Dana Goodyear’s New Yorker piece on underground supper clubs is great fun, even if you, like me, thought supper clubs were just a thing cool people did in LA and San Francisco and Brooklyn, like, five years ago. They are not! They are alive! They are THRIVING. They are a thing cool people do in LA and San Francisco and Brooklyn NOW.
They cost $90 a person, give or take, cash, placed in “a desiccated crocodile head that sits in the middle of the table.” They are not a place to get rich, if you’re the one doing the cooking, but they are a place to break even.
After my post from a few mornings ago, I went to a bodega near the office yesterday to get a bacon, egg and cheese on a roll, and it was good, but I have to agree with Josh Fruhlinger, who mentioned in the comments that what really made it good was the bacon part of it, because: bacon! It’s also good because the eggs are cracked and cooked fresh, instead of the weird circular patties of eggs you’d find at a fast food restaurant.
The bacon appeared to double the price from $2 to $4, which is still cheap for breakfast, but I’d rather spend my few dollars on coffee in the morning, and grab a banana, or make an egg white on a brioche like I did today (carton of egg whites: $4, and six brioche rolls: $3).
I think the most attractive thing about the bodega eggs on a roll is that it’s available everywhere, it’s cheap, and it appears to be something that’s inherently New York. Other things I’d put in this category: The $0.50 cup of coffee from a street cart, the $5 container of chicken and rice from the halal cart, the $1 slice of pizza, the $3 everything bagel with scallion cream cheese.
Two summers ago, after a year of freshman comp teaching and a life-changing decision to move across the country, I developed an anxiety-related skin condition. I’d suffered from stress-induced breakouts before, and I knew getting rid of this one would call for daily exercise, lots of vegetables, and diligent water drinking. Instead of doing any of that, I went to a dermatologist, got a prescription for an antibiotic, and took it every day for two months. As it turns out, this was not such a good idea.
I didn’t know it at the time, but even as the Doxycycline was clearing up my breakout, it was killing off the good bacteria in my intestines that helped me break down and process food properly. One night after taking my dose, I found myself hunched over the toilet in my apartment, vomiting up my dinner whole. A few days later, I had to swing across three lanes of Los Angeles rush our traffic to throw up by a tree in a Ralph’s parking lot.
I’d started the pills in June of 2011 and I took them every day until the end of July. By September, something as little as a sip of water left me feeling like the monster from Alien was about to birth itself through my belly button. Garlic fries at dinner meant a night on my knees on the bathroom floor. The prospect of the holidays, which I usually spent with my boyfriend’s family outside Boston, became suddenly horrifying. Things went on more or less like this for over a year.