sent from: London, UK. destination: Costa Mesa, California, USA

“Sake bombs!!”, and the table drank. The small army of out-of-work actors were roaming the restaurant barking orders into their headsets, trying to work the party crowd into a frenzy. The birthday boy got on a chair and gyrated along to the music as people hollered. It was a restaurant meant for 20-somethings to celebrate by way of wading through cheap alcohol and cheaper food. The latter was horrible, and they kept the spirits flowing without interruption. It was obnoxious and crude but the people celebrating didn’t seem to mind. When the bill arrived it came to about $55 each; criminal, for the part of the group who enjoyed a modest drink and as much of the food as they could stomach. I went around gathering cash. Two said they weren’t going to pay, that they didn’t eat and would only pay for the birthday boy’s share. I told them it wasn’t an option, that by showing up they’d agreed with the implicit social contract to share equally in the cost of theirs and everyone’s celebration of their friends’ birthday, and look at what a good time he was having. At least, I would have done had it been possible over the bass. I strong-armed them into paying, and we left. I swore I’d never return.