Food Club

It's not like fight club. You can talk about it. And as much as I thought bravado might be involved, I was pleasantly surprised. Food club is our medical students' version of pearls and slinky black dresses, of canapes and martinis and petit amuse bouche on a quiet evening with friends. We have pot luck dinners together, and until recently, I've shunned the club, fearing a reprise of the Harvard cocktail hour I've grown to both desire and dread. I was wrong.

It was Italian night. Pasta puttanesca. Tiramisu. We were swamped with delectable food. The president of the class offered up his recently redecorated spectacular downtown loft, which he shares with his gorgeous wife and two years-old daughter. I spent a good amount of time taking in the black granite kitchen counters, the tasteful chocolate colored wall and red exposed bricks, admiring the smartly designed space with bursts of color and beautifully placed art. It was a real home, a young, hip home, which made the event felt more like a gathering of twenty-something professionals and less like a college dorm party. People I hadn't thought of as existing outside the classroom came. They were cordial, interesting, and the conversations finally buzzed about something other than school. Ben's girlfriend was studying at the Cordon Blue in Paris. Eikero traded recipes with Elana for flour-less molten chocolate cake. We talked about the news, and news of friends dating, having kids. We talked about Mike. Suddenly, these personalities that irked me in class became interesting, human, and fresh. I finally realized that my impressions of them were incomplete, and I stand very much corrected.

In the end, I also realized this: I really should get out more.