my friends invited me to a big birthday party in paris, some up and coming actress was throwing down. the rule was you had to bring 1 bottle per person. so it's like 11 pm, we've sorta been sitting around, drinking absynthe and not really motivating and so where are we going to get three bottles of booze? we scour the kitchen and find a bottle of smirnoff left over from new years, a bottle of apple juice (it's in a bottle, and juice is always a hot commodity at these types of parties) and a crappy bottle of rosé which my friend brigitte declares, we are NEVER going to drink fucking rosé (she's from bordeaux and is mega snooty about wine) and her husband says "well, i do not want to be the guy who brings rosé! leave it here" and so they look at me. what's the big deal with rosé? and we decide that I get to walk in with the rosé and be associated with it and if anyone asks, blame the american girl. whatevs.
so the party is in this secret rented room thing, just a door onto the street that you enter into a room with 2 bug arab guys and you had to say the password to get in. the password was "blanquette de veau."
we walk in and it's this big red room with a dj, crazy dancefloor, suuuper smoky (you can't smoke in bars in paris, but this doesn't really count as a bar) and a table with candy, cups and where you mix your own drink. 50 bottles of champagne. good stuff, too.
but i was determined to get other people to drink rosé with me, so i opened it and started serving it up and people were all wtf, is this rosé? crinkling their noses. that's disgusting! (it was warm, too) but you know what, it was empty in 3 minutes. and 7 different people high fived me.
rosé rules, i win.