Each month, we have a supper club. Each month, we eat until we're so sick that we must go immediately home to moan and pass out and try to put water back into our dehydrated, liquor-filled systems, and then immediately schedule the next meal once we can think straight and remember how to operate a computer. This: is supper club.
(Does this sound like the Law & Order intro, or is that just inside my head? Ugh, WRITING, I tell ya. I'd just become one of those creepy YouTube vloggers if I had the self-confidence to handle thirty comments about my forehead being huge or my skin being translucent or be able to admit that frankly, I just don't want to straighten my hair for the sole purpose of being mocked slightly less.)
Considering I've been to The Standard's top floor less times than I have fingers with rings on them, and have blocked any time spent in night clubs completely out of my brain passage because I don't like being judged to my face, it was slightly terrifying to find out we only got our names on the list because my pal Kristen put them down, since they flat out rejected my better male half and told him to come back to add his two hours later. Two hours later! It's one thing to subject yourself to a bouncer in a Herve Leger knockoff bandage dress on Chelsea's clubby blocks, but having a early 20's skateboarder-lookin' dude decide if you're worthy enough for stir-fry pastrami or not is a whole different level of anxiety and judging of self-worth that I can't even being to dive into.
We were warned it would take forever, but legit: the list does not matter. They'll sit you whenever they feel like it, mostly based on your face shape and attitude and if you look cool or not. We got lucky, since the staff ended up being pretty dope too — I exchanged numbers with one of the girls there like we're best friend blind dating or somethin' — but good thing I'm not above eating bananas in the front of a restaurant while drinking tiny cups of beer from the complimentary "at least you can booze for free while you're stuck waiting here" keg, because both happened, uh, immediately.
The first question we asked was, "How much does it cost to order the entire menu?"
This was the response to our second question: "Do you think we ordered enough?"
Someone, please take the time to make sure the wreath at my clogged artery funeral is shaped like a T-bone steak.
And then, they came. The spiciest little bites of meat, the most unbelievable bits of bacon, the hottest, most savory catfish stew, the saltiest, well, everything — we were wasted, and everything in front of us was a drunk person's dream. Can you imagine, being the perfect mix of intoxicated and hungry, unable to see anything clearly under their drug lair red lights and just reaching for a spoonful of something and ending up with salt cod fried rice and kung pao pastrami?! A soju-enhanced wonderland that's enough to make me swear off ever ordering a late night mistake from Kool Bloo again.
Well, for now at least.
I don't remember tweeting this.
(Luckily, it's true.)
Yeah. That kind of full.
Because what else can you do, when your sodium levels have reached an all time high and your tongue is torched but watch your favorite heavyset redhead make an ass out of himself while drunkenly texting with a friend five blocks away because you're too tapped out to even think of putting on pants, shoes, or even standing up?
That moment when you have to face the exact number of entrees that caused you to feel so gosh darn fucking horrible and be low on fluids for the next four days, yet can't wait to do it all again.
(Speaking of, saw that these homies now take reservations! 3-4 days in advance on weekdays, at least 2 weeks in advance for weekends, firstname.lastname@example.org. NY location only. Save me a slab of bacon?)