As soon as we sat down at El Patio, the waiter brought out six pitchers of blue margaritas and I knew we were all about to die. The "blues," with their secret recipe, are legendary and not to be fucked around with. We were a group of 11 thirtysomething guys on a bachelor party/dinner, and let's face it — we can't attack the rim like we could in our twenties. The wheels would definitely come off. For some, there would be much explaining to the wife on Sunday morning why X smelled like Y and "WTF were you doing so noisily in the kitchen at 3 a.m.!?" For others, there would be ill-advised text messages and wondering how/why you woke up in the garage. By10 p.m., Married Guy No. 3 was babbling incoherently to nobody in particular. By 10:15 p.m., we were a party of nine. Right on schedule. Feeling invincible, we floated next door to Tipsy Clover (2416 Brazos, 713-524-0782) for more drinks, including some Japanese Car Bombs. Booom! We were now a party of six. At 12:30 a.m., a limo appeared and spirited us away to a bar across town. Married Guy No. 3 was still with us (!). The song on the radio was declared the greatest of all time. It wasn't, but we sang it at full volume. Right on schedule. By 2 a.m., we were down to four weary warriors begging for mercy. Taxi!
2 ounces sake
8 ounces Guinness Stout
Drop shot of sake into glass of beer. Enjoy. Congrats, Tommy and Jessica.
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