The Story of Our First Week In New York Pretty Much Sums Up Our Lives

 Ed. Note: Continuing the trend of stories that involve me puking, here's a classic gem. After you finish reading it, you'll probably be really impressed and/or embarrassed you know me.

To celebrate our one-week anniversary as New York residents, The BFF and I took our hostess Nicki and her roommate out to dinner at a restaurant very special to us: Red Lobster.

I cannot exactly explain how or why The BFF and I have become obsessed with Red Lobster. Our fascination with the mid-level seafood chain originally stemmed from our mutual love of sea creatures. Eventually after exchanging crustacean paraphernalia for years, we somehow stumbled upon a magnificently nautical themed restaurant that was going to be Our Place.

Since I had spoken incessantly about the endless wonders and appetizing cuisine of RL while we were together in Europe, Nicki, who had never been, excitedly agreed to the dinner suggestion, and we headed to Times Square for an evening of fine dining. 

Always a bad idea.



As we fought our way through the throngs of tourists that make up one of my least favorite parts of the city, we could see the glowing outline of a ten-foot-long lobster hanging in the distance. The anticipation was insurmountable.

After getting seated at an upstairs table in the classiest Red Lobster in America, we decided to celebrate with Lobsteritas, the largest margarita I've ever seen, and coming from Texas, that says something. Served in a martini glass approximately the size of my (large) head, these drinks are no small undertaking – 980 calories to be exact. The combination of liquor, sugar and sharing the RL experience with close friends was intoxicating.

We proceeded to order food, and RL virgin Nicki decided to brave what I refer to as the Trifecta of Fried, a bold eating move that included fried shrimp, popcorn shrimp and French fries. I ordered my own coronary-clogging meal, and along with the legendary, mouth-watering cheddar bay garlic biscuits, gluttony was being taken to new levels by everyone at the table.

Before I knew it, a food coma had set in and I was down for the count. However, riled up by gallon of sugary booze, I flirted my way to a to-go cup for my margarita. Waste not want not, or something!

Unfortunately, our waiter gave me a clear plastic cup with a lobster on it, making my beverage highly suspicious. In hindsight, I should have just cut my losses when I did, but I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. What can I say, sometimes I have to learn lessons the hard way.

As we maneuvered our way through Times Square back to the subway station, a police officer confronted me about my drink, asking, “Is that beer?” Typically suffering from a crippling fear of authority, I was quite proud when I replied, “Uh no, officer, it is obviously a smoothie.” Wow, I was already such a badass New Yorker.

We proceeded to the downtown F train with me still gripping my roadie. While on the train, Nicki became vocal about her overwhelming physical discomfort. It was clear we had all consumed far more than our bodies were capable of handling, and some of us were in worse shape than others. That was when my nausea kicked in. While the others chatted, Nicki and I alternated between waves of sickness and hysteria. Were we going to make it back to her apartment? Were we going to vomit on the subway? Choices, choices.

Well, luckily we made it off the train, and using every last bit of self-discipline, we ran up the station stairs. As Nicki sprinted the block left back to her apartment, I realized my time was up.

And so, at the corner of West 3rd street and 6th Avenue, I threw up all over a tree. A minute after, a cop car drove by, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would have been to explain to the NYPD that I had eaten my body’s weight in fried seafood, had consumed mass quantities of tequila nectar, charmed the waiter to give me to-go cup for my leftover booze, and now I was paying for my sins.

That infamous act, known as “The Time Rachel Vomited on a Tree,” would be recounted tirelessly and forever mark our one-week anniversary with the city.

That tree is still one of The BFF's favorite landmarks. Red Lobster is not. I mean, we have grown up a little in the past three years.