It's a Jamover.

Puns.
You have to love them. There is never a time where it is not acceptable in dag-speech.

I do have to credit the Jamover to 1928 though. I must clarify here, the relationship between 1928 and myself is largely dedicated to food and was originally built on the premise of cold meats.

Basically, I hadn't eaten all day, and I met up with 1928 on the Tuesday night at around 11pm, at Toff after the Luke Steele Roadshow. It was very good, but that isn't the point of the post.

Our drunken-loutery led us to the carriages where we drank ridiculous wines and chased them with gin. 1928 takes a menu and studies it with a little too much intent.

"I am really craving Jamon, but they don't have it here."
"Iberico or Serrano?" I say. He's put the idea in my head, and my stomach has already started salivating for my face.
"Where are we going to get Jamon? I can't stay here, I will just get dessert."
"Hmmmm......"

[insert 10 minute break in conversation where our heads try too hard to sniff out Jamon]

"OHMYGODLETSGOTOSUPPERCLUBICAN'TBELIEVEIDIDN'TTHINKOFITEARLIER" Says 1928.
It is pretty pathetic that neither of us thought of it in the first mention of Jamon because we practically live there.
11:23pm
"We can't stay long though, I have three back to back workshops that run for 2.5 hours each starting at 9 in the morning." I say.
"Sure thing, I should be getting to bed by midnight anyways."

At the Supper Club, we start with the wines and then move to the Shofferhoffers.

The menus have this wonderful red box which draws the both of us in. They are offering us both types of Jamon and then....the prices. The Serrano is $24, and the Iberico is $44. Beneath them both, froi gras pate $24.
50g per plate.

We deliberate over this and make an informed decision. Decadence cannot be like this for a Tuesday night, so we decide to start with the Serrano. If we're not satisfied, then we go to the pate, and if we're still not sated then it is onto the Iberico.
Our friendship is strong.
At 11:52 the Serrano arrives and we ask the waiter to stay there while we sample the meat.
We order the pate.
Basically, we eat ourselves into a yet-to-be-satisfied slump. I'm full, feeling too indulgent and a little drunk.
We head upstairs to Siglo for a cigarette and 1928 takes a trip to the bathroom. I am sitting at the window back at SC and 1928 comes bounding up the stairs with a grin that you could fit a dissected orange into.

"You ordered the Iberico, didn't you?"
"Yep." He says. Simple, honest, shameless.
"I am not going to be able to wake up in the morning! It's already 2am and I will have a Jamon coma."
"Ha, and I will probably be in bed till 3."

$240 dollars later (we drank a lot more than we thought) and many hours are lost, and we head home. We are too satisfied.

I crawl out of bed at 6 to exercise the gout away and make a sore and sorry trip to uni.
I text 1928 at 8:44am:

"SO...HARD...GETTING...UP....COMA...JAMON...EVIL...LOVE."

At 1:30 I get a text back from 1928 saying;

"I just got up. I have a Jamover."


Perfect.