After changing out of my work clothes into my fave lil’ skirt (this will be important later in the story), I hit the Belmont last night after work with some pals. I have to say that if you’re going to check out this stalwart of the La Cienega scene, do it on a Tuesday night when the atmosphere is more peaceful than pretentious and you can actually score a table outside.
As you may or may not know, Mother Drucker® (that would be me) subsists on little more than peanut butter, chocolate, coffee and alcohol, with alcohol making up the bulk of those calories. Last night was no exception, and I indulged in my current libation of choice, tequila grapefruit. (A bartender at the Buffalo Club turned me on to it; he says that as long as it’s unsweetened grapefruit juice, it’s actually lo-cal and good for you. Sweet!)
The boys (3 of them) indulged in the calamari and the mac n cheese (with crab!!!) recommended by the waitress, and were not disappointed. If you are a mac n cheese person, apparently this is gooey, cheesy, golden-buttery-crumb topped nirvana. I stared at it closely (for journalistic purposes, clearly) and somehow managed to resist the call of the carb.
THEN it got ugly, and of this I am not proud: I left promptly at 10 to find a cop writing me a parking ticket, and did everything humanly possible to get him to stop. He used that classic line, “It’s already written,” and I actually started GYRATING, people. “Look at these legs!” I screamed after him. “How can you give these legs a ticket?” Little did I know that everyone sitting outside at the Belmont could hear me. Pride, gone. SIXTY DRUCKIN’ DOLLARS, gone. Commitment to fight the LA parking Nazis, present and accounted for.