There is a time, not inclined to say when but let it be known that the sun is waiting in the wings for its grand entrance, that the stomach begins a rumbling. The champagne has been slish-shloshing in your stomach from all the two stepping. And when you added Mr. Petron to the mix the dance party got a little too friendly in the tummy. So you embark on what can only be described as a vision quest. Hurtling through the New York dawn, you begin to see visions of bacon and eggs in the sky. Arriving at none other then a restaurant that caters to the party set, whose doors never close, and it smells of delicious food at both reasonable and un-reasonable times. The latter being the time we choose.
But when coming straight from the ruckus that is the dancefloor, and not having slept, one can not expect to simply sit at a table and delicately eat as if it were your mothers table. No no. These sorts of breakfasts require a different delicacy. They require that you bring your own speakers, and have an impromptu hip hop concert served to you amid the eggs and waffles and bacon. And of course, you don’t stop dancing.
Early morning meals, right after late morning adventures, where you turn a quiet restaurant into the club you just left and don’t care? That Is Nicotine.
Hawaiian reunion in the big city? That Is Nicotine.