Friday night, Dr. V and I hit up our favorite bar off Amsterdam Avenue and after a couple of drinks decided to end the evening with some dancing at Loca Luna. While I know more than a few people who would accuse me of being insensitive to Micheal Jackson’s death last week, I did feel a tad bit sentimental when the DJ ended the evening with some of Jacko’s best. There is nothing like throwing down to 9 to 5 at the end of a hard day’s work.
When we left Loca Luna and got back to Dr. V’s car, she noticed she had a flat tire and we both let out a collective “Oh shit.” The words had barely left our mouths, when a car full of people pulled up next to us and asked us if everything was alright. Thank you fairy godmother. “No, it isn’t,” Dr. V proclaimed, “we need a ride.” I was ready to add getting-in-the-car-with-strangers to the list of stupid things Dr. V and I seem to do together, but as I squeezed myself into the backseat, I noticed the driver was speaking Spanish with a very familiar accent. “Where are you from?” I asked her in Spanish. “Venezuela,” she responded. My people come to the rescue again! She offered to take us all the way home, but I noticed a certain sadness in Dr. V’s eyes are we drove past Taco Cabana, so I asked our new-found Venezuelan compatriot to drop us off at the Intercontinental Hotel– a short walk from my apartment and home to Au Pied de Cochon, one of my favorite 24 hour drunken eateries.
After a short stop in the restroom of the Intercontinental where, I’ll admit, I couldn’t help pocketing some of the lovely hand towels (as Dr. V looked on reproachfully), we took a seat at a table and I tried to act normal. For some of you, acting normal may come easy. As easy, say, as it is for me to drink a 6-pack of beer and have my dog’s collar get caught to my underwear as I’m on the phone with a friend, and I have to say, “Hold on, my dog is stuck to my underwear,” as my dog flails his neck wildly in every direction trying to dislodge himself from my hip, and finally I just take the damn things off and the dog goes bounding off the bed with my underwear still attached. For me, normal doesn’t always come easy.
Luckily as Dr. V was hissing at me to “act normal” and stop staring at that group of girls who were out waaaay past their bedtime and must have teleported there from an episode of Sweet Valley High, our waiter came to take our order and said the magic words that any professional eater loves to hear at 3:00 a.m.: All-You-Can-Eat Buffet.
I have to digress for a moment and tell you about this reoccurring dream I’ve had since the age of 6 or 7 where I open the doors to an abandoned warehouse and everything I have ever loved or wanted to eat is set up on tables that span the entire circumference of the building. Thanks to Au Pied de Cochon, I don’t think I will be having this dream again for a very long time–the desire has been satiated.
The buffet consisted of the creamiest, most delicious eggs (with a huge helping of grated cheddar cheese), bacon, potatoes, pancakes, french toast, fresh salmon, sausage, biscuits, muffins, and a whole table of fresh fruit. The only thing missing was a bucket full of nutella for me to dunk my head in as dessert. I don’t know what good deed Dr. V and I did to happen upon this late night miracle, but I’m pretty sure it was something big.
I’ve scoured Au Pied’s website and can’t find anything about a late-night buffet, but I swear to you it exists, and it’s worth the $21.00 price tag if you want a special treat every now and then.