We finished our beers and agreed to hit the next bar. Our feet stuck to the floor as we tried to leave. Eric, surrounded by four women, decided he'd stay for another drink.
Ready for a change of scenery, four of us trooped over to Casablanca (40 Brattle St.). Beneath the Brattle Theater, down the hall from Cafe Algiers, Casa B's and the Boathouse are about as similar as creme de menthe and Bud.
We vultured for a postage stamp-sized table. The ceiling fans slowly swirled the smoky air. Older patrons found the red haze of light flattering to their companions' looks. The couple kissing in the wicker booth in the corner was hard to make out.
Enough of beer. This ambience, dignified by brick walls and red tablecloths, called for something with class. Tequila and orange juice ($3) for Julie. A screwdriver ($3) for Brooke. Less adventurous, John and Dan stuck to beer ($2.50).
Soft music played from the jukebox. Couples leaned in close, trying to hear each other over loud voices. Bogey's visage kept watch from posters around the room.
The tequila went to Julie's head. Her end of the dialogue degenerated to tall and short personalities. The handwriting in her notebook grew increasingly illegible. She declared she was not a teetotattler. Her companions agreed.
Although it was getting late, we weren't quite ready to call it a night. The Kong beckoned.
As we exited through Casa B's swinging doors, we met up with Chris and Pablo, who were still wandering. They declined our invitation to the Kong, saying they wanted a man's night out.
On the walk across the Square to the Hong Kong (1236 Mass. Ave.), our conversation turned to meaningful topics. We asked the Big Question.
"What's in a Scorpion Bowl?"
Once through the Kong's red doors, we decided to stay downstairs. We were hungry, so the two of us and John ordered a Bowl ($9.75), and Dan ordered a beer (prices range $2.25-$2.75). The waiter called over the manager, who carded us. We also ordered Peking ravioli, dun-dun noodles and sweet-and-sour chicken (food's expensive).
A ceramic bowl, spouting 18-inch straws, arrived. We peered at the pinkish liquid and wondered at its mysteries.
"I don't drink," said John, ferociously grabbing a straw with his teeth.
As we fought with our ravioli--Brooke considered and rejected the thought of asking for chopsticks--we admired the tassels hanging from the chandeliers and the many garish "Oriental" carvings. Laurie, completely smashed from three Bowls shared by as many women, floated by.
Since there was no music, we couldn't escape the drunken laughter of the women in large hoop earrings and permed hair sitting a few tables over.
After draining our Scorpion Bowl, we spotted some friends.
"Are you drunk?" we asked.
"Not yet."
Walking home down Arrow St., we saw a peculiar vision. A man with 25 white straws stuck in his dark curly hair grabbed hold of Julie and tried to kiss her. She broke away as the kiss landed on her jawbone.
His companion called after us. "Do you wanta go to a pahty?"