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A Fat Kid's Trip to Tel Aviv. Part II

click here for part one

Now where were we...let's see, ah yes, the hotel bar.

I guess the big thing in Israel, or maybe even the whole Middle East for that matter but there's no way I'm going to fucking venture around and find out, is warmed nuts. No, I'm not talking about about the condition you feel after twenty minutes with Flaherty's sister, I'm talking about a little bowl of warmed almonds, peanuts, cashews, that sort of thing. Everywhere you fucking go warmed nuts seem to be the welcoming offer and our hotel bar was no exception.

Now one thing that us fat lazy Americans will notice should you travel to Israel is that more or less, the service sucks. Again, more of this Israeli "we've got no time for pleasantries" thing I'm just getting a handle on now. So, you've got to pretty much flag down your server with a pair magnesium road flares to get any real attention paid to you let alone take your order, as was painfully apparent by my sitting at the bar for a full four minutes without a fucking beer in my hand. Those were truly the longest four minutes of my life. Well, there was that time when one of my balls got caught in the crease of my jeans while I was on a rollercoaster, but that's another story in and of itself. Anyway, the serving chick finally comes over and takes our order with the usual finesse that I've come to expect, "What do you want?" Direct, I like that. I give this chick a quick once over, nothing special about her. Normal build, no real pair of tits to speak of, looks kind of tired with dark circles under her eyes, named "Dikla". I snicker at her a name a bit and order a Goldstar which is the local Israeli beer. AJ does the same.

While, I'm here, a fast word on Israeli beer... it fucking stinks. I don't mean to say it tastes bad I mean to say that it literally stinks. Kind of like Heinekin smells permanantly skunked to some people, the two local beers Goldstar and Maccabbe smell permanently skunked to just about everyone who stuffs their nose in there and takes a whiff. Guess that's what the warm nuts are for, to hide the smell.

Anyway, Dikla (hee hee) serves us our beer and as she's walking away -- whoa! whoa! -- I notice something. This little creature ladies and germs has a *terrific* ass. And I mean fucking *terrific exquisite* ass. I mean if God came down to all mankind and handed us a lump of clay and said, "sculpt thee divine ass" we'd all hand him the same thing and Dikla here would be the first model to come off the assembly line. Hmmm, she may be alright yet.

Two barstools down another traveller bellies up to the bar. I pass the time sipping my Goldstar and timing how long until our sweetheart finally decides to give this poor fuck's thirst some attention. Three minutes. Hmmm, I must've worn a dirty fucking shirt or something. Anyway, Dikla graces this guy with the customary bowl of -- you guessed it -- warm nuts and this fuckhead promptly squeaks out in a British accent, "Excuse me miss, but I'm allergic to nuts, do you have anything else?" Our first Israeli beauty (see, I'm drinking so she's looking better) of the day gives him what is obviously his first dose of Israeli hospitality. "No." and then she proceeds to stare at the speechless fuck for a good 10 seconds before she decides, "I guess this asshole ain't gonna order," and then tosses a towl over her shoulder and walks away. I laugh mockingly to myself, "rookie." I've finished my beer and hence are a bit more authoritative, "Dikla! Another two beers over here." (Note the absence of the word 'please' as would be customary here in the States) She comes over and much to my surprise actually cracks a smile as she tops off the next two glasses of their stinky brew -- yeah baby this chick likes to be told what to do! She slaps two full glasses down on the table with the head still spilling over the sides and making a big puddle on the bar, and walks her cute ass back to the other side of the bar. The British fuck still ain't got nothing but stunned look on his face and a bowl full of warm nuts which he ain't eatin. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my kind of place.

