Dallas Food Blog

​It's hard to believe that just over a year ago, I sat at a patio table at the Double-Wide with Jen as we got trashed on Hurritangs and I lost my camera. Oh, memories. Sweet, sweet memories. Well, since then, my girl drinkers and I (and a few boys thrown in for good measure) have put ourselves through the alcoholic wringer a couple dozen times for you faithful readers...and for fun. It is fun, I admit it.

So, it seemed appropriate that to celebrate a year of girl drinks, we went back to the start...where our GDD cohort Chelsea just happened to be celebrating her birthday with another one (the sixth annual, to be exact) of her charity rock shows, Cinco De Cha-Cha!.

Jen and I hit the D-W, each donned a complimentary sombrero and ordered up a Mi-Cha-Cha-lada, a version of the beloved michelada made special for one night only to honor the birthday gal.

In addition to the Mi-Cha-Cha-ladas, Chelsea had organized a banner line up local acts including the fabulous mariachi act, Mariachi Quetzal, who got a parking lot of early-comers moving and shaking...and who, incidentally, play every Friday night at La Milpa Mexican Restaurant in Denton. You want to see them. She also set up a salsa contest, provided a photo booth from which I procured three strips of classic shots and a tent of crazy good eats. And the decorations from Chango Botanica--so awesome. And all that was outside the venue where her rock show was kicking ass.

Mariachi Quetzal busts out some tunes.

​
But back to the drink...that's what you want to know about, right?

A fireside Taxi Cab

​It was a brisk night. Jessica and I had set out to see John Spriggins' Paper Dolls exhibition at the South Dallas Cultural Center. We made several illegal u-turns before successfully achieving our goal (the SDCC is precariously located at a wonky intersection) and perusing the collages of women's magazine propaganda filling the life-size silhouettes of real ladies. We discussed their shapes, heights, outlines of their hair dos. And then, because it was the middle of the week, we let the security guard close the gallery and we decided to go have a drink. And some food...but that was mostly my idea. All those sexy, waist-crunching headlines had made me hungry. You know, like they do.

So we headed away from Fair Park and over to the Henderson Avenue area. We deliberated on the Old Monk and Park and Barcadia, but decided on Capitol Pub. We scored a street spot -- Jessica adamantly avoids valet like most native OED-ites -- and walked down the block. It was a bit chilly and the roaring fire on the patio had looked so nice when we drove by, so we had our fingers crossed we might sit outside but near the hearth. Lo and behold we slid right into the table next to the fireplace -- like a World Series player might slide into home, but with far less enthusiasm and energy...and totally different clothes. The table also happened to be right below the TV so I had the opportunity to see the last of said World Series (but not really, because I promised my grandmother I wouldn't actively watch the Yankees, and also that would be just plain rude since Jessica had her back to it and would totally notice if I just stared at it the whole time -- clearly, there are many reasons). More important, I could see -- without incident or broken promises -- the animated reactions of the guys at the table behind us and a commercial for the next episode of House, which has been unfortunately been postponed the whole time this freakin' series has been underway. Damn, I love Hugh Laurie.

We ordered our drinks -- Jess opted for the Left Hand Milk Stout and I went with a Taxi Cab, Stella and Ace Pear, the chill of autumn and the roar of the fire steering me toward cider floats. I initially wanted a Snakebite (half Ace Pear and half Harp) or a Black Velvet (Ace Pear and Guinness) but had never had a Taxi Cab, and well, I love a good Stella Artois, so I was curious to see how it blended with the Ace Pear.

David Cross can work a room, and work over a heckler.

​I met with girl drinkers Marla, Melissa and my sis Tracy for a night of comedy and cheesy appetizers. And drinks. Of course there were drinks. We were all geared up to see the partly-cloudy comic with a side of soapbox, David Cross. Unfortunately, we had no idea what time we'd actually get to see him.

The Lakewood Theater's Web site said 7 p.m. with an opener. Tickets said 7 p.m. And usually, the ticket time denotes the first act's stage time, with anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour prior for doors, depending on the venue. But with the Lakewood, it's always been an hour. At 6, there were people outside but not inside. No matter, though. We were meeting at the neighboring Matt's Rancho Martinez for margaritas and Bob dip.

