Every party has That One Guy. That One Guy who doesn’t really know
anybody at the party but was invited because he’s a coworker and who
shows up already obliterated. That One Guy came to Noah’s fried-food
birthday party in Roosevelt, and by the time everybody chips in $22
to pay for his cab ride home, everyone has a different story about
something he did. For the most part he sat in a corner, wrecked,
randomly mumbling and cussing, and trying to hit on girls. One girl
tells me, “He spit in my face because I wouldn’t smoke pot with
him.”
Once that little disturbance was out of the way, the rest of the
night was open for some good ol’ American deep-frying. Guests were
encouraged to bring adventurous foods to fry. Some notables:
marshmallows, pickles, bok choy, cheese curd, Twinkies, oatmeal,
avocado, and jerky chunks. Sure enough, everything tastes better
once it’s beer battered and fried. My contribution: Red Baron Deep
Dish Singles. Deep-frying pizza can only make it taste better, right?
Goddamn right it does.
By the end of the night, there is a general feeling of nausea among
the people who have been hanging out next to the fryers all night and
sampling whatever came out. The whole apartment reeks of
heart attack. I find out firsthand the next day what the
combination of deep-fried constipation and beer shits dueling it out in
my stomach feels like: wretched but worth it.
Want to tell people at your party that The Stranger
guy totally asked you out in the library once? Well don’t, ’cause I
didn’t. But if you insist, e-mail the date, place, time, and party
details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.