Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, To A Dinner Party We Go...

This past week brought two special guests to town from far-off San Francisco - my old buddies Hi and Ho, whom you may recall from my travails in Atlantic City. Their appearance in the Big Apple seemed the perfect excuse for a dinner party. (No Dodge mini-vans to rent, miserable directions to the Borgata to contend with, and no nasty run-ins at pricey Chinese restaurants.)

Invitations went out. (Okay - emails actually.) The menu was planned:

*Truffled Mousse Pate, Goat's Milk Brie with Fig Jam, Kalamata Olives and Crackers

*Proscuitto with Melon and Slow-Roasted Grapes

*Chicken Saucisson over Baby Spinach

*Penne with Spicy Cauliflower, Mint and Pecorino

*Dried Orange and Canteloupe Slices

*Guinness Gingerbread Cake with Homemade Pumpkin Ice Cream

So, I wasn't really worried about the food. But, considering Hi and Ho's ability to either incite riot or get the party started, I wasn't sure what I was really in for. In addition, my Southern-fried friend Kurt was in the mix too, along with the wild and wooly Ms. Mo. This could be trouble.

I crossed my fingers (and my legs) and hoped for the best.

Hope can be a beautiful thing. But, after loads of food (Kurt compared the pate to dog food - and he should know), several bottles of wine (the Mara Zinfandel was a standout) and a fittingly fizzy bottle of Moet Chandon (compliments of Ms. Mo), things started to get a little - well - riotous. Hope disappeared as quick as the liquor.

Not to kiss and tell, but let's just say that while we grooved to the tunes of Tyler Hilton, behinds were pinched, chest-hair was exposed (I forgot to shave - What can I say?) and we all felt dreadful when Southern Kurt pointed out that while we were all lounging around trying to digest and sober-up, that my good-hearted Cal-Mex friend Erica was the sole dishwasher. (Hey - at least she had my brand-new dishwasher to help out!)

I guess we New Yorkers aren't as politically correct as we'd like to believe, when we're bloated and buzzed!