Drunk of the Day: Double Chin Joy

I learned an important lesson this week: If I cringe backward while making a funny face, I’ll get a double chin—doubly worse when drunk. Also, what’s in that man’s pocket? Hmm. Hmm? Hmm!

Drunk of the Day: Powder My Nose

Rotten  amateurs. If you’re going to befoul a drunk, at least do it artfully. This, this has no class. I expect more.

Gut Instinct: Cut the Crap

Many summers ago, while vacationing in Guadalajara, Mexico, I discovered that nothing hastens a relationship’s dissolution like a serious bout of intestinal distress.

“Oh, my God, did you…did you…?” wondered the lady friend who’d soon leave me, as aghast as Sarah Palin at a Planned Parenthood clinic.

“Nuhhhhhhh,” I moaned, writhing in a sweaty puddle and what I’ll charitably dub melted Hershey’s chocolate.
“Uh, I’ll get the towels. Lots and lots of towels,” she said, grabbing fabric that would never again be white.

“Nuhhhhhhh,” I wailed, for I was at fault for both her dumping me and dumping myself. I’m unable to pinpoint the ragged way we fell apart, but I can explain the crap: brazen excess.

Guadalajara is a grand paradise for foodies. The city’s favored noshes are birria de chivo (savory roasted-goat stew) and tortas ahogadas (literally “drowned sandwich”) stuffed with gobs of pork. They’re sold in greasy stalls strewn about town, especially in Guadalajara’s Mercado Libertad, one of Latin America’s largest enclosed markets.

I spent hot August afternoons wandering the labyrinthine bazaar, relishing a pushing, shoving, sensory avalanche of bootleg DVDs, gold-plated Jesus necklaces, wide-brimmed cowboy hats and ropey mounds of cow intestines. After haggling for knockoff Vans sneakers and blood-dipped horror flicks like Hellevator, I’d hit the cacophonic food court and gorge on hygienically suspect, but marvelously meaty and steamy birria and tortas submerged in a pepper-spiked red lagoon.

Despite the sauce bath the crusty bread refused to disintegrate, becoming as chewy and supple as its core of slow-cooked, fat-rimmed pork. I downed a sandwich a day until my stomach rebelled, leading to that revolting scene and a lifelong lesson: Find a woman who’ll love you even if you sully your underwear.

Years after the Guadalajara disaster, I still worship the torta ahogada. Sadly, in New York City the soggy tortas are rarer than rent-stabilized apartments. So you comprehend my rabid excitement upon discovering south Williamsburg’s La Superior (295 Berry St. at S. 2nd St., B’klyn; 718-388-5998). It slings Mexican street eats including tacos, gorditas (stuffed corn-masa cakes) and the elusive ahogada. Even better? It’s BYOB.

“We’re eating Mexican tonight, hon,” I told my girlfriend—so far untested by my faulty bowels—as we biked toward Williamsburg, backpack rustling with beer.

“Any special reason?” she asked.

“You’re reason enough,” I sweet-talked, as we pit-stopped at South 4th Bar and Café (90 S. 4th St. at Berry St., B’klyn; 718-218-7478). By day, South 4th is a woodsy coffee shop; by night, caffeine junkies and keyboard clackers peel off, replaced by beer fanatics cheering sports and sipping serious microbrews.

While she opted for a crisp pinot grigio ($6), I nabbed Lagunitas’ Hop Stoopid ($4 until 8 p.m.). It was a floral assault, nearly weed-like in nose and flavor. “Mmm…arijuana,” I sighed.

“You haven’t touched pot in years,” she said. “It makes you crazy.”

“True. But a man can dream, can’t he?”

“No, it’s dinnertime,” said my sweetie, leading me down the block to La Superior. Previously as Kate’s Joint, the room was fallout-shelter shabby. Now, there’s bright-red paint, shaky tables and, curiously, reggae tuneage.

“I never knew Bob Marley loved tacos,” I said, opening Allagash’s sweet, strong and super-carbonated Tripel. I poured several glasses and then pored over the menu.