I went with a regular old 'rita on the rocks, but I was feeling daring so I got salt. Mine was somehow smaller than Marla's but I didn't quibble. Melissa opted for a top shelf version and she and Marla discussed the merits of Grand Marnier with, I assume, Melissa taking the win since she had no squinched face after taking a sip of her drink like Marls did. I tend to prefer the regular for cost prohibitive reasons, though I'll drink a top shelf if someone hands it to me. A well-made marg is my friend indeed. I think I need to revisit for the frozen variety now.

Tracy, well I honestly don't know what she ordered, but she told our waiter Alex we'd take care of him if he checked back on the level of our drinks often and, sure enough, he brought her a new mystery drink without so much as a hopeful gaze in his direction. He was quick on the drink refills but unfortunately, the kitchen wasn't so quick on the food orders...which seemed strange since we just ordered dip, nachos and a taco. But it was Texas/OU weekend so the Tex-Mex requests were at an all-time high, as was the ratio of  douche wearing a team jersey on the wrong day to regularly clad person. I was a Longhorn, too folks, albeit for a brief time, but GAME DAY ONLY, people. They just aren't flattering enough for daily wear.

[Special note to our awesome waiter: I hope we tipped you well enough, Alex, because you had a lot of shit to deal with and that one dude who couldn't seem to master the longhorn handsign after many drinks was probably top of the list of less-than-stellar patrons.]

But anyway, the margaritas. They were not too sweet and not too strong. In other words, perfect for sitting out on a patio waiting for something to happen and dishing about stuff that already did...like say, city council members riding bikes to City Hall with a throng of cyclists. Or, when we'd previously seen David Cross and would he be as surly as anticipated or as easy-going as before. Or, possible Halloween costumes.

We'd been keeping an eye on the front area of the theater when Jason and Dana joined us for a wee bite and drink and then we headed over at about 8 p.m. Opener Todd Glass had yet to go on..which was both cool and sort of confusing. I guess the doors opened at 7 after all, which totally makes sense since I've never seen a comedian perform before 9 p.m. on a night when he's only working the room once, we just weren't thinking. But I digress. And as we wanted to be ready for the funny, Melissa, Marla and I went to check out the status of our lipstick and um, read upcoming show fliers while Tracy bought us a round of drinks for the show.

The view from the balcony during the first drink and before the dancing girls.

​
So this week our Best of Dallas issue hits the stand. Last night the staff of your Dallas Observer got together at Trees for a little celebratory shindig, wherein we imbibed, ate, listened to live music and watched tasseled titties. What? Yeah. There were burlesque dancers.

Seeing as how this girl worked on the writerly end of the mighty BoD project, this means that I (like most staffers) contributed more than some 3300 words to the issue (some winners are in the print product, and even more winners are featured online...which is good news for you food hounds who are looking for more sips and bites to put in your mouth than the seven printed pages handed over). But there are other teams that had to edit all those words, layout all that text, shoot photos for it, design things, make it look pretty and yep, sell ads to get it printed. Needless to say, we were all looking to let off some steam.

So there I am, rubbing elbows with co-workers, musicians, dancers, friends, artists and all manner of cool peeps. And we're all freaking out about what a flashback-mindfuck it is to be back in Trees, walking through that familiar entryway, hanging out on that well-known balcony, and yet not holding someone's hair back over the trashcan in the back near the merch booth and not watching some bouncer get blown just outside the back door. Like in the olden days, but way different.

​What? You sick of all the Mad Men talk? About what a great show it is? Chances are that's only because you haven't watched it. Get on the scene, hoss, and catch the eff up! A few weeks ago (I took a week off; I know you've missed me), Jon Hamm and his cohorts premiered the long-awaited third season of AMC's mid-century modern drama for all of us die-hard fans waiting with bated breath...and cocktails.

