Chelsea Handler - Are You There, Vodka, It's Me Chelsea

“Hey, asshole,” I told her. “This isn’t a scavenger hunt. You need to relax. All these activities are making my head spin. Can’t we just go to a pub and get some bloody fish and chips?”

After only three days in London, I was hell-bent on using all of their colloquialisms, partly because I love English accents and all the phrases, but primarily because it was driving Sarah nuts. She didn’t believe that “cheers” could actually mean “hello,” “good-bye,” and “thank you,” so I spent every waking moment saying it to anyone and everyone we came in contact with. It didn’t even have to be someone I was having an exchange with. I would just say it to people we passed on the street, in the park, lifts, loos, lorries. What pissed her off even more was when people responded in kind, which was almost automatic. “Cheers,” along with “bollocks,” “blimey,” and “rubbish” became my go-to phrases in response to almost anything. It only stopped when we came home after a night of heavy drinking and ordered room service at two in the morning.

When the food arrived, I took it upon myself to scream, “Bollocks!” as I opened the door.

After the waiter regained his footing and collected our burgers that had been strewn all over the hotel’s hallway like shrapnel from a pipe bomb, I ended up giving him a hundred pounds as compensation for scaring the living shit out of him.

The next day, after promoting my book on some woman’s show who is supposed to be England’s version of Oprah, but in much less expensive clothes, my publicist informed us that we had the night off to do as we pleased.

“I’ve already made reservations for us,” Sarah informed me.

“There’s a surprise.”

Sarah had made three copies of my press schedule prior to even arriving in London. One for her, one for me, and one for the concierge at our hotel.

“We’re going to Dans le Noir. It’s going to be great,” she told me. “You eat in the dark!”

“Why?”

“Apparently, it’s huge in France, and it’s supposed to heighten all of your senses. Being unable to see, the food and conversation take a much more prominent role in your dining experience. Your ears and taste buds go into overload.”

“Are you reading that straight out of the Zagat guide?” I asked her. “Because you sound like an asshole.”

“Chelsea, it’s dining in the dark! Haven’t you heard about this?”

She hailed a cab and twenty minutes later we pulled up in front of a restaurant that looked like it wasn’t finished. Once inside, we were in what appeared to be the front room of the restaurant. There was a bar with a bartender behind it and three misplaced cocktail tables that looked like someone had thrown them into the room and left. Two homosexuals were sitting at one of them, and a large transsexual-looking black woman was sitting alone at another. An unbelieveably annoying French mâitre d’ took our coats and greeted us unctuously. “Ladies! Welcome to Dans le Noir, vat is the name on ze reservation and vould you like ze key for your lockehhhr?”

“Our locker?” I asked him, confused. “Are we at the YMCA?”

“Ze lockehhhrs ah for your sha’kets and valubellz. Yu are not to bring anything into ze dining area!” he told us, rolling every r and overly dramaticizing every z and s sound. I had been there for five minutes, and I had already lost my appetite.

“We’re not even allowed to bring our purses?” I asked him.

“No, that iz vat ze lockehhhr is for. Here iz your key. Zen you come back and peek a look at ze menu.”

I rolled my eyes, handed Sarah my coat and purse, and headed toward the bar. “Triple Ketel One on the rocks, and lemons.” Any true alcoholic who’s been to London knows that getting drunk there is nearly impossible, due to the bartenders using an exact measurement of one ounce of alcohol per drink. It’s no wonder everyone there drinks Guinnesses. In the midst of explaining to the bartender that “triple” meant “three,” Sarah interrupted me.

“I don’t think that mâitre d’ likes us.”

“No one likes us, Sarah, we’re American. Everyone hates us.”

“Right,” she concurred, and ordered herself a triple Bombay martini dry. I grabbed a menu and flipped it open. “Wow,” I said. “Look at the choices. There’s either ‘Duck’ or ‘Surprise’.”

Those were the two things listed on the menu. “Duck,” and underneath it read “Surprise.”

Don Juan DeMarco came over and explained that we could choose one or the other.

“That’s quite a selection,” I said, handing him the menu. “I’ll take the surprise.”

“Do you ladies have any allergais?” he asked. “Ve must know before preparing ze food.”

“Yes,” I told him. “I’m allergic to duck.”

“Aaaah, zank you, and you, madame?” he asked, looking at Sarah.

“I’ll take the duck.”

“Okay, ladies, you vill be seat-ad in just a few momenz.” I couldn’t help thinking that this man was faking his French accent. No one in his right mind could take himself seriously enough to talk in such an affected manner.

We sat at one of the tables in the front room as the door next to the lockers opened and what appeared to be a blind waiter peeked his head out and called for the two gay men who were sitting at one of the other cocktail tables. They got up and walked over to the waiter, who turned and with his back facing them, took the first man’s hand and placed it on his own shoulder, leading him into an abyss of darkness.

“This is ridiculous,” I told Sarah, watching them.

“I’m getting scared,” she said, wide-eyed and giggling like a schoolgirl.

“Aren’t you happy Albert called off the wedding? Otherwise we’d never have had the opportunity to dine at Dine la…what the hell is the name of this place?”

“Noir. It’s Dans le Noir. He’s such a scumbag. I hope he catches herpes from that waitress,” she said.

“He will,” I assured her. “And when she dumps him on his Mexican ass, I hope he loses his job and then pulls a hamstring.”

“He’s Cuban, Chelsea.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you think she’ll break up with him?” she asked me.

“Yes, I do. He’s a loser, and by the way, he’s shaped like a woman. He’s got a woman’s ass.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he has a woman’s body, and with time, it will become increasingly more and more bitchlike.”

“He did kind of have man boobs,” she said.

“Sarah, they were bigger than mine. He’s got to be at least a D-cup.”

“Oh my God, he did. And by the way, he wasn’t that good in bed either.”

“Of course he wasn’t, Sarah. Bitch tits can’t be good in bed. It makes you feel like you’re hooking up with another chick.”

A waiter opened up the door to darkness and spoke a few words before the mâitre d’ waved us over. “Mademoiselles, I do hope you enjoy Dans le Noir,” he announced as creepily as Willy Wonka introducing all the Oompa Loompas to his guests at the chocolate factory. “Bon appetit.”

Our waiter, who was clearly blind, and looking to my left while talking to us, introduced himself as Brian. He wasn’t French, but he did have an accent of some kind that was extremely hard to pinpoint because he had the same pitch as Michael Jackson. Sarah, at this point, was of course brimming with excitement. Not only were we about to dine in the dark, but there was a real live blind man about to escort us into our bad dream.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he said as he turned on his heels and led us into a dark corridor. Thinking that sounded a lot like a song lyric, I put my hand on Brian’s shoulder, Sarah put her hand on mine, and Brian led us into what may have well as been a well. Not only was it pitch black, but I had no sense of anything around me and was relying on a blind man who had the voice of a four-year-old girl.