“Let’s just gets lots,” my girlfriend said. A chummy waiter jotted down her culinary wishes, which were answered lickety-split. Two-bite tacos ($2.50 each) were tiny and tasty, with creamy roasted peppers, chipotle-slicked shrimp and cochinita pibil (pork slow-cooked in banana leaves)—all winners. Also stellar were griddle-crisp gorditas bulging with ricotta-like requesón cheese and ezquites—corn kernels coated in mayo, cilantro and lime juice. It was squishy bliss, unlike the bland torta. The pork was underseasoned, the sauce weaker than my throwing arm. The lack of heat extended to the eight-salsa sampler that supposedly ranged from “mild to super-hot.”

“You ate all the habañero salsa?” said a waiter, impressed.

“It’s not very fiery,” I replied, taking another sip of truth-serum beer.

“Really?”

“Really.” I swear, getting an i’m not ethnic but i like it spicy forehead tattoo sounds better each day.

Still, I realize it’s silly to slag a meal that’s viewed through my rosy-hued Mexican-food prism—nostalgia deceives, smoothing lumpy memories like icing on a cake. Though La Superior may not fully match its name or my south-of-the-border recollections, its food possesses a few distinct pluses. I discovered my favorite one after we paid the tab, pedaled home through the brisk, fall night and drifted into dreams on sheets that remained laundry clean.

Drunk of the Day: I Don’t Believe Him

Oh, there will come a day. Yes it will.

Drunk of the Day: Throwing Up…Signs

Signs you are drunk, No. 2,409: Throwing up gang signs.

Drunk of the Day: Gutter Punks

Yes, they’re in the gutter, but look close: Weird wetness! Eww. Eww.

Gut Instinct: Brew-Hoo

Saturday’s itinerary did not include a squalid strip club, where a transvestite swiped our IDs between surgically created lady parts, then jammed folks’ faces into her silicone-plumped rack. But when in Farmingdale, Long Island, you do as locals do.

Initially, our brewery-tour crew only planned to visit Farmingdale’s Black Forest Brew Haus, an alternative to Astoria’s Bohemian Hall. The German-style microbrewery promised the reckless revelry we craved, especially given our Oktoberfest-timed arrival.

“Oom-pah bands!” I urged. “We’ll glug beer from glass boots.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” my better-half said, begging off to organize her office.

“What’s more thrilling than eating sausages the size of sexual aids and drinking liver-taxing quantities of beer?”

“Organizing paperwork. My room’s a mess. Don’t become one, too,” she added, sending me and a gaggle of friends to suburban Farmingdale, a land of dingy gas stations, cemeteries, boxy corporate parks and Black Forest (2015 New Highway, 631-391-9500). It looked as lively as Dresden during the Allies’ insatiable bombing. Where were the farting tubas? Dancing maidens? Men wearing suspenders?

“It’s 12:30,” a dirndl-clad waitress explained. “We just opened.”

Point taken. We perused Black Forest’s expansive, Bavarian-chic interior—wood, beer steins and sizzling meat’s perfume—before selecting the sunny patio. We sat down with feet kicked up. A scrawny waitress with a floppy raven ponytail produced a notepad.

“Know whatcha want?” she asked, her accent more Lawn Guy Land than Germanic.

Sausage and buckets of beer. The latter arrived in towering, man-killing mugs, each one three fat fingers below full. Shorting aside, the hefeweizen was light and lemony, while the pilsner was sparkling and crisp. The Oktoberfest was amber blah, but the schwarzbier (meaning literally “black beer”) was a roasty, refreshing dark lager. Food-wise, the veal and pork bratwurst were fat, lager-braised and snappy, served with spicy mustard. There the fun ended. Our harried waitress was too busy to refill our licked-clean mugs, turning us into teetotalers.

“Who leaves Oktoberfest sober?” I wondered, as we returned to the train station, near which awaited Crystal Café (801 Conklin St., Farmingdale, NY; 631-249-0411). The brown-roofed bunker’s sign read live adult entertainment, accompanied by an illustration of a neckless slug woman wearing thigh-highs, arms raised like she won Olympic gold. Around the parking lot milled leather-jacketed men, who spoke with unfiltered-cigarette rasps.