Oh yes, the cocktails. See, while Mad Men is known for its attention to detail from period-perfect lipsticks to couches to fonts, it also nails the cocktail hour in terms of drinks and attitude. The office bar sets, the Manhattans and Old-Fashioneds, the nonchalant drinking at home around the kids. Reminds me of my grandparents, actually, who were very much of the Mad Men era in terms of style--even into their final years. I recall an episode with little Sally Draper preparing a drink for her father and his guests just like my sis and I used to at our grandparents' house. "You have to muddle it..."

So when AMC provided the Mad Men Cocktail Guide, I ran straight to Pogo's to prepare for my foray into the age of Helvetica and drinks that got you snockered by 4 p.m. The guide offered choices including the Tom Collins, Gimlet and Bloody Mary, but Granddaddy already taught me how to make those. Greyhound and Screwdriver...too brunchy. And I didn't have a copper tankard for the Moscow Mule, so I went with Don Draper's favorite and a ladies' choice: the Old Fashioned and the Pink Squirrel.

Merritt Martin

The Park Cities Princess with her rim of Pop Rocks

​Recently, I moved my ass out of a beloved one-bedroom apartment that I often forgave for its thin walls (and even thinner ceilings) and communal air ducts due to the low rent and friendly manager. I am now shacking up with the boy. In a house. We can't hear people watching porn. We can't hear one-way phone conversations of loud talkers upstairs. And no one cares if we decide to cook stinky food at 3 a.m. or shout bizarre threats at each other while being ultra-competitive Mario Kart players. I moved from the OED (Old East Dallas, for you new folk) to the Park Cities area (yes, we rent). While I miss being within walking distance from my old haunts, they're still there and I've discovered some new ones too. And I'm really beginning to dig the neighborhood.

What's my point? Well, that you should be blissfully happy for me. Kidding. I mean, that would be nice and I all, but I was getting to the part where I say that one day Dave mentioned that since I'd moved into a house in the Park Cities, did I know that Lazare had a drink called the Park Cities Princess? I told him I did not and because I was tired that day, I then I turned away, afraid that he might have some sort of food-bribe to entice me into doing more work...because that techniques is almost always successful. He then asked if I knew that the Park Cities Princess (which I laughably note can be abbreviated PCP, which I'm sure is oh-so hot among the Parkies) is rimmed with Pop Rocks? No?! For real?! Like, actual Pop Rocks?!

So there we were a few days later and I'd made plans to meet my friends Carey and Melissa for a drink. Where to go? We're emailing and I mentioned the Pop Rocks. Nuff said. Problem solved. Lazare at 8:30 p.m.

Behold, the Windmill's ZenTini

​A couple of weeks ago the Dallas Observer and its readers bid farewell to Alexa Schirtzinger, aka Veggie Girl. She was heading out to travel in South America and have fantastic adventures, and we just had to send her off with an after work bon voyage.

Veggie Girl and Girl Drink Drunk had collaborated on columns before, and we were going to do it again. At the Windmill. From the specialty drink menu. And for free for the very first time as the clouds parted, light shone down and the boss man had the tab covered. Indeed, this was going to be a staff project.

Our honoree was already drinking a martini, so I chose something kinda sorta related: the ZenTini. It's a shaken potion of Zen Green Tea Liqueur (which is made by Suntory, for those Bill Murray fans out there) and Monopolowa vodka. We ordered four for the group: one each for girl drinkers Lindsey and Sarah and two for tasting and sharing amongst the group. Bartender Sarah shook with all her might and served up the opaque and peridot-tinted cocktails. Alexa compared the appearance to the sewage in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Pete Freedman likened it to cactus juice.

Seriously, no idea who that is. Really.

First of all, I realize some people don't like karaoke, that it ain't their thing and they'd prefer to sit there and just watch the fun. That's cool. But just trust that at Family Karaoke -- where parties of up to 25 can reserve private sound-proofed rooms with wait-service who bring pitchers of beer, carafes of neon goodness and ample Jell-O shots, as well as tasty pub grub and Korean nosh--the power of the mic will compel you.

