oh how I love thee
Sat 4/8/00 5:31 PM
Subject: Beyond Viande
The best turkey sandwich in New York can be found at Viande, a narrow little coffee shop just north of 61st Street on the East side of Madison Avenue. In spite of the astronomical rents along what is arguably the chicest shopping street in the world, Viande, and its proprietor George have been there for as long as I can remember.
After a morning of shopping at Barney's across the street, I enter the restaurant and settle into my usual booth, one person wide, at the rear next to the wall, decorated with newly-installed mirrors that allow you to spot any errant Russian Dressing that may have escaped from the sandwich and onto your face.
I never have to order. They immediately bring me white meat Turkey sliced fresh off the bird, crisp white lettuce and their home made Russian, on slightly toasted whole wheat bread, along with a club soda, no ice, and lemon. I follow this up with a cup of coffee that I usually get in a paper cup, so I can walk up Madison and sip slowly as I window shop, careful not to spill any on my buckskin Hermes driving gloves.
I am stopped by a youngish man with a glazed look in his eyes and a plea for some change. I ignore him and walk on towards Citibank to get some cash from the ATM. I have my bags from Barney's in one hand and my coffee in the other, so I reach awkwardly for my card in order to open the door to the vestibule, Just north of 65th Street. As I do so, I sense the presence and stench of the glazed young man, who follows me inside. I ignore him as I remove a Thousand Dollars in Twenties from the machine, until be positions himself in front of the door, blocking my exit.
"How about something for me?" he sneers, looking at the wad of bills I still have in my hand, the one that is also grasping the black shopping bags with the silver Barney's logo.
"I don't think anything I have in there would complement your stench," I reply and drop some Twenties on the ground away from the door. He ignores them and reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stiletto, fumbling with the release as it refuses to open.
In the moment he looks down, I kick him, pushing him to the floor beneath the counter that contains the deposit slips. I kick him again in the jaw, which snaps on impact and begins to bleed from the tear where his lips used to meet. I stomp on his neck until the air escaping from his collapsing trachea begins to turn pink with blood. Finished, I suddenly turn and retrieve my receipt from the machine where I left it.
You can't be too careful nowadays.
Virtually yours,
Patrick Bateman
Subject: Beyond Viande
The best turkey sandwich in New York can be found at Viande, a narrow little coffee shop just north of 61st Street on the East side of Madison Avenue. In spite of the astronomical rents along what is arguably the chicest shopping street in the world, Viande, and its proprietor George have been there for as long as I can remember.
After a morning of shopping at Barney's across the street, I enter the restaurant and settle into my usual booth, one person wide, at the rear next to the wall, decorated with newly-installed mirrors that allow you to spot any errant Russian Dressing that may have escaped from the sandwich and onto your face.
I never have to order. They immediately bring me white meat Turkey sliced fresh off the bird, crisp white lettuce and their home made Russian, on slightly toasted whole wheat bread, along with a club soda, no ice, and lemon. I follow this up with a cup of coffee that I usually get in a paper cup, so I can walk up Madison and sip slowly as I window shop, careful not to spill any on my buckskin Hermes driving gloves.
I am stopped by a youngish man with a glazed look in his eyes and a plea for some change. I ignore him and walk on towards Citibank to get some cash from the ATM. I have my bags from Barney's in one hand and my coffee in the other, so I reach awkwardly for my card in order to open the door to the vestibule, Just north of 65th Street. As I do so, I sense the presence and stench of the glazed young man, who follows me inside. I ignore him as I remove a Thousand Dollars in Twenties from the machine, until be positions himself in front of the door, blocking my exit.
"How about something for me?" he sneers, looking at the wad of bills I still have in my hand, the one that is also grasping the black shopping bags with the silver Barney's logo.
"I don't think anything I have in there would complement your stench," I reply and drop some Twenties on the ground away from the door. He ignores them and reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a stiletto, fumbling with the release as it refuses to open.
In the moment he looks down, I kick him, pushing him to the floor beneath the counter that contains the deposit slips. I kick him again in the jaw, which snaps on impact and begins to bleed from the tear where his lips used to meet. I stomp on his neck until the air escaping from his collapsing trachea begins to turn pink with blood. Finished, I suddenly turn and retrieve my receipt from the machine where I left it.
You can't be too careful nowadays.
Virtually yours,
Patrick Bateman