Posted by jack on November 01, 2006 at 02:46:13:
DINING OUT WITH GEORGE
by George
Last night we visited a new dining venue that we venture to say is THE most interesting restaurant we’ve happened upon in our twenty plus years of doing this column.
This hottest of hot spots is called “Club-X New York” and is found on the lower east side in what had been an old warehouse but is anything but that now. Club-X is upscale, beautiful, incredibly expensive, daring, breathtaking, impossible to believe and above all, TASTY!
First, a word about how this stunning adventure in dining became possible, or should we say, legal. You will recall that a year ago the Supreme Court upheld an Oregon law permitting assisted suicide and shortly thereafter many states enacted similar laws, New York being one. The culinary implication of this change in the social order is now being realized on Saturday nights at the restaurant just mentioned. In a word, not yet in Webster’s but surely soon to be there, the fare at this fabulous establishment is: “girlmeat”. Yes, girlmeat! Is it good? The meal I had was wonderful. Let me relate the experience.
I was shown to a small, linen draped table on the sixth and top tier of the spacious seating areas. The floors rise above and surround a circular space rather like the stage of a dinner theater, and a stage it is. It is here, before the eyes of the diners who will consume them, that lovely young women are transformed into delicacies for the palette and food for the stomach. Technically, the creatures submit themselves to the butchers. The law requires nothing less. But it appeared to this observer that few if any of the “volunteers” arrived at Club-X that evening expecting to depart in the digestive systems of their fellow patrons. Ah, the uncertainty of fate!
The poor things had only themselves to blame. Guests are informed on entering the restaurant that suitable females among them will be enticed to surrender their lives. They are warned that many will fall victim to the desires that preside notwithstanding the firmest intentions to the contrary. Men, too, are advised that their escorts are fair game (so to speak) and are not admitted until they sign waivers. Yet, I saw not a single eligible, as in edible, female who heeded the warning and left and but a few who sobered from their festive ease to guard against the danger.
Two young women at a table near my own proved a case in point. Sisters from the Midwest, they had come to the city in recent weeks in the hopes of making a profession of their wholesome good looks. One was twenty, the other twenty-two. They were by themselves, leaning toward each other over drinks, conversing in hushed tones as I observed them, my waitress having tipped me off. On entering the restaurant, the dear things had been tempted to try for the “door prize”, guaranteed to be worth twenty thousand dollars. A guest needed only to plop down a dollar and spend a moment in the “Qualification Booth” to obtain a ticket. In the booth, next to posted sections of the Internal Revenue Code, one entered one’s name, address, birth date and social security number via a keyboard, and had a photograph taken. The exercise concluded in the printing of the aforementioned data and photo together with an acknowledgment, to be signed, by which the entrant agreed to accept the prize whatever it turned out to be provided it was worth the promised sum, this being a precaution for the protection of the management, so stated, in case a winner was dissatisfied at spending a dollar for a prize she didn’t like.
The evening’s events began with the awarding of the door prize. A white haired man in a tuxedo took the stage with a hand held microphone and announced that there were seven winners this night. He read their names. The sisters beamed and clapped their hands. They were all ears waiting to learn what they had won, not noticing in their rapt attention the four busboys who came up and stood silently behind their table.
A meat girl on the present market was worth twenty thousand dollars, the moderator said. At this, the expressions froze on the pair of lovely faces.
“Yes, our seven winners have each won the once in a lifetime opportunity to become girl roasts and they will become that tonight. The judges could have selected more than seven given the number of entrants, but they chose only the finest specimens in keeping with the high standards of Club-X.”
He went on to say amid appreciative laughter that in the booths the girls had provided the information about themselves required for the certificates that the attendant doctor had signed, permitting their deliveries to the chefs. For those unacquainted with the new law, anyone may give up one’s time on this earth provided a licensed physician certifies the sincerity of his or her intention on a form issued by the state health officials. Club-X employs two doctors for that purpose. We understand they are rather well paid.
“We’re sure our prize winners weren’t misled by those IRS decorations,” the gentleman said with a wink.
The speaker paused during the commotion that ensued as busboys secured the prize winners at their various locations, contending in one instance with the physical objections of a male escort. The fellow was tossed out into the cold New York night. One hates to see that sort of incident even at a three star establishment let alone one of the quality of Club-X. Unforuntely, it would not be last such disturbance.
As for myself, I watched the sisters struggle briefly before gags, bound wrists and ankles stilled them. Then, to my surprise, the girls were hauled before my table.
“Felix would like you to select a nipple,” my waitress said.
The girls wore satin dresses, one black and one red, with scooped necks. The handlers yanked at the gowns, baring four absolutely perfect young breasts, each with a nipple that was more smooth than puffy. I was quite taken aback, much as I was many years ago when, as a novice reviewer, I ordered pigeon at the great Zalacain in Madrid and my waiter returned with a birdcage. I couldn’t help but recall that awkward moment long ago, having to choose between the two darling birds peering back at me, as I considered my selection of nipples.
“That one,” I said, finally, pointing to a tit on the twenty year old. The choice I confess was arbitrary.
“Yes, sir,” said one of the young men. His companion placed a metallic cup over the breast in question. I saw that the thing was attached by a cord to a square object on the floor. The young woman jerked, as if electrocuted. I had no idea what was happening. The cup was removed after a few seconds. The breast was whiter now, the nipple nearly drained of its pink color.
“They chill it sir, it congeals the blood,” my waitress whispered in my ear.