You'll find yourself borrowing a friend's fashion scarf and volunteering for "Welcome to the Jungle" after three tracks...because songs may start as a solo, but they all end up a sing-along. And the monitors play magical scenes of Korean music videos and soap opera equivalents that will knock you free of all reality even if the the soju hasn't already.

Seems like any one of the nights we do a Girl Drink Drunk would be a "girls' night out" but this one was officially a "Girls' Night Out." Like, I got an invitation. People RSVPed. There were boys around once we arrived, but hey, we were at a public bar and it's not like they clicked "Will Attend" or anything. So it was still Girls' Night.

It was also hot in the yard at Lee Harvey's, with an occasional breeze. And there was a jazz band with logo'ed music stands -- which I feel instantly transforms a band into a "big band." As in, big band jazz. People were dancing. Girls in high wedge heels were dancing on gravel (amazing) with guys that ranged from mid-20s to Gary Cogill (we never got ID confirmation, but I feel that the khaki shorts were spot-on, and Marla claims the wispy locks and heat-seeking eye-contact were all Gary, so we'll go with that for the sake of the story, and because it made me laugh really, really hard).

And there were drinks. Marls and I arrived late so we joined Jayna, Kat, Michelle, Kim and others at the picnic table nearest the dog-fence (if you've been to Lee Harvey's you'll understand). There was much discussion on the use of chimineas in sweltering heat, a lady's excessively long hair and teen fantasy fiction. I'm not sure what the punctual were drinking but Marla and I started with some icey cherry vodka sodas to treat our state of schvitz.

Then some of our crew left for other bars, pools, parties and homes and we carried on with Kat and knocked back what might be the best shot ever, thanks to server Tiffany's suggestion. The Lust in the Dust (invented and oft prepared by bartender Roger, according to the staff) contains SoCo, Amaretto, Peach Schnapps, cran juice and pineapple juice but isn't as sweet as it sounds like it would be. It's just sorta fruit punchy and real cold...which we totally needed.

In a little house on McKinney Avenue, Jessica and I- after a bit of a parking adventure involving me running out and hopping into her car in the middle lane of McKinney and showing her how to get behind our desired location--sat down for some catching up on recent trips, some dinner and, of course, some girl drinks.

The chic boo-mod (my term for the newly ubiquitous design style that is clean and modern with a penchant for bamboo furnishings) Lumi Empanada & Dumpling Kitchen offers a range of savory pockets and tapas-style dishes in addition to entrees and signature drinks. So, we tried an empanada, a dumpling and a tuna nacho and dove head first into the drinks...but did not wait 30 minutes to digest.

Our waiter pointed out four top-sellers in the drink column and they just happened to be the four we couldn't decide between, so Jessica took charge when he said the Lumi Lychee was the most popular: "You get the Lumi Lychee, I'll get the Lychee Mojito. Sound good?" It sounds great when someone else makes a decision for me and actually nails what I wanted to begin with so I confirmed and Tall Nick went off to make our drinks.

"If you like Calvin Klein's Obsession, you love Designer Imposters' Confess." "If you like Acqua di Gio, you'll love Designer Imposters' Mascolino." Yeah, uh huh. And I suppose that Liza impersonator does Cabaret just as good as the real Broadway loon, and that Velveeta tastes something like actual cheddar.

So why in the hell would I try to make homemade a drink someone's already perfected? Same reason I'd buy fake perfume and hire an impersonator. Because I'm cheap (although I'd never choose processed cheese food over real cheese, for the record). I'd give you the line and say I was just frugal, but that wouldn't be the real deal...despite said deal's comparable scent and talent.

My inspiration.

Before a delicious Friday night dinner out with my boy at a neighborhood restaurant (that shall remain nameless because I just have to use it for a future column), I enjoyed one of the establishment's frozen cherry vodka limeades. I mean, I really, really enjoyed it. The blend of Three Olives Cherry Vodka, lime and cherry was so refreshing, sweet, appropriately sour and downright tasty that it might be my favorite girl drink yet. And, even the boy liked it.

But, alas it came in a wee champagne flute and runs a steep $8 a pop. So...I allowed my handsome to treat me to a single serving, then vowed to create my own similar concoction.