“Are you guys swingers?” asked a goateed guy revving a pickup.

“Not today,” someone replied.

“My old lady won’t come near the Crystal!” he cackled.

His words were catnip to our crew, who boldly entered a mirrored, midnight-dark realm where loneliness trumped lust. On stage, a bikini-wearing mom pumped her pelvis to pulsating techno. Men with Jabba the Hut physiques eyed her and televised football with equal disinterest.

“Whadda we have here?” asked a tall, tan woman with a protuberant Adam’s apple. She wore Daisy Dukes and a fringed top cut millimeters below her plum-size breasts.

“Stopping in for a drink,” I explained.

“IDs,” she commanded, extending a hand with fingernails long enough to scoop eyeballs like ice cream.

She swiped my license between her legs, grabbed my package and then cupped Dave’s baby maker. “You’re both good,” she cooed enigmatically.

Following the genital fanfare, women huddled around a Sexy Photo Hunt machine; guys hit the bar. “What’ll you fellows have?” asked a pert blonde with pep-squad glee. I ordered a Coors Light, while the rest grabbed Bud—$9 and $8, respectively. The bare-breast surcharge was in full effect.

Thing was, the Photo Hunt–engrossed women saw more bare flesh. The dancer stayed clothed, until a customer inserted currency into crevices never intended by the Federal Reserve. Only then did she reveal her feminine wiles, flashing as fast as a strobe light.

“Now that’s entertainment,” Dave said, sipping a few bucks of beer.

I glanced at my phone—4:40. We had two choices: linger and listen to thumpa-thumpa techno and participate in capitalism-enabled nudity, or cut our losses and catch the 5:06. Sometimes, quick decisions force unexpected common sense.

“Bottoms up, gentlemen,” I said, as we downed our beer and slunk to the door.

“Uh-uh—not without saying good-bye,” said the ID checker, like a huntress thwarting her quarry’s escape. She grabbed one mustached friend’s face and smashed it between her bosom, making motorboat noises, then she lunged for Dave. He faked left, right—right into her bear hug. Dave’s mug mashed between her cleavage, his arms windmilling wildly, she began screeching and pogoing—an impressive feat on high-heeled feet.

A buddy would’ve saved Dave from bosomy asphyxiation, perhaps with a well-timed shove to an airborne transvestite. I scampered outside into the searing sunlight, searching for a do-gooder to fit that bill.

Drunk of the Day: Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Ah, Chicago Cubs fans, you sweet bastions of class, civility and wet stains on your jeans.

Drunk of the Day: Who Needs Friends?

Sweet Joseph, this is one more reason why I advocate people getting drunk in their bedrooms, with the lights off, far from their friends. Friends? You keep ‘em.

Drunk of the Day: What Are You Pointing at?

I lovelovelove the bearded dude who is pointing off into the distance, in a totally different direction than his fellow dudes, perhaps toward the dignity he likely lost after beer No. six.

Drunk of the Day: Malcolm in the Middle?

Is it just me, or does that look like a way drunk Frankie Muniz?

Gut Instinct: Carnal Pleasures

“Will you be good?” my girlfriend wondered, filling her luggage with frilly garments and bulky cameras. She was departing to a Delaware wedding; I wasn’t invited. No skin off my braces-straightened teeth—since committing to monogamy, nuptials have lost their luster. Wedding booziness is wasted if you’re barred from bridesmaid flirtations.

“Remember: inside voices,” she said.

“Just wait until you’re a bridesmaid.”

“You are such the romantic.”

“I try.”

“Not quite,” she said, smooching me good-bye. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do this weekend.”

Readers, that was a challenge. Removing the girlfriend shackles means rebellion. But a revolt requires repression. What’s my constraint complaint? I frequent bikini bars and often crawl home like—and possessing the verbal prowess of—a toothless toddler.

“Itsh fer work,” I’ll mumble, before crumpling to the floor like a dirty tissue.

