Gunfight in The Epicure Corral

Hand-to-hand combat will commence tomorrow morning at The Epicure Market here on South Beach. The Epicure is one off those gourmet food markets whose quality makes it a necessity of life, but whose customers make a good excuse for death squads. With a customer base mostly made up of bitchy J.A.P.s and snooty fags, it is hard to imagine a shopping day there without confrontation. It already began on Sunday.

Chris was shopping for the lavish lunch. He had already secured the leg of lamb and all those lobsters needed for the feast, got a second cart, and started loading it with champagne (you can see why invitations to his Sunday lunches are so coveted). Suddenly, one of those S.F.’s came up to him and asked, “Would you please get me a bottle…” of such and such wine? Chris said he was genuinely startled and haughtily replied, “Do I LOOK like I work here?” The guy’s eyebrow went up and said, “Well, I thought since you were putting so much in the cart….” “Well, think again,” Chris sniffed, and the S.F. danced off.

Last year my housemate, Terry—always the planner—had ordered a huge, fresh turkey from Epicure’s superb butcher section weeks in advance. We picked it up on Thanksgiving morning, and while distracted of a selection of new olive oils, someone stole the turkey out of the cart. That’s right, the thief had waited for the window of opportunity and took the bird to the register (I could almost hear the screeching wheels of the Mercedes getaway car.) There were, naturally, no more fresh turkeys left with the sympathetic, but amused, butcher.

The fresh turkey is once again ordered but, we’ll be armed this year with squirt guns: a squirt of bleach for the J.A.P’s grocery couture or a squirt of Pierre Cardin cologne for the S.F.s. No prisoners will be taken.