We stayed for four rounds (the traumatized Brit was just getting his first beer as we were getting up) before deciding to push on and head to our usual haunt to get some dinner. But before we left, I'm proud to say that I was able to actually strike up what some people might call small talk with our wonderful bartender and was surprised to learn that she taught -- and I fucking shit you not -- hand to hand combat in the Israeli Defense Force. Wow. Serves beer, has as marvelous bum, *and* can kick the living shit out of my brothers... what a package! So before I left, I decided that Dikla would be the honorary recipient of the EHOWA Lifetime Achievement of "Oh My Sweet Fucking Jesus You Have The Most Exquisite Ass I've Ever Seen And Thus Please May I Wear Your Ass As A Hat" Award. She may not look like much in this picture, but like Cooter used to say on the Dukes of Hazzard, she's got it where it counts -- under the hood. (One might wonder why I didn't try to get a picture of her now critically acclaimed posterior, and to answer that I can only say that I'm brave but I ain't fucking stupid. The world's got enough heroes).

A Waitress Reunited.

Some of you might remember from my last trip to Tel Aviv in September that I reported meeting *one* real nice Israeli girl who was a waitress at one of the best restaurants there, and her name was Efrat (or "Effie" as she asked me to call her). You might also remember that I was so impressed with this girl, and her plunging neckline and short skirt, that I tipped her 100 shekels off a 200 shekel meal. Obviously I was anxious to go back and see if she was still there and more importantly, if so what was she wearing? Was it revealing like before? Does she still look the same? Would she even remember me? Would she remember the tip I gave her? Had her tits grown since I'd seen her last? Would she do me?

Obviously, I had to seek the answers to these questions. And so in the dead middle of winter, we ventured out in the 74 degree weather (want that in celsius -- fuck you convert it yourself) and began the ten minute walk through the streets of Tel Aviv to seek out wine, women, and song. We arrived at said outdoor cafe and I'll admit I was a little disappointed. The place which I had known for being an open air restaurant with a nice view of the Med and down all the shirts of girls walking by, was all closed off with snap in windows. Don't forget this is the 'winter' season for them and I actually passed people on the street wearing hats and gloves even though I was beginning to sweat my balls off. But the atmosphere was that same, and that's what really counts, right?

Alas, my Efrat was not there this evening and we ended up getting a tiny little waitress by the name of Vikka. Vikka was a Russian babe, as were quite a few of the other waitresses and hosting staff there. It was then that I learned something -- Russian chicks are pretty God damned hot, too. Or perhaps much like the Israelis they keep all the ugly ones in cages, I dunno, but either way there was much eye candy running about. We indulged not in stinky Israeli beer, but in a wonderful bottle of red Israeli wine, and for appetizer we had the house specialty. One loaf of herb stuffed bread, and a plate of pickled vegetables (pickles, peppers, olives, and mushrooms). A short while later, I dined that evening on Filet Mignon bathed in a red wine sauce over a bed of garlic potatoes with spiced green beans, whilest my trusty companion AJ delighted himself in the baked chicken breast smothered in a mustard cream sauce with a baked potato on the side. It's good to be king.

Before departing for the evening, I asked Vikka if Efrat still worked there and was delighted to find out she still did. She'll be working again the evening after next. Outstanding. Warm from the gentle buzzing in my head, I tipped her enough to surely pay the rent on her parent's shack back in Kiev, and we stumbled our way back into the street. "Where to?" I asked, admiring all the pert little nipples running about (hey, it being winter does have it's advantages...), and the reply came almost immediately. "Joey's."

Oh, before I forget, on the way to Joeys we came across an Israeli dog taking a shit in the middle of the street. This struck me as funny. Public International Canine Defacation. Something got to be novel about that.

Joeys Bar.

If you've been paying attention, you'll notice that Joeys is the only place that I've mentioned by name. We originally selected this bar as our usual hangout during my last trip whilest out looking for places to, well, get drunk. As we were working along in a strange country where everyone was speaking (what was to us) a foreign language we needed something to make us feel a little more secure, a little more at home. We're looking at all the signs for bars and to be honest, Hebrew looks like fucking scribble to me so we're walking past bars called "@&%#&*$" and "@&$%$*@" and "@$%$@#" and "Joey's Bar" and "&#)($&@" ... hey wait a minute there, back up. Joey's Bar, eh? Even got a couple American flags out front, alright! (you read as "Terrorists Please Bomb Here...") But we didn't care... what a touch of home!

