Someone mentioned that I have been banally starting my predictable column with “Last week, I went to my friend ____’s fabulous birthday extravaganza” almost every other week. Well it’s not my fault that I know people from every freakin’ star sign. This week, I will spare you the inevitable “Last week, I went to my friend ____’s fabulous birthday extravaganza” bit because I went to my own. At Déjà Vu. I’m starting to feel like I’ve talked about it over and over... I’m pimping that place like there’s no tomorrow and y’all must feel it—it must be in the name.
So I decided to have drinks there after a vegetarian dinner on Thursday, where we had nonalcoholic beer because it’s a proper Buddhist place. I think we got drunk psychologically anyway, because we were next to a whole table full of lesbians (including two Cantopop stars whose identities I shall keep confidential) and they were all HOT.
And then I got calls from people who had gone to Déjà Vu already, and couldn’t wait for 20 minutes. Bitches, please, STFU. I don’t understand why people can’t order a drink and just fucking chill. Once we got to the boutique bar, we were ushered upstairs to the private room so that my entourage wouldn’t offend the sensibilities of the other customers. Whatever happened in that room, stays in that room. Well, it was just nice connecting with old friends, and new.
On Friday night, I looked through my folder stuffed full of party invitations with world-weariness and languor. I simply couldn’t go to all those events after the hot mess of my birthday (which ultimately involved fatty Korean fried chicken in Causeway Bay at 3am). I picked En Grill & Bar, where DJ Taku has started a new night called “GUSQU” (that’s castle in the Okinawan language). My Japanese friends thought it was terribly entertaining that I had appeared in the March issue of Concierge Hong Kong (the local Japanese equivalent of HK Mag) talking about hamburgers, because, well, I rarely enjoy hamburgers. Duke’s, if you suddenly have an influx of Japanese customers, you owe me.
As the Universe would have it, I inadvertently got enough fuel in me to club-hop that night. Chef Satoru of Sushi Kuu forced a birthday kiss and a big glass of Awamori onto me. A-su! And a completely drunk and incomprehensible Peter, who was feeling overly guilt-ridden about missing my birthday the night before, offered me a bottle of bubbly (I had just asked for a thimble of sake). “He never fuckin’ buys me champagne.” his girlfriend Judy texted back when I asked her where she was.
Awamori and champagne meant that the space-time continuum was for me to bend. I don’t even remember going to Volar, but all of a sudden, we were there. DJ Le Libertin gave me another glass of bubbly and a sloppy French birthday kiss. Before casual rumors start spreading, notez bien: I said sloppy French birthday kiss, not sloppy birthday French kiss.
