They’re predicting 3 feet of snow, the mayor is saying it’ll be the worst our city has ever seen (it won’t be), and everyone has already run to the supermarket to buy all the bread.
Not me, though.
I have bought no bread. I was busy eating burp-y Italian food.
While everyone else was panicking at Food Emporium, Steven and I and some friends were taking a drive to the Dia: Beacon art museum and then trying out one of those overrated Italian restaurants on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. I mean, I’m glad we went, it was “a true experience” as billed, but the food kinda sucked.
This place doesn’t give you menus, so you bone up on chowhound.com beforehand, and memorize what you want. “We’ll take the baked clams and the linguine all’ Gianni,” I told the waiter, proud of my preparedness.
“No seafood,” he said. “No seafood on Sundays.”
This explains why the restaurant was only half-filled when all the reviews online said “worth the wait.”
What we ended up with was a table loaded with many things stuffed with ground meat.
Things wrapped around a giant meatball. Red pepper wrapped around a giant meatball. Tough flank steak wrapped around a giant meatball. Cavatelli with broccoli rabe and sausage, which, no, was not wrapped around a giant meatball, but wasn’t nearly as good as the penne in vodka sauce looked.
The guys next to us offered us as much as we wanted of theirs.
They had a giant, giant plate of it, which I really wanted to try but was too shy to say yes. At some part of the meal, I shrank into my head, having an interior monologue about why I don’t go for what I want when it’s right there.
It sounds like I’m complaining, but we had a great time — especially listening to the woman behind us braying in a thick NY accent, “TELL US ABOUT YAHW TRIP!! I WANNA HEAR ABOUT THE CRUISE!! WHO’S SHARON? DO I KNOW SHARON?” — and the whole point here was that I was not in line with everyone else to scramble for all the bread. We could’ve brought home the leftover giant meatballs we’d eviscerated, and might have if there had been a citywide panic for giant meatballs.
Because that’s why people in Manhattan, who can dial up The Grand Sichuan up till around midnight in any weather, buy anything a full 24 hours before a blizzard — right?
These people don’t even eat bread.
They hold up the line at Murray’s bagels to get their bagels scooped out and then lick all the cream cheese off, and that’s breakfast, because they have a carb avoidance policy disguised as a “gluten allergy.”
It’s my theory that they simply fear not getting something that’s running out, and want a leg up on someone who missed it.
Maybe bargaining power, because having all the bread puts people at your mercy.
The person buying all the bread knows they’ll never make anything with it, especially since the toaster’s broken, but they picture a ragamuffin father showing up at their apartment door begging, “Please, please, do you have an English muffin I could divide amongst my 8 children?”
And then, because the bread hoarders are good people when push comes to shove, and the human spirit always triumphs, they would say, “‘Here, take this, tho’ ’tis my last Thomas'” (pronounced Thomassez,) and would even take in the family, the wizened matriarch of which would turn out to be a registered nurse practitioner and save someone in the host family who’d sustained an infected cut opening a can of Progresso soup, which he’d ignored in his cabinet for 20 years and kept forgetting to give to the local can drive, but suddenly wanted because the snow was starting to come down real hard. That’s when you hit the mediocre Chunky Vegetable Primavera With Pasta Twists.
She would know how to cleanly amputate that person’s arm so that the blood poisoning didn’t spread, and save his life.
And all this would happen before the snow even started sticking.
People are already hunkering down!
And me, I have to go up to the Upper West Side for my gyno appointment, because if I miss it those fuckers will charge me a fee and withhold my prescription for birth control, which is what I use to regulate my hormones so I don’t get pimply and fat. Otherwise, I’d be running to see if there’s any bread left.
Now that it’s run out, I kind of want some.
Should we have brought home that meatball from last night?
Do you buy out of panic? Whether it’s bread during a blizzard, a pair of shoes you read were “selling out everywhere” (I have those, do you want to buy them?), or business courses that have “just 3 spots left”?
Do you think these people are really going to eat all that bread?
Plans for the blizzard, if one’s coming your way?
Eaten on Arthur Ave?
TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS