Eating a Meal Among Naked Strangers
Eating a Meal Among Naked Strangers
Eggs and Sausage in Ottawa
In the east end of Ottawa, Canada’s capital city, there is a gentleman’s club called The NuDen. You’ll find it perched on the shoulder of St. Laurent Boulevard, inside a small strip mall that looks like it was probably intended for clothing retail or casual dining. Yet, sharing walls with both a sex toy boutique and a members-only swingers bar, The NuDen is part of an unassuming hub for hedonism. Where better to eat the most important meal of the day?
I’d been hearing for some time that the club, which sits miles outside the downtown core, served all-day, all-night breakfast. So, one day, after bribing a friend into accompanying me, I hopped on an eastbound bus to check it out.
Inside, The NuDen could be any strip joint in any city. The place is soaked in a perpetual, purple glow. Bass-heavy music thumps through overhead speakers from open to close. Beautiful girls meander from table to table, flirting here and there in hopes of cashing in on a private dance. But, alas, I was there for breakfast.
I asked my server for a menu. I could tell by her reaction that this wasn’t a common request, but a few minutes later I was scanning a laminated page, struggling to read its contents in the dark of the bar. I considered the pancakes as a girl called “Sasha Love” scaled the pole, and the Western omelet as she slid back down it. Finally, however, I decided on the traditional breakfast: eggs how you like them, sausage or bacon, home fries, and toast. A few minutes later, my meal sat in front of me on the sticky tabletop.
It was a classic, rough-and-ready breakfast; one that could have just as easily emerged from the kitchen of a downtown diner or a highway truck stop. The eggs, scrambled, were warm and pillowy. The sausage had assuredly come from a freezer, but pleased the taste buds with a barky crunch and a hint of maple. The home fries came in dice-sized cubes and were accompanied by minced onions. And finally, the toast was slathered in a layer of butter—or some distant cousin of butter—that glowed brightly in the black lights over head. I forked it all down and, in the absence of coffee, punctuated bites with swallows of cheap Canadian beer.
When we were finished our breakfasts, I took a look around. We were certainly the only people eating in the place. The classic restaurant clinks of cutlery on dish ware were entirely absent, replaced by sporadic whistles from the shadowy crowd, who sat in groups around small tables or in leather recliners against the wall.
Slowly, the reality of having eaten a meal among naked strangers and their horny admirers began to dawn on my friend and I. We decided it was time to go and walked outside: our stomachs full, and our eyes struggling to adjust to the light of midday.