked inside the club and contemplated my options:
1) Check the pasta and run the risk of hungry coat-checker helping himself to my meatballs
2) Keep the pasta with me and use it as a prop on the dance floor
3) Find a less-frequented corner of club and stash it for later
While I entertained option 2 for a solid minute, I found an empty corner too perfect for my leftovers. Or so I thought. That corner filled up with people shortly thereafter; people who I'd venture to say were not that excited about the mysterious, festering smell of garlic and congealing Italian meat sauce. I venture to say that the aroma of Italian cuisine, albeit a few hours old, is much more appealing than beer and stale cigarettes. But I digress.
The party was fun and festive, as expected when 18 girls get together for a birthday. I was a little preoccupied with the status of my free eats, but managed to have a nice boogie on the dance floor to some out-dated Bob Sinclar before taking off.
Back out in the cold, I searched for anyone who resembled a homeless person, again to no avail. So at the end of a long night, I got back home and stuffed the fridge with plate-upon-plate of pasta.
Next morning's breakfast? Microwaved Parparadelle.
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