I hadn’t noticed Felix’s arrival. He greeted me, then stepped up to the quaking young woman and, with a knife, snipped off the nipple, placed it in a napkin and passed it to one of the busboys who immediately departed for the kitchen. The two girls quickly followed in the grasps of the busboys. Heart rending though it was to watch those once hopeful young lives carried off to the butcher block, a scene of still greater pathos had already begun to unfold though I didn’t yet know it.
“Come. You should see this,” Felix said.
I followed him to the staircase. We descended to one of the lower levels, the second if I’m not mistaken, and made our way past several groups of diners before stopping.
“There,” said Felix, pointing to a couple a few tables away. “Married this morning. Flew here from Alabama. They didn’t have a clue what this place is. A beauty isn’t she?”
Indeed she was. An innocent, pretty face in a luxuriant frame of auburn, the hair falling below her shoulders. As we were soon to see, she had a model’s body, just right for a magazine but I would find myself wondering if her quantity of meat was as pleasing to Felix. It was a thought I could not have imagined myself having until then. At the moment the sweet thing was in a clingy silk dress, half hidden by her table.
The maid of honor and best man had combined to buy the newlyweds a New York honeymoon, a suite at The Plaza for the wedding night and, before that, dinner at Club-X. It seems the bridesmaid had heard something about the restaurant being on the “cutting edge” of contemporary dining. She thought it strange that photographs were required of those seeking reservations. When she received an email inviting her to apply for a “place at the head table” she thought this an honor worth pursuing for her best friend. Again, it struck her as odd that a power of attorney would be necessary. Chalking the requirement up to the ways of fancy New York types, she obtained the document through a small subterfuge and mailed it along with an application that had far too many words for her to take time to read. While grammatically correct, “at” turned out to be a misleading preposition. The bride’s place would be “on” the head table. Shaved, plucked, denailed, gutted and stuffed, the young woman would provide a decorative presence during dinner and would be roasted afterward for a Sunday brunch at which a number of dignitaries, including the mayor, were expected. The groom’s place, if anyone was interested, really was “at” the table if he wanted to be there.
The moderator explained the basics of this as Felix and I stood quietly by the wall.
“As you can see from the entrees, the girlmeat comes in small pieces,” the man said into an entranced silence. “There isn’t time to cook up whole roasts, so the management will put on display the longpig that will be roasted for the VIP brunch tomorrow. Better than nothing, right? She’ll be on that table the boys are moving onto the stage and tomorrow that will be the head table at the brunch.”
The lights dimmed. Then a spot light illuminated the newlyweds, revealing to them and to us the selected “longpig”. The groom jumped from his chair. He shouted and waved his arms in frantic protest. A crew of strongmen emerged from the shadows and wrestled him to the floor. They shackled the poor chap and dragged him off. The adorable bride appeared more confused than alarmed, perhaps not yet comprehending her altered and abbreviated role in the world. The busboys whisked her away amid much enthusiastic applause.
In a few minutes, the atmosphere was restored to its former tranquility and the moderator again addressed us. Twenty-seven girls would be taken, he advised, nineteen for the evening dinners plus eight others. I had counted the tables. His number confirmed my own. There were eighteen tables along each of the six rings, one hundred eight in all. The majority seated four but there several smaller tables like my own, the sisters and the newlyweds. Together they accommodated three hundred sixty guests, not counting the twenty-seven who would be changing from diners to dinees, as it were. The math worked out to one cooked girl to every seventeen diners, the right number according to Felix and if anyone knew the right number about such a thing, Felix did.
The eight remaining girls would be snuffed, gutted, put on ice – not frozen, mind you. Club-X deals only in fresh meat – but chilled for delivery the next day to take out customers. As mentioned, raw roasts fetch a cool twenty grand on today’s market. A mere seven girls had so far gone to the chefs. How then would the next twenty be selected? A fellatio contest would begin to answer that question. The champion of the event, the possessor of the first mouth to drip success, would receive a cash prize of fifty thousand dollars. The loser would be served in approximately seventeen dinners.
When the moderator was done, twenty contestants chosen by the management from more than twice that number who had signed up in advance left their tables and came to the stage. Unlike the “door prize” girls and the bride, these young women knew they were at risk, but for whatever reason the risk was one they were willing and even eager to take, confident in their abilities to do better than come in last, no pun intended. Most brought with them the male half of their duos; a few relied on studs provided by the management. The women stripped, leaving their clothes in neat piles behind them and formed a wide circle on the stage, kneeling in front of the men, also nude, each seated on a stool. At the sound of a whistle, the mouths went into action. Assistance by hands was not permitted. The winner in under sixty seconds was an Italian girl with sweeping black hair and wonderful breasts who many in attendance must have wished had lost, but their disappointment was doubtless forgotten when the moderator finally pronounced the “loser” among the girls who lay gasping and cum drenched around him. They were all losers. Only the brilliant Italian would survive.
“A loser is any party to a contest who is not the winner”, the moderator stated with unassailable logic. Before the girls fully understood what he had said, a horde of busboys descended and began hauling them off to the kitchen. The girl meat quota for the evening’s menu was filled.
Tomorrow: Girl meat prepared and served and this reviewer’s “one to five forks rating” for Club-X New York.
(The follow up column was never published. A copy editor threw up reading George's description of a finished girl roast (the former Alabama bride) done cajun style, ruining the typewritten draft. George didn't have the heart, or the stomach, to write it again.