Do you know who throws the best parties? Restaurant workers throw the best goddamned parties! They stay up late, they drink like alcoholic fishes, and they're great conversationalists. Despite the fact that it's a dreary, cold Monday evening, this fancy dress party, which our host has named Bambi, is no exception to that rule. Employees from restaurants like Poppy and Sitka & Spruce have brought delicious food: Someone insists that I eat a little puff pastry called a "ferret pie," which I do, and which tastes delightfully like turkey (later, someone corrects me: It's pheasant). There are also succulent venison meatballs and yummy cheese-'n'-broccoli tarts.
Someone in the kitchen is mixing the best whiskey sours in the world. Other people are discussing the thematic elements of Bambi, which include posters of Grace Jones everywhere and a real severed deer hoof with a telephone cord sticking out of it. Someone who identifies himself as "the only straight man here" takes shots of Maker's Mark like a real butch guy. Someone else gives tips on the best books to buy if you're a novice interested in learning about quantum physics.
A very drunk man shoves his hands down my pants on the dance floor. Luckily, a gorgeous, energetic lesbian pushes in between us and dances me away. Later, the party will head to Bush Garden and our host will own the bar with his version of "Take Me to the River," but for right now, the whole house is a sweaty dance floor of straight and gay men and women who are young and beautiful and happy to be alive.
Want The Stranger to admire the vintage headdress that was once owned by Hedda Hopper at your house party? E-mail the date, place, and party details to firstname.lastname@example.org.