We didn't play Ghost Squad but we watched this girl take care of business.

This edition of Girl Drink Drunk will be presented in the form of a letter. If you read it fully, you will receive 42 tickets, which somehow are worth 84 tickets and may or may not be redeemable at the prize counter.***

Dear Dave and Buster,
First of all, I really hope you don't mind me calling you by your first names, but well, I don't know your last names, so please just be cool and go with it. That being said, I have a few things to bring to your attention concerning my posse's most recent visit to your establishment.

1. It was girl drinker Stephanie's birthday. We received no embarrassing song for her from a team of rowdy, fun-loving waitstaff, however our awesome waiter Marion did receive applause from some asshat employee when he got bumped into and dropped two of our entrees (through no fault of his own). What's up with that? And can everyone please stop with the broken plate clapping?

2. You have a really, really large drink menu. It's even bigger than Chili's spiral bound menu, and yours has more of an actual cover to it, so well done. Plus, your menu is well categorized between classic drinks, cocktails, tropicals, shots and the like. We found it difficult to decide on our drink choices and had to have options ready for second and third rounds. Even better, many of your drinks have related liquor in them so we were able to avoid a mixed liquor urp fest. This is not a complaint. This is awesome.

Bolsa's pomegranate sangria feels "closest to healthy" according to Kim. It's because of the fruit.

I'd like to take a moment and raise a glass to Jeremy and Jorge (my movers), Tracy and Pam (sister and mom) for making what could have been an excruciating transfer-of-homestead exceptionally bearable. See, I just moved, after almost 7 years, from a 660 square foot apartment by myself into a 2-bedroom house with the boy. He had a few boxes and a couple of pieces of furniture he'd already moved twice in as many years. By contrast, I had lots of furniture and--get a load of this--66 boxes. How had it ever fit in that apartment? One very large closet and magic.

But whatever. My point is moving sucks. Always. And by avoiding the act by staying in one place forever, I was out of practice, emotionally unprepared and totally not skilled in packing, lifting or change. After it was all done I needed a drink. As luck would have it, and because here at the Observer our lives pattern one another's like schoolgirls' monthly cycles, two other people were moving that same week. Not only did they also need an alcoholic break, but also my extra boxes.

Originally, we planned to "celebrate" Cinco de Mayo in the way people of Heinz 57 heritage celebrate other cultures' holidays. But we couldn't get schedules hammered down and I wanted Veggie Girl to come because she fancies herself a bit of a drinker according to one of her posts, so I had to see her in action.

A group of seven of us descended upon Bolsa, choosing one of the patio's larger tables. A quick browse of the drinks menu and we found the Oak Cliff hot spot puts as much thought and seasonal ingredients into their drinks as they do their menu.

Flowers, candles and Cucumber Collins. What a night.

[Cue dramatic music.] This week in Girl Drink Drunk, I'm paying homage to romance novels, drunken trysts and, oh, why not, Harlequin's 60th. This is the trashy romance edition. Read me, baby. Read me.

On and on, Jayna went. We just had to meet this Mr. Collins. She'd met this tall drink at BarBelmont one Friday night, and apparently, Collins was such a tasty treat, she was willing to share. I jumped at the chance. After all, a new intoxicating adventure was fun, but a chance to experiment a bit with a stunning friend I trusted? Well, that was a rare opportunity.

We made plans to meet for dinner--I admit, I needed a little time to work up my nerve--at the Cliff Café, the restaurant attached to the Belmont Hotel...and BarBelmont, where Jayna had originally met up with her organic stud. Go back to the source, the scene of the crime? Seemed natural...and perfectly scandalous. 

Frankie's Sports Bar & Grill is loud when the Stars are playing. Frankie's has a surprising balance of ladies and gents. Frankie's has Freedom Fries and a Freedom Dip sandwich on its menu.

The first two are kinda cool, but had I realized the latter before deciding on GDD location, I probably wouldn't have chosen Frankie's.

The Freedom shtick may just make for humorous menu options amongst many other silly names--Tatonka (Buf-buf-buffalo) chicken sandwich or Rocky Balboa Italian Sausage, for instance--as well as food and drink quotes from famous peeps. But it always rubs me the wrong way in a "these colors don't run" patriotic cock-of-the-walk fashion.

