Notes on a Cocktail Napkin

I recently learned in therapy that I have a fear of failure. This no where more apparent then in my choice to stay with the same tried and true restaurants instead of trying new ones. While I’m here in Playa, I’m trying to eat at different places every meal. I rued that decision at breakfast.

Looking up places for breakfast the same two places seem to top most lists: Nativo and Cueva de Changos, two places I’ve already been. Since La Vagabunda got some good reviews and was the way to my beach club, yes, I already have a beach club, I figured I’d try it. The fact that it was 5th Street put me off, but like the Promenade has some good places, none come to mind, this thoroughfare of hyper-touristic commercialism could have a gem or two. I was wrong. I ordered chilaquiles which were so uninspired that I could’ve told the cook to go fuck his mother and he would’ve been too lazy to cough up a phlegm globber in my dish. This was a bowl of chips in sauce topped with mediocre eggs. I only have myself to blame and blame I did.

The next stop was Kool Beach Club. I kicked off my sandals and checked out my bloody feet. God Damn sandal straps. At least, the sandals were on sale. I normally just drink water before noon, but something about the bucket of four Bud Lights for a hundred pesos called to me. After my melanomic experience on Monday, I’ve decided to hide under my umbrella. I’m enjoying the shit out of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and only stopped reading to pee…in the ocean. God love the ocean. It’s one big urinal and your hands are washed in clean (except for all the urine) salt water.

It was lunch time. I checked out Piola on 38th, a pizza place that Al and Betty Ann recommended. It was delicious. It was better than most of the pizza I had in New York last September. Chalk another one up for the Italians here in Playa. I showered and did my stop at Cafe Ruta, then it was time for some drinks. Since I started early today, my thirst wasn’t as fierce. I stopped off at Zenzi Beach Club across from Wicky’s. I sat outside with a beautiful view of the Carribean. Alas, the music was too loud and there was one middle aged spring breaker living the dream. I don’t know if it was his drunkeness, the fact that he knew all the words to Jadakiss’ “Put Ya Hands Up,” or his Ray-Ban sunglasses that he bought five minutes after saw “Risky Business” back in his late thirties, but for the first time in my life, I was ashamed to be white. It was actually a great looking spot but it wasn’t for me. I moved on to a cool tiny bar called The Dirty Martini. I read while listening to an older English man, who looked like Sting if he spent some time in a microwave, regale another gringo over some pounding he gave a guy. At this point, I haven’t spoken more than a few words to tourists in Playa Del Carmen and I’m kind of grateful for that.

For dinner I decided to go someplace nice, The Bistro at the Hotel Tortuga. I was seated at a table right by the pool. It’s actually a beautiful setting. Alas, any joy ended there. I was given menus and then waited. I feel that all customers should have to do a stint hosting at a restaurant and all servers should dine alone just to know how it feels. When my waiter finally arrived he said, “Ready?” What is this a coffee shop? How about a little foreplay before jamming your order pad in my ass? Now I don’t need a fluffer, but a little warmth, maybe a word or two of conversation is nice. I asked for a glass of Malbec and bottle of water and asked what was good. He told me the grilled seafood special for two could be made for one person for five hundred pesos. Now this is three times more than most things on the menu, so I’m ready to crush this guy’s trachea with my size 14 running shoe. Yes, ladies, you read that right, SIZE 14. I have a rule. If a server or salesperson leads me to the most expensive thing, they’re suspect, if not, I trust them. I was once stroller shopping with my friend Mike. Yes, I have done far more butch activities before or since, but the saleswoman recommend the Maclaren, which happened to be the least expensive pram. I may have misplaced faith in this woman but I would trust her to do my vasectomy. In any case, I ordered the Vera Cruz Seafood Soup and Lobster Spaghetti, both were mediocre. Now it was time for the final injustice, the check. He told me the total was 385. I looked at the tab and the total was 335 plus 50 he wrote in ink. No where did it state that all customers would be gouged fifteen percent gratuity, but there it was. I asked him about it and he told me they did it to everyone. I gave them an honest review on tripadvisor.com. I’m sure they’ll close down after that one.

On my walk home, there was some police activity outside my local, Two Dollar Drinks. I saw my bartender talking to the cops and a few roughians being loaded into the rolling hoosegow. Turns out there was a little bit of a scuffle at the Two Dollar. That’s what I call it, cause it’s my local. I asked Carlos, the bartender, if everything was alright. He responded, “Chinga tu madre, pinche gringo.” I’m not fluent but I believe he said that he’s hoping that I come back real soon.

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