You have got to be shitting me!
...and you won't believe what happened next (was it a reversal of fortune?).
Spoiler Alert: You may wish to skip this if any of the following categories of my real-life escapades offend, disgust, or compel you to unfriend me—or worse, report me to the authorities.
In no particular order, these categories might include:
Scatological mentions (humorous or otherwise).
Adult themes (typically humorous when it’s me; for you, always tragic).
Critical, satirical, and angry outbursts—just me being me.
If, on the other hand, you find this blog to your liking, congratulations! You’re officially an even better person than your mom told you you were.
Alright, don’t say I didn’t warn you...
Later that evening, after crashing a New York Chinatown food tour and indulging in dumplings galore, I found myself ravenous again after hours of traipsing through NYC without a steady stream of calories.
The Midtown West area near our hotel isn’t exactly renowned for stellar Chinese cuisine, but despite having already eaten Chinese earlier, that’s what we were craving. After consulting various online sources, we landed on Szechuan Gourmet—a spot within walking distance that promised dishes featuring the tongue-numbing magic of Szechuan peppers.
But let me rewind for a moment. The next day, we had big plans: Williamsburg in Brooklyn for its hipper-than-thou, hotter-than-hell, and ridiculously packed foodie festival. We’d been looking forward to this for ages.
Joining us was our dear friend Elissa, who’d traveled from Philly just to hang out. Having lived in NYC for years before her move, you’d think she’d know her way around, right? Bless her heart.
We met in Midtown and set off for the East Side Ferry (because Brooklyn is, you know, east of Manhattan). The plan was simple: hop on the ferry, enjoy the ride, and dive into the culinary delights awaiting us.
Except... we boarded the wrong cross-town bus and ended up at the Hudson River instead of the East River. Big fail. I shot Elissa my best WTF glare, then laughed it off and teased her for her positively blonde moment. No biggie—we’d get there eventually.
Back to the previous night’s dinner at Szechuan Gourmet. The dishes—eggplant in garlic sauce, prawns in something-or-other, and beef with mushrooms—hit the spot. Mostly. Aside from my usual quiet critiques (“needs more sugar and ginger” or “the beef’s kinda chewy, wouldn’t you agree?”), everything was as expected.
But then, back at the hotel, Lin made a beeline for the bathroom. Poor dear. Her body had some... thoughts about Szechuan Gourmet.
All things pass, eventually. We went to bed early to prep for our epic food journey. But whatever upset Lin’s stomach decided to manifest in me the next morning—in ways I can barely describe.
I woke up distended, perturbed, painfully gassy, and on the brink of exploding like Mount Saint Matthew. A shit storm was brewing, and I was starting my day in Hell’s sewer.
Stumbling to the toilet, I toughed it out. No biggie—I’d been here before (don’t judge me!). After a couple of hours worshipping the porcelain shrine, I decided to soldier on. Pepto pills, binding agents, and a spare roll of TP would see me through, right?
Wrong.
On the ferry to Brooklyn, I was whining about my gastric distress when I discovered the bathrooms were out of order. Unusable. I couldn’t even pick the lock.
We finally arrived in Williamsburg on a sweltering, humid day, surrounded by what felt like all of humanity. Not ideal for finding a quiet spot—or a toilet, which I desperately needed.
Meanwhile, hunched over like Quasimodo, I endured Elissa’s detailed story about a friend who got sick at a Passover Seder. That did the trick. I shat myself.
It was horrible. Lin sprinted around Williamsburg searching for a toilet while Elissa giggled at the absurdity of it all.
I spotted the Port-a-Potties outside the festival gates and, with a full payload in my pants, waited my turn. Eventually, I found a “Vendors Only” stall and spent the next twenty minutes in pure horror. Some leave their hearts in San Francisco; I left something far less poetic in Williamsburg.
Embarrassed, battered, and sans undergarments, one of the girls suggested I shop for new pants. All I could muster was, “Let’s just find a place to sit down. Outside.”
My dream of an all-day taste-gasm was officially dead. Never even made it inside the festival. I shit you not.
