(Authentic) Chinese take-out, Candellas, weed, movie, girlfriend.

A few years ago, while we were still living together, Pita and I passed by a restaurant called Social that was along the market. We looked in at the elegant, minimal atmosphere, the nicely dressed people, and the intricate dishes that were being served to them. Looking at the menu posted outside, and noting the lack of decimals in the pricing (everything was in flat dollars), it was mutually agreed that going there to dine without a reason to celebrate was out of our budget. Just walking inside was something that we would have to earn, and we made an agreement. For the term, if I could manage all As (anything from an A- to an A+, or a GPA of over 8.0) and if he could win his next competition (for both standard and Latin ballroom dancing) than we would walk in one day and order anything we wanted.

The term came and passed, and in the end I only managed a bunch of measly grades, while he got bronze at the competition. We never spoke of it again.

Until this week. After traveling abroad for more than a year and working in his native country, Pita came back to Canada to settle down. He decided to live the rest of his life in Montreal, but he was able to visit for the weekend. We agreed on lunch at Social, not needing any justification between each other. After all, we graduated, found jobs, started to settle down. We hadn’t seen each other in over a year.

He had the duck, I had the lamb. Both were unbelievably succulent, tender, and came with fresh salads in a light dressing, along with super-thin fries. Even though we weren’t dressed as well as what some would call the “regular” patrons, we were served well and with respect, something can’t be said about all the restaurants I’ve been to. To be honest, I’ve never been given a choice of water (regular, mineral, soda, or sparkling, the man told us). I paid this time, and Pita agreed to treat me when I visit him in Montreal.

If wine were a liquor, it would taste like sake. The statement doesn’t really make sense until one actually tries a cup of the warm liquid, and I have to admit, I didn’t believe Louise when she first said it.

Pat, Aaron, Trolley, and I, along with the respective girls/girlfriends, Jen, Karen, Andrea, and Loo, went to the Japanese Village for some celebratory teppanyaki. Pat found a new full-time development job, Trolley went from contract to full-time, and Aaron got an eight-month quality assurance contract, all within the same month. Everyone managed to make it out on the same night, which is not an easy task among the eight in attendance.

The last time we met together like this was when I first got my job at the beginning of spring, when we went to a little restaurant in Chinatown to celebrate, sort of like the meeting of the heads of the four territories in Infernal Affairs 2. It was important that my three closest friends in the city could make it last time, and this time, it just so happened that each one of them got new jobs.

Every main meal comes in six to seven courses with mushroom soup, salad (consumed using chopsticks), shrimp appetizers, mixed vegetables, rice, and sprouts. I got the filet mignon, which is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted; tender enough to stick through with a chopstick, but firm enough not to fall off. It’s so good, that I may sacrifice the excitement of trying something new the next time I go, for the savoury taste of their best cut beef.

Something that I desperately want to do again, but difficult enough to accomplish with everyone there, to make me appreciate the time when it comes.

This morning I woke up and my analogue watch told me it was the 31st. I didn’t believe it.

I could have sworn that I put my October bus pass in the little compartment of my bag where I keep my change, lens cloth, lip balm, stash, and prophylactics, but instead, I left it on the shelf in my room. This is the same bus pass that I bought seven days prior so that I wouldn’t have to wait in inordinately long lines, and wouldn’t forget on the first of the month and shell out $2.60 in change.

So I ended up paying the driver anyway, noting the 10¢ increase since the last time I paid with change. Groggy, I make it to the stop just in time to catch my next bus, something that never happens, but I let it go by anyway in favour of buying a caramel corretto from Second Cup.

For the last two weeks I’ve been trying to ween myself off coffee. It’s satisfying to have something warm and sweet (and caffeinated) to sip with a bagel in the morning. I’ve recently gone to the lighter orange pekoe (from two bags to one bag), and I’ve avoided buying coffee if I don’t feel the need for one.

But today is Friday.

So there I was, sitting at my desk with my poppyseed bagel with plain cream cheese, starting to get hungry. I decide to get something hot to drink, so I grab my change, and walk to the hot drink dispenser in the kitchen. I grab a pack of choco and put it in the slot of the machine, insert my two quarters, and watch the machine inject brown water into my mug. In my head I have the taste of rich and creamy Second Cup hot chocolate, and this is what I’m expecting as I walk back to my desk before I take a sip. There were little solid bits of brown floating in the liquid, what I assume was just undissolved chocolate powder.

I take a sip. This hot chocolate is so fucking disgusting, that it’s hilarious. It’s not just bland and watery, it goes through levels and layers of bad taste. It starts out like instant hot chocolate from powder mix with a little too much water mixed into it. Then there’s a little hint of ash that fades before the distinct taste of burnt metallic cookware. The finish is all water, with no other taste whatsoever, aside from a hint of something that’s too light to be distinguishable.

And as I keep drinking this, I can’t help but laugh after every sip. It’s the most vile, most putrid, most comic cup of anything I have ever had.