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One Gummy, Two Entrees

Me, my friend Stacy and a couple I’ll call Bill and Whitney got together recently for a night out, and that’s the night I learned not to overdo edibles. We met to pregame and select a final location for dinner. The three of them vaped some flower and began negotiating the agreement. I didn’t want to smoke, so I had a half a gummy. Or at least, I intended to, until Stacy noticed and prodded me to have the whole thing. I declined at first but she got everyone to cheer me on, and I caved. Until that point I’d only ever had a half a gummy, and I thought having the whole thing might make me high twice as fast, but after 30 minutes, I felt fine, so I forgot about it. The dinner conversation was more intense than I expected. Four people, on the fringes of being high, were all hungry and opinionated. We settled on a restaurant that was known for its branzino and fried snapper. They had space for a table of four, and before long we called a ride share and departed for dinner.

Gummies

We arrived at the restaurant 15 minutes before our reservation time and were greeted by a masked blonde with Blinky eyes also an overly cheery voice. She told us we would be seated momentarily and asked us to wait. We sat. 15 minutes passed. Then 20. After 30 minutes, I walked up to inquire about our seats. “Please be seated sir, we’ll have your table ready in a moment. We have to maintain a certain number of people seated in the dining area at all time, ” Blondie chirped. She ushered me past the seating area, blocking my view. I sat down, annoyed. To make things worse, my high was starting to kick in and my stomach rumbled uncomfortably. After that, we took turns going to the host stand every five minutes. Stacy eventually asked for the bathroom, then walked through the dining room and reported back loudly that there was no reason we couldn’t be seated. Soon after, Blondie appeared and walked us to our seats. “What was the point of a reservation if we’re seated an hour late?” Stacy asked. Blondie shrugged.

The restaurant continued to impress on the service front. The waiter who came to take our order, a tall, brown-haired man who looked like his name was Chet, was comically snooty about my choice of tap water.

“ Sparkling, flat, or still?,” he said, nasally.

“Tap,” I responded. Chet raised his eyebrow and inquired again. “Our sparkling water is quite good, sir,” he said, Chetily.

“Great, you have some and let me know how it is,” I replied.

Off he went, to the kitchen. 45 minutes later, a steaming, flaky white branzino landed in front of me. I tore into the buttery, flaky, crispy fish from head to tail like I was a mob boss and the fish was an enemy who had crossed me. Life was golden. It was delicious. Heaven and earth stopped moving for me. Nothing could bring me down, not even if Chet and chirpy blonde stood next to the table as I ate. But the happiness curve declined with every bite on my plate, as I finished my plate, tears started to form in my eyes. I was still so hungry. Would it be too long if I ordered the fried snapper to go? I played it cool, and when Chet came around asking whether we wanted desert, I smoothly ordered a fried snapper. Cool as a cucumber. ?

You might ask, do I regret it? Fuck no! The fried snapper was even better than the branzino. I didn’t even pretend to box it up and take it home. Nope, I ate it right there at the table.

The details of the rest of the night are still fuzzy, but I learned that night not to have a full gummy if I don’t want to double my dinner bills every night.

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