Hey, Look: Stuffed Disco Peppers
Plus everywhere and everything I’ve been eating this week in New York City
Hey everyone,
COVID, RSV, and the common cold are once again very on-trend, and yours truly was among the exclusive recipients of a raging sinus infection last week. Slay!
Yes, I may be on a wellness journey, but standing next to a small child on the MTA with his hand shoved half-way up his nose digging for gold boogies for a good five whole minutes while wiping his treasures onto the subway pole teeming with Bubonic plague and fecal matter from people’s ass cracks was a gentle reminder that I live among disgusting human beings and am therefore chronically susceptible to everything no matter what. Once again, I implore you to wear a mask and wash your hands. Make everyone else do it, too.
After pumping my body full of ginger and turmeric tonics, chicken soup, and oregano oil (i.e., scientifically and medically proven weed witch self-healer shit), I nursed myself back to health in time to go to an 8 a.m. intensive Pilates class in SoHo (who am I?!) before spending the afternoon getting dolled up to check out Joyface’s sporadic Matinee dance party—an early bird DJ set geared towards people like myself who like to get dressed up to get down in Alphabet City, but also enjoy going to bed at a reasonable hour.
Turns out that’s actually a lot of people because it keeps selling out in about 30 minutes every time they drop tickets. Guaranteed moneymaker in this economy: tired queer-friendly Millennials who are either child-free or desperate for a night away to dance, dance, dance, and see and be seen in the city where they spend far too much time working to pay rent than having fun and need a solid excuse to be dragged out. Free pizza doesn’t hurt, either.
Joyface has a very casino-like effect as a nightclub where the concepts of time and space begin to lose meaning. Every time I checked my phone, I couldn’t help but feel like I was winning at life drunkenly sacrificing myself to Madonna on Joyface’s balcony like a go-go dancer at 7 p.m. Everyone was beautiful and fabulous; we were all friends in song, dance, and spirit. What you see before you is a ghost of a younger, more carefree version of myself, but only before the clock hits midnight, the spell is broken, the fantasy ends, and I turn into a pumpkin. And just like that, I made five new friends and remember two of their names. Thanks, Sarah Jessica Parker!
At some point during the evening, I find myself grappling with the reverse version of Renee Rapp’s “unhinged” ageism by feeling forced to provide a cultural crash course to some youngin’ choking on a cig—who only asked to be educated simply by virtue of being completely off-base to the point of near offense—on the detailed history of Madonna vs. Abba and her controversial legacy as a Tompkins Square fixture during her Desperate Seeking Susan and Pyramid Club (R.I.P.) era like some wise, but borderline cranky drunken hipstress serving as the patron sage and crone du jour of the Village as if doing so is some expected act of public good and cultural lip service to honor of generations of New York punks as an involuntary historian of “my people; our struggle: the misfits.”
This was the moment I should have just gone home, but instead I popped into Accidental Bar two doors down to see my bartender, Austin Power, where I caught wind of a new sake producer in Bushwick called Kato that is about to release some really cool, sophisticated stuff on tap soon. Somehow another two sakes landed in front of me so that I awoke to a familiar pain reminding me why I don’t drink like that anymore or wear heeled boots that look dope but pinch my toes. Will I learn my lesson? Probably not! But about with the same regularity as most of my remaining vices: infrequently.
Curing my fragile body that had just been through, I grabbed brunch at Zizi’s in Chelsea: a Bloody Mary rimmed with za’atar, a remarkably cool riff on shakshuka with creamed Swiss chard, spinach, zucchini, brie (!) and almonds, and a solid four hours of shit talking among a group of yentas. Taking a short disco nap after helped move the recovery process along, allowing me to meet with my cousin at Thai Diner, where I had a very good duck egg drop soup, Tom Khaa-stuffed cabbage rolls, and a glass of Chenin Blanc of a producer whose name I did not grab but was very good. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed Monday morning, I met up for a breakfast date with fellow food writer Victoria Marin at Cafe Chelsea—an absolutely fabulous and charming spot to have a coffee/breakfast date (with an excellent Benedict on a gluten-free English muffin), rounding out a pretty great weekend of seeing so many people I hadn’t connected with in-person in ages.
Still, eating out so much mostly made me look forward to cooking at home again. Which brings me to the stuffed disco peppers. As I spent Monday night catching up with the latest episode of True Detective (SO good), I started making these keto-friendly stuffed peppers* (recipe below) because sometimes you need to be the comfort in your own life. Stuffed peppers are one of those dishes that are deceptively easy, but always look like you put in way more effort. Under heat and in darkness, they crackle, sweat, and pop, marinating in their own juices and showing off flavor on the aluminum-covered sheet pan floor. They’re centerplate stars—though you would have never pegged them for it because they’re ugly-delicious. Plus they’re covered in cheese and studded with shrooms and spicy jalapenos—very disco, imo.
It wasn’t intentional, but the idea of calling them “stuffed disco peppers” reminded me of my grandmother’s recipe for “Tango Chicken” that was printed in the local paper. How does a chicken tango? With Spanish rice. So, why wouldn’t a pepper disco with beef and mushrooms? Most stuffed pepper recipes usually call for rice or cauliflower rice, but the mushrooms helped to soak up the extra liquid while the cream cheese gave it a little Stroganoff quality perfect for these chilly days and just the tiniest bite from jalapeño. *If you want to go into the stratosphere, swap the olive oil for a cannabis-infused version.
As usual, I didn’t take any photos of it or put it on TikTok, but neither did my grandma when she was alive and I use her recipes all the time. Plus, this AI interpretation only continues to prove my point about the importance of full editorial teams and my lack of concern about being replaced by this technology.
Give it a try and let me know what you think in the comments! Also, smash the like button if you like the idea of stuffed peppers, this newsletter, or just me. Better yet: upgrade your subscription today and you can get that recipe.
On a final note, I just want to end this newsletter by acknowledging the tragic loss of musician Luis Vasquez of The Soft Moon, who passed away on January 19. Having just seen him play a couple years ago, it’s truly a shame to have witnessed someone so talented with such incredible potential and a promising career taken so soon. My heart goes out to his family and close friends, and I was very appreciative that they shared this excellent playlist that they’d play pre-show. I’ve been listening all week and it’s fantastic—you can really see how all of these picks influenced his style.
MORE RECIPES
Recipe: Stuffed Disco Peppers
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