And venture inside we did, same as before. And we were greeted the exact same way, just as before in our last trip. The bartenders at Joeys's seem utterly huge, almost too tall to be human. Imaginary beings of myth and legend who are all powerful and spew forth beer and good times like nobody's fucking business. And let me tell you one fast thing about Joey's... they've got a fucking racket going and will get my business every single time I make it to Tel Aviv, and I know exactly why. So all you fucking bar owners here in the States, pay the fuck attention. Every single bartender personally shakes hands and genuinely greets every single patron of that bar when they enter. Every single bartender, every single patron, without exception. They give you that warm Cheer's "Norm!" feeling right out of the gate, like they've personally kept your barstool free for you and couldn't wait for you to get back. Even if it's the first time you've ever fucking been there. I fucking love it.

Joey's is kind of dimly lit so it takes your eyes a few seconds to adjust after entering, especially considering the big flashing fucking lights they have outside. it's about ten o'clock and the bar's pretty empty save for a handful of people. Things don't usually get hopping in Tel Aviv until about 11:30 or so, and Joey's doesn't close until the last person leaves. "Good Evening!" the closest bartender bellows upon seeing us, a big smile on his face, "Come sit down!", beckoning us over with the wave of a hand the side of a fat man's dinner plate. He's already got drink napkins on the bar before we can even get our asses firmly planted in the seat, "What will you have to drink my friends?" "Two Goldstars, my good man." "Certainly!"

Much to my pleasant suprise the bartender pulls not two, but four, I say again *four* beer glasses from his rack and begins a long hard pull on the beer tap. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, did I mention that Joey's does two-for-one drinks until 11pm? And not just cheap stinky Israeli beer either. If you start off with a double Jack and Coke like I did last trip (major hangover...) then low and behold you'll be staring at what looks like the business end of a doube barrel shotgun when he puts two down in front of you. Fuck Disney World, I love Joey's.

"My name's Sal!" he says, and offers a colossal hand to me. I watch his hand envelope mine and suddenly I feel like a little bitch. "I'm Ernie!" we introduce ourselves, "And I'm AJ!" Sal called the other three bartenders over and they all introduced themselves as well, but to be honest with the music and given the fact that Sal was the one serving us, I really don't recall their names. "Have you been to Joey's before?, Sal asks as he sets the first two beers down in frotn of us. "Yeah, back in September of last year on business, we're back now for the same thing." "Ah so you were regulars to Joey's back in September?" "You bet your ass, we love this place!" Sal smiles and sets our second batch of beers down on the bar and gets this look on his face like he just figured outt the fucking cure for cancer. He snaps his fingers and I half expected him to shout "Eureka!" or something... he turns around and grabs a bottle of vodka off the shelf and pours two shot glasses right to the fucking rim. before we can even utter a word asking just that the fuck he's doing or to say that we didn't order those, he picks them up and drops them into our second beers. "There," he grins," two boilermakers for Joey's favorite customers!"

Fuck, did I mention that I love this place?

And do for the next hour and a half AJ, Sal, and myself just sat around and talked about things. Nothing in particular, just things. Our conversational rhythm only broken when AJ or I had to stop and take a piss in the bathroom, or Sal had to put us on hold for a second to offer a nice enthusiastic Joey's welcome to someone entering the bar. He also said goodbye to a damn good lot of them too. Slowly the bar began to fill up until all the stools were taken and it was standing room only.

It wasn't until about midnight or so until I realized there was a fat Israeli chick sitting next to me at the bar. But that, we'll talk about in the next installment of Fat Kid's Trip to Tel Aviv.

click here for part three

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