When fun spills over

I missed the most dramatic incident at the recent reopening night party at Le Dome, the famed moocher-and-player hangout in Hollywood.

The event was obliquely referred to in an e-mail the next day from my friend Bryan, who said to me: “Please remind Eve of her spastic move at the bar stools (she fell off but was quite graceful and demur when she knocked over two drink glasses).”

I immediately confronted Eve in an e-mail and asked her what had happened.

Apparently, I had just plucked my drink -- some tropical concoction in a long, tall glass resembling bamboo -- off the table and wandered off when my friend Michelle knocked over her bamboo drink, setting off a chain that resulted in Eve’s tumble.

“How many drinks had you imbibed?” I asked Eve.

“At that point 1.5, though the casual observer may have thought I’d had more,” she replied. “But I did not fall. That’s how I know I wasn’t drunk. If I had been I wouldn’t have been able to move that quickly to get away from the tide of liquor that was fast approaching.

“Alas my foot was caught between my stool and the table,” she continued. “I saw the floor approaching and tried to yank my foot free while balancing with my arms, which then started a chain reaction. I managed to catch myself by squeezing every muscle in both legs. In my attempt to balance, I hit my drink, which then knocked over Bryan’s beverage. Michelle was sitting there flailing around with a napkin and Bryan was shrieking, ‘Whoops!’ However, yes, I am quite graceful, even when surrounded by the chaos of spilled cocktails.”

“Where was I? I can’t believe I missed this!” I e-mailed her.

“You had tottered off with your new pals,” she informed me.

Aha. It was all coming back to me. I vaguely remembered sitting at the glowing, circular white marble bar, which is lighted from underneath, with Danielle and Ryanne, eating maraschino cherries out of a martini glass. That must have been when the incident occurred.

I blame the raspberry mojitos for the whole mess. As soon as we walked into the joint a waitress walked by with a tray and begged us to try them. Imagine a martini glass with a stylish twisted stem, a sugared rim, a sprig of mint and four plump raspberries sitting in a frosty pool of vodka, lime juice and Chambord liqueur. We did not have to imagine them, because they kept reappearing. The service at Le Dome cannot be faulted.

I had two. Maybe three. Bryan had six. Maybe seven. I’m not sure about Eve and Michelle, but none of us are known for our self-restraint. We did do our best to eat appetizers to try to soak up the alcohol. We lingered outside the kitchen door and ambushed the waiters as they emerged, chasing them down, shouting, “What’s that? What’s that?” if they tried to hurry by with the trays above their heads. But there is only so much caviar, duck breast, salmon croquettes, endive with Roquefort, crab cakes, jumbo shrimp cocktail, cannolis and chocolate torte a girl can eat.

Late in the evening, Bryan announced, “I need real food!” So I found myself at a nearby diner anxiously watching him nod off into his plate of eggs, sausage and hash browns, all liberally doused with ketchup.

The good news is, even with all the tumbling and flailing about, nobody got hurt. Until the next morning, that is, when ice packs were stylishly sported on the heads of all concerned.

Samantha Bonar can be contacted at samantha .bonar@latimes.com.