The details were clear, but the name was not. What would we call this meeting of the minds and stomachs?
I hosted the first meeting of our unnamed club in late January: a sampling of Asian delicacies to honor the Chinese New Year. Forcing Doug into the role of sous chef, we hand-folded dim sum and prepared teriyaki meatballs, sweet and sour slow-cooked chicken, long life noodles, and an array of veggies. I may have also hit Party City a little too hard on the décor, but it was the first dinner, and I was excited. In fact, I was so excited to kick off this tradition that I completely failed to take photos. Yes, you read that right – a food blogger failed to take a single acceptable photo of her food. (Rookie move, Berger. Rookie move.) We listened to the soothing tunes of my “Basic Bitch” playlist, followed by my “Not So Basic Bitch” playlist, to prove I could make the distinction.
Our second dinner was last weekend, hosted by another couple. The theme was fondue, and make no mistake, the preparation was intense. We roasted, we thawed, and we chopped, all for the love of dipping. For broth fondue, I was stoked to learn they went all the way to Brodo in the East Village (bucket list, check!) for its Hearth and Gingered Grass-Fed Beef broths, which we simmered to enjoy with fresh filet, cremini mushrooms, and roasted potatoes.
Of course, we made a three-cheese fondue for dunking fresh bread, apples, and anything else we could stab with our skewers. Cheese fondue is kind of funny, because you don’t realize how much you’ve consumed until it’s too late – too late being when the hostess says, “we haven’t even gotten to chocolate yet!” and you’re wondering whether, after a few bottles of wine, the cheese is still clinging to your esophagus.
But in this club, we forge ahead, even when it’s too late. For dessert, we created Ghirardelli chocolate fondue, served with pound cake, sliced strawberries, and Teddygram-stuffed marshmallows. I brought along a six-pack of Levain cookie mounds for good measure.
At this point, we had certainly gone too far. Existing in a disconcerting place between drunk, stuffed, and jolly, I announced to the table that I was unbuttoning my pants. Others followed suit, realizing that elastic waistbands would be the key to surviving future dinners.
In that moment, we discovered the one true name for our group: The Stretchy Pants Supper Club. A name so fitting, it expands to cover us all.
Until next time, SPSC.