Jell-o Shot
Food Writing
It’s the Friday of the weekend of my twentieth birthday, and I am at a convention with a small group of my closest friends. It is late in the day, and, since there isn’t much going on in terms of interesting programming at the moment, we decide that now is a good time to have dinner. Where doesn’t matter so much to us. We don’t have a car though, so it’s best if it’s close or if they deliver. We ultimately decide on one of the convention hotel’s restaurants. The Italian one. Partially because they have the most options, but mostly because it’s the cheapest.
We walk in, and, to our surprise, the restaurant is specially decorated. It’s themed to Avatar: The Last Airbender, and much of the waitstaff is even in costume. I find it to be rather charming. We enter properly, and are seated at a round table for six. A booth would be preferred, but they do not currently have any available. It’s fine, though. I think it’s nice to be able to look at all of my friends while we chat and soon eat. It isn’t long before a waitress comes over and asks us if we’re ready to order, what we’d like to drink—the average server questions. We answer, and she leaves. A few minutes go by and another waitress comes to our table. She is carrying jell-o shots, and I do not think of it. Then, she mentions the restaurant’s promotion. I begin to think of it.
With the purchase of a jell-o shot, she tells us—one of the ones she is currently holding—we will get a free Avatar sticker.
It’s childish. It is beyond childish. Illegal, actually—we are in the U.S. and I am underage. In any other part of the world, perhaps it would be fine. Normal, even-! But I want a sticker. I want a sticker very much, actually. I am not the first at our table to purchase a drink, but I do buy one. Mint, I believe? Something sweet, I am sure. I don’t spend much time looking at the ingredients. I pick a die-cut sticker of a character from the show, one whose art style immediately catches my eye. I do not get asked for ID, something I was sure would happen and planned for. Maybe even hoped for. Secretly, of course. Just a little.
There is a jell-o shot in front of me, and I feel my stomach begin to churn.
The dinner proceeds as any dinner with friends at an event would. We plan the rest of our night, deciding which panels to attend and when to head to bed, and make small talk. Trivial things, mostly. One of my friends mentions she wants to attend a Love Live meetup, and I say that I’ll go with her. At one point I ask if anyone would like my drink. My tone is light and jokey, but I haven’t touched it since it was set down on the table. I stare at it blankly, and part of the conversation passes me by.
There is a jell-o shot in front of me, I think, and I do not know what to do with it.
I lift it eventually. Swirl it around and look at it. I try to take a sip, hesitantly, but the consistency of the thing makes me put it down before the cup even touches my lips. That’s what I tell myself, at least. My excuse. Surely, I am capable of drinking something I myself purchased, after all. Surely. I can do that much. If I was so worried, I could have just asked for the sticker without the drink– Said something or other about not liking jell-o shots, or lied about commuting and being the night’s designated driver, or been honest. I could have told the truth. That I am underage but would still like a sticker. Or, perhaps, if that didn’t work, ask for one as a birthday gift. It is the weekend of my birthday, after all, and that is no lie. But I did not say anything when it mattered, and now I am facing the consequences.
There is a jell-o shot in front of me, and my anxiety worsens.
Our conversation topic shifts once more. As is typical of live conversations. We continue our talk about whatever, and the minutes fly by. I ask again if someone would like my drink. This time there is an answer! “Yes!” I decide I do not like this answer. Not from this person, at least. He is younger than I am—the youngest member of our party, in fact—and I do not want to give it to him. I ask if he is sure—truly sure—and he confirms his answer. It does not sit right with me, but I know this would not be his first time drinking alcohol. If we were in any other part of the world, it would be fine. Normal, even. He reaches over the table and takes the drink from me before I can protest properly.
There is a jell-o shot in front of me, now on the other side of the table, and I find that I do not feel any better.
Soon my friend leaves for the Love Live event and asks her partner to pay for her. He agrees, and I tell her I’ll join shortly. A minute goes by. And then another. And another, and another, and another. No one seems to worry about this. They act as if it is normal. I have never been here before, and, admittedly, do not know what their normal is. But certainly, this cannot be it. Our waiter is still not here.
There is a jell-o shot in front of me, partially drunk, and I would like to pay for it and leave.
I realize, then, that it is dread that makes the wait take forever. Our waitress comes to give us our bill, and I do not see my drink listed. I say nothing of it. Then, we pay for our meals and it takes far longer than average for our cards to be returned to us. It is hard to breathe, almost. It is the drink. Surely, I tell myself, it is the drink. They have realized their mistake and are trying to fix it. Maybe this time they’ll ask if I am old enough for it. And when that time comes, what will I do? What will happen then? Will they call my mother? I hope desperately that they will not. That is one of the worst things I can imagine they’ll do. Underage drinking is not a crime worthy of prison, I believe, so that is not much of a worry at the very least. Maybe a slap on the wrist if I am lucky? But, also, I never took a sip– But even if I am fine, the waitstaff, surely, will not be. Serving alcohol to a minor is a far worse offense than ingesting it as one, I believe.
There is a jell-o shot in front of me, neither emptied by me nor on my bill. I find that I can only catastrophize.
Several waiters, all at once, approach our table. I feel physically ill. I have no ID—only an expired passport in our hotel room. Perhaps they will pity me or excuse me given my upcoming birthday. If we were in any other part of the world, this would be fine. Normal, even. Save for the missing ID, of course. But then they begin to sing. They begin to sing and I stare at my friends at the table, equal parts miserable, embarrassed, and relieved. One of the waiters places a single cannoli with a candle at either end in front of me. I did not know nor did I expect birthday wishes from a hotel restaurant. I did not even know when they learned of it– Which of my friends had told them and when. But, it is with this that my dread disappears. Instead of a pit in my stomach, there is now a sweet treat. I do not, admittedly, finish the cannoli. I enjoy a decent portion of it, though, and save the rest for later. For after I reunite with my friend. I collect my belongings—our cards were returned to us during the birthday display—and say my temporary goodbyes. I leave the restaurant.
There is no longer a jell-o shot in front of me; I can finally breathe again.