The Northeast is a magical place. Not only do we have the Jersey shore, the Lilly Pulitzer Headquarters (that’s right you southern bitches), and every touristy photo op a basic could wish for, but we have restaurants that are designated as “BYOB,” meaning you can roll up with a handle of tequila or a couple boxes of wine. Translation: getting drunk in public with your friends without dropping 40 bucks at the bar or running into your ex. No ID necessary. It’s every college student’s dream, and it’s a staple weekend activity at my school.
But there’s one place that stands above the rest. Located on a tiny street in a fairly quiet part of the city stands a Mexican BYOB with a name that’s unpronounceable, but kind of sounds like “it’s a shit hole.” A fitting title. Basically, this place specializes as a Mexican restaurant with free margarita mix, free chips and salsa, and a dance floor with strobe lights. I’m not kidding you, this place has a mother fucking dance floor in the middle of the restaurant. They can take groups up to 100 (!!!!) people, you have free reign over the music and for just 20 bucks a person (cash only, because you know this place isn’t fucking legal) all the Mexican drunchies you could ever dream of.
As I often tend to do when in a public place, I’ve managed to make quite a name for myself at this remarkable institution. I have more than my fair share of stories, and we can talk about the time I got caught having sex in their bathroom another day. But my personal favorite occurred when I decided to have a party for my 20th birthday here.
I happen to have a habit when I get drunk where I think it’s a good idea to flash people. I’m not sure why, but it always seems like the right thing to do in my drunken state, and mama did always tell me to go with my gut instinct. So naturally, when things started to get a little rowdy, I decided to take my boyfriend to the side and give him a private viewing of the girls.
Except in this case, “to the side” actually meant in the middle of the dance floor, and the “private viewing” also included my best friend, my big, several members of my favorite frat and the fucking restaurant owner. I should note that the guy who runs this place unsurprisingly has a huge rep on campus. He’s publicly admitted to taking cash from the register, he drinks with all his customers, and rumors fly from people who swear they’ve seen him do a line of coke off a table. So a few weeks later when I returned to the establishment, the owner approached me. He said he remembered me from before (awkward) and thanked me for bringing such a large crowd in. He told me I was one of my favorite customers handed me a card and said “bring this card with you, and you never have to pay to come here again.”
I. Fucking. Died. Laughing. Was this possibly the creepiest moment I’ve ever experienced in my entire life considering this dude is in his mid-thirties? Absolutely. Have I still relished in being a VIP at this semi-legal shit hole? You bet. But the moral of this story isn’t to avoid creepy restaurant owners no matter how fun they may be or to refrain from showing off your ta-ta’s in public. The moral of this story is to shake what your mama gave you and not give a single fuck, and maybe you’ll get free burritos out of it..
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