It's NaDruWriNi!

And I'm so drunk already I almost forgot!

I haven't officially signed on to participate in National Drunken Writing Night (and I'm not sure I'm even eligible, being Canadian — what is the internet nation?), but consider this my show of solidarity.

Conveniently, we dropped the kid with her grandmother last night! And I slept in! And I'm still in my pyjamas! And I've been drinking since 3! And J-F will be watching the hockey game tonight! And I won't!

Last night, we dined at Momesso's. Best subs ever!

The first time I went to Momesso's was April 2002, days after moving to Montreal and having spent almost all of those first few days sick and exhausted in bed. (I didn't yet know that I was pregnant, but I was, though I'd attributed the sickness and fatigue — and, yes, missed periods — to the stress of packing and moving, leaving a job I'd loved and a city I'd known for some 15 years. And also to the paint fumes).

Painters painted around boxes and unassembled furniture. I languished on a futon in a corner of the corner room. Appliances had not yet been purchased, so we were living off dry goods (read: crackers) and take-out.

And there was J-F taking a day off work to meet up with old buddies at Momesso's before the Expos home-opener, and I'd already finished reading the only book I'd kept out of the boxes (Rose Tremain's Music and Silence — I wept), and as much as I don't get baseball, I wanted to go to. And I had the best sub ever!

Momesso's is something of a local legend, owned by a washed-up NHLer and boasting photos and other memorabilia of moments in Canadiens history. But really, it's all about the subs.

Many years ago, before I met J-F, I attended a costume party (I'm betting it was Halloween, although perhaps I'm conflating my memory of it with another party at the same venue — maybe it was just a regular party, and we weren't costumed) with a friend (hi, Bethann!). This guy threw awesome parties.

We ensconced ourselves in the kitchen ("you will always find me in the kitchen at parties"), seated ourselves on the countertop. No need to mingle. The party would come to us. Everyone goes through the kitchen.

And it seems one other fellow had a similar idea. I don't think he knew anybody, don't know why he was there, but he had a story. He stood by the fridge, waiting for an unsuspecting audience to whom he could tell his story.

He told his story easily a dozen times that night, to a dozen different audiences. Oddly, he never the felt the need to tell it to us directly, but after a few retellings, we knew his story verbatim, and Bethann and I for weeks afterwards delighted in retelling it ourselves, in his words, at the pub (damn, I miss the Manx).

Sadly, but for one particularly evocative phrase, I no longer remember his words. I do remember that he was freshly arrived from Vancouver. Somehow, he would steer conversation with his victims to the topic of food, providing the opportunity to tell them about the best burger he'd ever had, in Vancouver.

An unassuming storefront, a hippie-ish, vaguely vegan feel. Hungry, and not expecting to be sated in a place like this. But the burger! Garnished with sprouts. He had doubts. But so thick and meaty, the juices dripping over his hands, down his arms, (here, he tugged at his elbow) "into the nipple of my sweater."

And that's what the subs at Momesso's are like.