I’m taking the day off work to go to Atlantic City. Yes, yes, I know. I feel a little sheepish about all this. But listen, if you and your friends were inexplicably offered a junket to a gambling mecca on the strength of your sparsely-written food blog, you’d take it, too. Particularly if it came with a free limo ride up I-95.
For the past week I’ve been relearning my betting tables, buying some laughably aspirational card-counting iPhone apps and mentally preparing myself for the worldly cosmopolitanism of the Atlantic City boardwalk (last time I was there I saw a leathery woman in too much makeup and not enough cocktail dress stomp up the boards, a shady-looking grifter-type in pursuit — the type of guy who’s always down on his luck, which is is probably best for everyone. As they passed she turned and asked/exclaimed, “GOD, WHY ARE YOU UP MY BUTT TWENTY-FOUR SEVEN?”
Onward, to Jersey!