Waiting for Toro to call, we hung out at EPB’s apartment around the corner. A former bagel shop, his place is the perfect blend of cool and cozy and being there really highlights your shitty taste in home accents. B-Mac was resplendent in chartreuse, a tribute in tincture, perhaps, to EPB's bitchin kitchen of the same hue. When our table was finally ready, we bogged into a smorgasbord of mini burgs, chick peas with chorizo, sea-salted veggies and a Flintstonian rib-eye that fed all four of us. My bottomless glass of Albarino saw me through when these three figjams began swapping anecdotes of their athletic glory days. After dinner, we headed to Stella for the standard unnecessary nightcap and then back to EPB’s for yet one more.
Last week, I was reminiscing about EPB's random inebriated phone calls from our less tethered days. In these calls, usually from someone's roofdeck or a bar, EPB either beckoned us to join him or to share something hilarious that had just happened. Those moments are few and far between now that we're clucking around our suburban hinterland in concrete flip flops. But yesterday, the phone rang at 4:30 p.m and I heard the familiar voice of a spirited, togged up EPB on the other end. His friends had taken him out for a boozy brunch and they were holed up at Fritz."Hey, I'm at the Chandler Inn." It made my day. Had it not been for the bonzer of a playdate I had going (body bombs into the pool!), I just might've fired up the station wagon.
We can't pop down for a weekend or a spontaneous swing-by but keep those calls coming -- and emails, of course. Luckily, EPB has started up his own blog. Bean Down Under which he will update regularly (or I will hound him relentlessly). Safe travels, EPB! You will be missed more than you know.