Confession.
Before writing this article, the only time I’d ever visited a strip club was on Sunday night with my buddy, Tony Soprano. Until I watched HBO’s The Sopranos, the closest I had ever gotten was nearly 25 years ago.
I was 19 and broke, working at a bar called Hog City in Fayetteville, Arkansas, late at night. I also served as a dayshift janitor, scrubbing toilets at a cantina whose name I have erased from my memory. Surely, I thought, there must be an easier way to make money than slinging drinks and getting slapped on the ass for free.
I’d read an ad in the university newspaper about Platinum Gentleman’s Club on College Avenue. They were hiring. I called the phone number listed in the paper with the intent of asking when I could audition. I had years of experience as a ballet dancer, so what the hell?
The woman who answered the phone in a brusque, husky voice said, “Don’t come here, honey. This isn’t for you.” Then, she hung up on me, and my exotic dancing career was over before it had begun.
Listen. I’m going to write about what I know. And what I know is food. What would make a hamburger or cheese fries I’d order at, say, a food truck at Guthrie Green on a Friday night any different from what I’d order at a strip club? Food is food. Right?