Sang for my supper
Nothing makes one feel like a hopeless drunk more than a severe bout of hiccups after consuming five-sixths of a pitcher of sangria.
We happened upon a little tapas place on the upper west side Friday night. The food was a mix of excellent (the pulpo gallego) and somewhat less inspired (the tortilla) but on the whole a good experience.
As for the aforementioned pitcher, my other half ordered it while I was in the loo. Need I mention that he will drink at most one glass? It was probably the best sangria I’ve had since visiting Spain in ’00 — made with a good, robust wine — not the watery fruit salad that some mediocre Mexican places serve. Polishing it off was not in any sense a chore. But it did make my Saturday a bit less pleasant than usual…
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