Margaritaville

I’m not a big fan of Lauriol Plaza. The food is mostly “meh” and it’s packed to the rafters every night, which is somewhat inexplicable. But I used to go there back in the days before it moved to its current location, and every now and then, I have a craving for one of their delicious frozen margaritas. (Also, I have a lot of good margarita-fueled memories of years past from there.) Yesterday, I was having one of those cravings, so we went there for brunch (which is crowded, but not as bad as it is in the evenings). We both ordered frozen strawberry margaritas.

Brunch went something like this:

Lord Kissington: Are they always this sweet?
Me: Hmmh, this does seem a little sweeter than normal. Usually, the large amount of tequila in it cuts the sweetness a bit.
Lord Kissington: Well, maybe they’re a little weaker than normal.

A few minutes later:

Lord Kissington: You know, I can’t even taste the alcohol.
Me: I can’t either.

Nearing the bottom of the glass:

Me: You know, when the waiter read the order back to us, he was sort of mumbling. Is it possible he said “virgin strawberry margarita” instead of “frozen strawberry margarita”?
Lord Kissington: I guess that’s possible, but why would anyone order virgin margaritas?
Me: shrugs

The bill arrives:

Me: Yup, those were virgin margaritas.
Lord Kissington: Why am I still drinking this?
Me: This means I just drank about 500 calories worth of sugar for no God-damned reason.

I’m totes bitter.