Like Cal Naughton, Jr., they don't realize the French wear red, white and blue, as well.

But alas, I met girl drinker Stephanie at the McKinney Avenue/Hall Street joint. The location had been determined based on the specialty drink menu, and we'd stuck to our guns...until they pried them from our...never mind.

After a brief chat with our fantastic waitress Shannon, she offered that, in her opinion, the danger of Frankie's' girl drinks is the inability to taste the alcohol in them. And I hear what she's saying. The full shots of alcohol are combined with so many other elements that those who order them feel like they're drinking juice...until the bar stool tips and you've inadvertently exposed your laundry day panties to the sports- and freedom-loving masses. Fruit camo in liquid form. Possibly a technique our armed forces should employ when questioning terrorists.
 

Last week, BFF Jen's birthday was nigh and her wish was to go to the FC Dallas season opener. Thus, a group of us converged upon Frisco's Pizza Hut Park. Based on past FC Dallas experiences, games meant not only sporting good times and learning to curse in Spanish, but also copious treats and alcoholic beverages (elotes, nachos, michelada (or chelada), pina colada, oh my!). This would allow me to do several things for Girl Drink Drunk research: show we're not confined to Dallas, hang out where it's OK to shout while drinking, and prove there are girl drinks to be had at a soccer game.

Except Pizza Hut Park got new concession peeps. The indie vendors with the roasted corn and the fruity, frozen concoctions were no where to be found on my trek around the park--though I did take a virgin Bloody Mary sample from the Clamato gals. And it was freakin' awesome. But then, ever since learning to mix drinks for my Grandaddy around the age of 3 ("...and Worcestershire to taste..."), I've loved Clamato.

But back to my point. I walked my tail off and found Sauza out the ass, Tecate, Smithwick's and Guinness carts, and then basic concession stands from Wing Street, Pizza Hut, Manny's Tex Mex (the best) and the park itself. There were others, I'm sure, but the signage looked the same and it started running together.

In the quest for girl drink knowledge, I looked, this time, to my past--to the bottles that I remembered (from high school, mind you) containing a deceptively refreshing alternative to yucky, stinky boys' beer.

Ladies, remember the dawn of Sprite-like malt beverages? Yeah, well so do I. 

Special Friday Edition

During birthday season, I had the pleasure of celebrating one of our resident girl drinker's special day at Consilient Restaurant's neighborhood-gourmet (just made that up, but now that I think about it, it's my new favorite genre of bites) eatery, The Porch. 

After a season of birthdays (mine and others) and some vacation time, I've had my fill of shenanigans of late. But while dancing in glow-in-the-dark glasses and "birthday shots" have been relegated to the shadows for a while, I do have a brand spanking new Girl Drink Drunk to throw at you people. Just not today as our regularly scheduled programming would have had you believe.

I've have had some technical difficulties. Read: I am now a few years past 30 and threw my neck/back out in a freshly-showered way some will recognize if you're fans of the Fourth Season of Sex & the City. No, John Corbett did not come over to help me up, and no, I did not have a girl drink in hand when I bit the tile, but yes I would now like one...with a crazy straw that allows me to remain horizontal.

So tomorrow, people. Tomorrow you will have the latest in Girl Drink escapades: The Porch. Until then, I remain hopelessly devoted to you...as well as Advil and my chiropractor.

When faced with a drinking column that pops up every other week, what does one do when the infamous flu rears its ugly head? In my case, I made the required couch bed and slept for approximately three days. I also watched two unfortunate episodes of WifeSwap in there somewhere...which will make anyone want to hug a bottle of liquor.

But my body wasn't having it. So I decided to head to my "home bar" with my girls for some needed nourishment and camaraderie. It's a place where girl drinks aren't the norm, the Mavs are on a big screen and the bartenders know me and what I like--both alcoholic and non. 

