Beijing Boyce

I recently helped lead a pub crawl (see below), and as a reward for not losing any patrons or misdirecting any buses to Inner Mongolia, Agent Red Wolf ordered me a Flaming Lamborghini at Browns. Frankly, this beverage is in the same category as nonalcoholic beer, Chivas and green tea, and anything M-Dawg drinks (see the Grand Marnier and Soda incident; Beijing Boyce V).

But the intention was noble, so I settled back as manager Glenn and supervisor Jackie arranged a pyramid of glasses, startled drizzling alcohol over it, and then - whoosh - set the thing alight. I don’t like fire; even less, I don’t like sticking my face near fire; even less than less, I don’t like sticking my face near fire beside two guys who work in a bar that I might have criticized once (or perhaps twice).Use the straw,” said Glenn. I stuck my face forward, tried to get at the liquid among the flames, and then retreated, having swallowed half a melted straw.

You have to do it faster,” he added, no stranger to stating the obvious. Meanwhile, the alcohol Jackie continued pouring onto the bonfire of glasses splashed onto the table, which — whoosh — also caught fire.

With a large crowd behind, I was wedged against the table and thus helpless as flames raced across it and toward an area of my body I consider quite personal. Time seemed to slow; the music seemed to garble; I had a “my life flashed before my eyes” moment. I remembered other near-death experiences in Beijing: that grilled meat platter at Schindler’s, that horrid martini at Palms, my attempt to cross a street that very morning. I also had a lingering thought: might I make money writing a screenplay about becoming a eunuch, by flame, in modern-day Beijing?

This, of course, all happened in a split second. Suddenly, Glenn swooped in and pushed back the flames with a cloth, to which the flames responded by rushing forth again, to which Glenn responded by again swooping, and so on, until I realized the problem: JACKIE WAS STILL POURING ALCOHOL ON THE FIRE!

I put an end to that. I grabbed the two shot glasses and drained the contents, little realizing they were close to boiling hot. Not pleasant, but then again, swollen lips are preferable to becoming a charred tribute to careless Flaming Lamborginiing. At least, I thought it was careless, until I had the following conversation with Glenn, a few days later:

“That was really wild the other night. You guys almost lit me on fire.”“Almost doesn’t count.”

“Yes, but it was pretty close.”

“Perhaps not close enough.”

“It was close enough for me!”

“Did I ever tell you about an annoying patron I used to know named Flaming Fred?”"What do you mean ‘used to know’!?”

Okay, I made that last part up. But, then again, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear Glenn say it. By the way, try the burgers at Browns. They’re cooked, over fire, one that’s far away from the patrons. (Note: Certain details have been dramatized or deleted, including the changing of a pair of underwear, in order to make this story flow.)

(From Beijing Boyce XV, first emailed on April 21, 2006)