I endeavored to have tapas every day this week because two of my friends have gone to Spain without me. Gigi left for Barcelona again, while Clarence followed an amigo (supposedly an expert on Spain) to Benidorm, the culo of España. He WhatsApp’ed me at their first stop: “OMG 99 percent of the people here are over 60 :-( ” I couldn’t help but poke fun of their grim predicament. “Have you not seen the British series Benidorm?!?” Readers, if you haven’t, do. It’s hilariously genius, but absolutely mingin’—a Borat-Bruno-cringeworthy mingin’ gem. Americans might need English subtitles though.

Tapas started all very serendipitously on Tuesday, before Gigi left for Barcelona. She was doing a shoot at one of the lofty Chai Wan studios (she’s a Cantopop star, yes that one) and texted me to see if I was in the area and wanted to pay her a visit. Oh for no apparent reason. So I did, and then Patricia, the Columbian-Chinese GM of La Bodega in LKF, called me and asked when we could meet. So I let loose my Latin side, and said quite spontaneously: “Tonight?”

I was declining Jaeger Bombs and sticking to margaritas and mojitos, but she JUST HAD TO bet (loser downs TWO Jaeger Bombs) that their tart, vinegary romesco sauce did not include almonds. ‘Course it does, mi amor. We had the young chef clarify, so I got the Colombiana drunk at her own bar. Didn’t end the night sober though, as we went to say happy birthday to Enrico at La Piola, that lovely Piedmontese place on Lyndhurst that’s quite popular with the Italian aperitivo crowd, and I found myself drinking whisky with his gwailo Wing Chun buddies until 3am. On a Tuesday. Mierda.

Wednesday, I went to Mesa 15 with some new and old friends to check out the new, young chef from Galicia, Ivan Abril, sent over by Michelin-starred Alejandro Sanchez—who’s still the consulting chef. OMG the homemade cuttlefish albondigas with ink sauce were so moreish we ordered two more rounds. The razor clams with an olive tapenade, and the colorful carpaccio of octopus with baby capers and a white almond-garlic dressing were also outstanding. They’ve changed their menu again this Tuesday, so you’ll get some other Spanish scrumptiousness if you’re booking a table now.

The next day, I had a tapas lunch at Hyde. Their robust flavors are almost Middle Eastern. I loved the spicy lemon chicken in harissa sauce with couscous. But I couldn’t get any work done at Hyde afterwards as Derek showed up after lunch and announced that he had just broken up and had taken the day off (he’s his own boss), and so the bitchfest started. Forgot it was HH so my gigantic Hoegaarden became two. Crap.

Then I went to the grand opening party of Inakaya on the 101th floor of the ICC, where there was a lot of pounding going on. Mochi-making, that is. More champagne, sake and a Charlie Chaplin made by Hive Bar’s Yuuya Sakamoto, their cute fresh-off-the-boat mixologist from Tokyo.

After Friday class at the ashram, I went to FoFo for more tapas and cava to celebrate the birthday and engagement of my old friend Mae (we used to be struggling singer-songwriters together, now she’s an interior designer doing Juno Mak’s houses… and I’m a celebrity alcoholic). Her fiancé Toby asked how I got us a table on the roof there, because he had called and they were like, “We’re full”. And I was like, “Hello, I’m Nightlife.”

And what did I do over the long weekend?

I stayed home with my library books and ate zong, that’s what. Do you think I need to abuse my liver more since I wasn’t drunk enough every night since Tuesday?!?! Uh no, STFU. I have a long weekend EVERY week anyway.