We shared these peanut butter marshmellow treats after a Japanese dinner. My shrimp tempura donburi, salty and kinda greasy, carved out a deep thirst within that not even water could quench. I squealed when I saw these squares in their shiny foil packet opened on the table.And that's how the evening kicked off - with a frenzied tango of opposites: salty, gooey, shiny, sweet. From that baseline we descended to a less civilized venue and kicked it up an octave with pitchers of Keith's Red, tequila shots ("shoot, suck, lick"), grubby wine lists and non-stop singing. Solo and in twos, threes, fours - even while sitting in our wooden seats like anxious mothers backstage at toddler beauty pagents - we set that tiny pub stage on fire
with our angelic voices and tortured screams, shameless shaking and grinding, until the simple act of browsing the massive song book became too exhausting, at which point we took our bows, vowing, between shielded yawns, to return, bigger, better and louder. And pinker.