My pie-eyed antics are permitted. Instead, she’s bothered by my love of flesh. She’s a staunch vegetarian. Despite my carnivorous leanings, I’ve long loved the meat-averse ladies. My first was an ecstasy-popping raver. We’d spend evenings munching Tofutti Cuties—dairy-free “ice cream” sandwiches—and discussing factory-slaughtered cows.

“Meat is murder,” she’d coo, seemingly auditioning for a Smiths cover band. “Killing creatures for food is wrong.”

I’d nod, pretending to agree with beliefs as phony as the ice cream.

“Read these,” she’d say earnestly, passing me PETA literature. “They’ll open your eyes.” Translation: To get in my pants, you won’t eat cheeseburgers or wear leather shoes.

Thankfully, my current girlfriend prefers a more laissez-faire meat stance. “It’s your heart attack,” she’s fond of saying, as I stuff down another avocado-crowned pork torta at Rico’s Tacos.

“At least I’ll die having known true bliss,” I reply, pointing at her wan vegetable tacos, loaded with limp lettuce and tomatoes the color of chewed gum.

Meat. No meat. It’s our culinary Mason-Dixon Line. But boundaries were busted last weekend, as I adventured deep into Caribbean Flatbush. At just-opened Jamaican bakery Tastee Pattee (3122 Church Ave. betw. Fairview & Raleigh Pls., B’klyn; 718-342-7670), I discovered flaky patties stuffed with chubby chunks of savory Angus beef and wild salmon, a welcome departure from the typical baby-food filling.

“Hungry, huh?” questioned a hair-netted counterwoman, smiling with new-parent pride.

“Hmmph,” I grunt-agreed, brushing yellow crumbs off my grease-stained tee.

Continuing my dietary disobedience, I climbed aboard my bike and pedaled past Utica Avenue’s auto-body shops to Boston Jerk City (1344 Utica Ave. at Foster Ave., B’klyn; 718-629-3002). Outside the corner spot, oil-drum grills spew plumes of fragrant smoke arising from flaming, fall-apart jerk chicken and a rarity: spicy and juicy jerk pork.

“Why eat junk food and feel guilty?” the menu questioned. “Eat right and feel healthy.”

To feel healthy, I ordered a half-pound of pork served in Styrofoam alongside foil-wrapped bread. The fatty-chewy pork is polished brown with racy seasonings, which I licked off my fingers like an enthusiastic puppy.

“No wasting that tasty sauce,” said a fellow diner, likewise engaged in porcine rapture.

“No sir,” I reply, burping for manly measure. He responded in kind. Who needed women? This was living.

The next day, I bid adieu to the Caribbean and traveled to China via Queens. My destination, Flushing Mall (133-31 39th Ave. betw. 138th St. & Main St., Flushing), is a rabbit’s warren of low-rent shops selling $10 tight jeans, Hello Kitty tchotchkes and dubiously legal DVDs. Such down-market merchandise is matched by a superb food court, which slings delicacies ranging from hand-pulled noodle soups to incendiary Sichuan cow tongue.

Not feeling offal, I headed to the sister-run Chinese Korean Noodle and Dumpling stand outfitted with pot-topped stoves, a minced-pork mound and a teensy-weensy counter. CK’s specialty is boiled pork-and-chive dumplings served with crisp kim chi—a mish-mash owing to the ladies’ Korea-bordering Jilin hometown.

“Two,” I said, extending an index finger toward dumplings.

“Two,” a cherubic woman echoed, tacking on a flood of words. I nodded enthusiastically, my catch-all method for dealing with language I’m too lazy to comprehend.

Normally, one indicates an order of four or five dumplings. But at Chinese Korean Noodle, one equaled 18 albino beauties. Steaming before me, plump and oozing greasy glory, sat 36 porky treasures. I’ve oft-boasted of devouring my age in dumplings, but the logistics grow more daunting with each passing year. Concerning dumpling consumption, pleasure becomes pain much easier at 30 than at 18—a lesson that extends to whiskey shots as well.

Instead of crying uncle, I summoned forth my girlfriend’s parting warning: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Employing my newfound mantra, I separated wooden chopsticks and, one by one, belly distending with each succulent chomp, deliciously disobeyed orders.