I generally don't dig on the frozen beverage unless I've just finished riding a roller coaster in 103-degree heat, urgently need a drink and someone is standing nearby with a Slurpee. I'll eat ice cream, frozen yogurt or gelato, provided I'm in the mood (it's a seasonal thing; plus I'm a girl, so there are obviously moods to contend with).

But, for some reason, I can't fully get behind the slush. Perhaps I was traumatized by brain freeze at a young age--I don't remember so I feel sure I must have blocked it out.

But my fro-bev prejudices aside, I went with GD-er (that's Girl Drinker, by the way) Marla's suggestion to hit up Taco Diner for this excursion. It's pretty much a frozen world at ye ol' Diner, but I was hangin' with my girls so all was well. Besides, any time I can dip into TD's green salsa, I'm ecstatic. Seriously, I could bathe in that creamy tang of jalepeno happiness, but we're meant to discuss drinks.

Marls and I settled in with the El Tampico, a blended treat of banana and pineapple (for the record, the menu uses my favorite Spanish word, pina). Jen went for the Mango Margarita and Hot Off the Grill's Stephanie went for the Mambo Taxi, a frappe sangria with a brandy swirl renowned amongst ladies who lunch and peeps who like to actually drink fun. All come equiped with a frozen lime wedge to keep things frosty just a touch longer.

Brilliant.

Monday night, a group of six girls settled into a cozy booth at a chain restaurant to um, "pepper in some refreshment." Seems strange to go with Chili's, perhaps, but the place has a spiral-bound menu of specialty drinks. It's cute, it's colorfully illustrated and it's totally effective marketing, shamed as I am to admit it.

You may have noticed a little bit of a chill in the air this Monday (specifically a wind chill of 18 degrees). You might have even car-skated over a thin little layer of ice on your way home from the city's cubicles and retail counters. These elements and some additional factors had me and BFF Jen drinking (once again), but safely at home, out of the elements.

Jen is my next door neighbor as luck would have it, so we planned out an order of post-work, pre-drink errands. She would go home and feed pets and call me with her "Little Black Book of Drink Recipes" (from her days in the service industry) in hand and we'd decide on an alcoholic recipe for the evening. Then I'd stop for food and hooch and we'd meet at my apartment for TiVo'ed stories and the knock-back.

Based on the below freezing temps outside and the fact that I was wearing three layers to survive our arctic-plush offices, we decided for something warm. Not as labor-intensive as a Hot Toddy (I didn't want to do a grocery store run for spices), but not as lazy as spiked hot chocolate. We found our girl: the Irish Maiden.

OK, I know what you're thinking: "American Airlines Center? WTF?"

See, I had my drinking buds prepped and the location staked. I was ready. Then BF Jake and I realized that thanks to my inspired disguise as Alex Trebek at the annual office Halloween contest, we had tickets to see the Dallas Stars not only wipe the ice with Edmonton Oilers, but leave them Sean Avery's sloppy seconds as consolation.

The original plan was to hit up the "upscale dive," Lakewood Landing. But I talked to one of our favorite bartenders there (well, that’s not fair—they all are our favorites) and he said to let him think about it…so he could come up with something really good. I liked the sound of that too much to push, so the Landing comes later on down the GDD line.

For this edition, we hit up its neighbor Cosmos. With BF Jake, BFF Jen and BFF’s BF in tow, I approached Scott, a bartender and a younger Nick Cave look-alike if Cave wore a headscarf, and told him of our mission. Girl drinks.

Greetings all, and welcome to the inaugural installment of Girl Drink Drunk. Just a little background: what will become a regular feature ’round these parts was inspired by a Kids In the Hall sketch from many years ago (you can watch it at the end of the post, don’t worry) about a man sucked into the beautiful but dangerous world of…fruity, creamy, frothy, pretty, umbrella-ed, bedazzled, crazy straw-ed and decorative creatures with various ways of hanging from the side of a glass-ed girl drinks.

It made me wonder, are all those girl drinks actually girly, or will they really knock you on your ass? Ah, the perfect opportunity for a little investigative reporting. In the future, you find me stepping up to the bar, as well as my crack team of girl drink testers. Please enjoy…and drink responsibly, even when girly.