Last night was a memorable evening. It was the first time I’ve ever been to a restaurant that provides you with a range of novelty headwear upon arrival, merged three Hen’s Nights and a 21st birthday, and featured a drag queen performance and a wandering magician. I suppose that’s just another night in King’s Cross, but to get all of the above in one room (and dinner, the most important part) is no mean feat.
It’s always a sign of things to come when you approach the venue, only to be cut off from entering by a drunken bride zigging and zagging her way towards the door, supported by two friends who insist on holding their hands over her eyes the entire way. When you get to your seat and have to choose between a bald cap and a purple Marie Antoinette wig (among many options) it becomes evident that it won’t be a typical dining experience.
I was at a table of 3, while every other party numbered at least 15 people.
The 7.30pm seating of dinner was hosted by the delightful Prada Clutch. Yes, the title of this blog was misleading, I’m not talking about a fashion accessory but a drag queen. Anyone who knows me, has met me, or has simply seen me walking down the street would know I’m no clothes horse. I am currently wearing ugg boots, a pair of knee length shorts with an elastic waist band and in colour so bland it defies labeling, topped with a T-shirt I pretended to be buying for a brother in order not to feel judged when I made the purchase (because those retail people really care and were begging for an acceptable back story). The day I blog about an actual Prada clutch you might be too busy to read it… because the end of the world will be nigh.
Prada did an admirable job of introducing all the tables and their reasons for celebration. She only ran out of words when trying to explain why our trio was there. I don’t think the staff at the restaurant knew what to make of us. The other tables all got a flaming cake and a suitable theme/birthday song to which all the staff danced. Not wanting us to feel left out, we were belatedly treated to our own cake… along with what felt like an extended version of Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ while one valiant waitress gyrated about. We felt so guilty at her plight, we joined in.
We then high-fived each other and talked loudly about celebrating our ‘divorces’ with a night on the town. I really do need to stop providing a created back story to people who really don’t care in the first place.
The night was a fascinating petri dish of drunken celebrations, topped off by Prada Clutch performing ‘Proud Mary’, a future mother-in-law revealing her disapproval (to our table), a bridesmaid falling off a table she was dancing on and a farewell gift of penis maracas.
The maracas now feature prominently in my lounge room. Vogue Living’s coming around to do a spread on my design choices later this week.
Painefull Out
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