Paella

On a rainy evening in Greenwich Village in June, two unsuspecting people devoured a buttfuckton of Spanish comfort food.

I just couldn’t eat the last two shrimp. My dad’s entree was about to come to the table, and I was already fit to burst.

Those unsuspecting diners were my dad and I. We were — as the middle schoolers once liked to say — “noobs.” We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. We blatantly ignored the large pots, which contained enough food for three starving people, that the vest-and-bowtie-clad waiters so carefully set onto other customers’ tables.

We ordered two entrees: A variation on a seafood paella and traditional paella with chicken, sausage and assorted seafood. I can’t even remember if we ordered an appetizer. That meal is a blur to me. If we did, maybe it was calamari. My dad likes that. I got a Sidecar (cognac, triple sec and lemon juice) and my dad got Scotch — I think.

The food was savory and superbly cooked. The rice was perfectly chewy, the seafood and chicken tender. And the garlic. There was so much of it, but I couldn’t get enough. The food was addicting.

We left feeling a little guilty. Why did we order all that food? The indifferent waiter packed us a doggy bag, and Dad and I decided to give it to the first person we saw who looked hungry or homeless.

That person was alergic to shellfish.