Charcuterie Hot Tub Emporium

"NO HEAVY PETTING IN THE TUBS. NO FUNNY BUSINESS OR YOU WILL BE CHARGED WITH INDECENT EXPOSURE AND FINES OF UP TO $3,000," a sign with large red block letters sternly admonished patrons at the entrance.

I opened the door, and a petite brunette hostess greeted me. "Have you been here before? Do you have a reservation?"

"This is my first time, but yes," I replied. "Six in the evening."

"And your name?"

After I told her, she checked the list and confirmed, "Yes, I have you here. Your cabana is booth ten." She pointed to the booth with her manicured index finger. "Here is your bell. Use this to ring for your attendant. Everything you need will be available at your cabana."

Eighteen cabanas encircled the entrance and hostess's podium in a horseshoe. The walls halfway up were made of corrugated steel painted magenta, which provided a striking backdrop to the delicate ironwork seaming the Murano pastel glass-stained roof overhead.

At the heart of the emporium stood a pool dominated by a scarlet porphyry fountain. The fountain rose in tiers, each one narrower than the last, culminating in a finely crafted finial at its peak. At the pinnacle, a statue of a goat-man pissed water.

I took the brass bell and walked to my cabana, where a man in a tailored black tailcoat and three-piece suit greeted me, gracefully carrying a tray. "Welcome, I am your butler. I will be serving you this evening in your cabana."

Each whitewashed, wooden, roofless cabana was mostly enclosed for intimacy, except for the side facing the pool. Bougainvillea draped elegantly over the structures. Inside, a stone hot tub, spacious enough for two, featured contoured seating designed for maximum comfort. Lit pillar candles surrounded the tub's perimeter, save for the staircase. The water was scattered with delicate rose petals.

"I can take your robe, miss," the butler said, extending his gloved hand. I stripped down to my bathing suit and slid into the tub, handing him my robe. "Towels are to the left. I can adjust the jets and the temperature to your liking as well. Just ring the bell whenever you need me."

He departed briefly and returned with a menu. His suit clung to him like a second skin, sweat pouring from his brow and trickling down his face in rivulets that streaked through his flushed cheeks and pooled around his collar. His hair, plastered against his forehead, hung in damp strands glued stubbornly to his scalp. He blinked furiously, attempting to clear the salty, stinging sweat that dripped into his eyes.

"Do you know what you want to order?" he asked.

"No," I replied, shaking my head out of pity. "Let me think about it for three minutes or so."

"My pleasure," he responded graciously, stepping back from my tub. Each stride echoed with a soft squelch of his shoes. Glancing across the pool, I observed a moderately attractive couple in cabana seven generously tipping their butler, then discreetly awaiting his departure before indulging in their private escapade.

How much did they slip into his palm?

My attention drifted from the menu I was meant to peruse. It was only when my butler returned, his once-pristine white shirt now soddenly clung to his torso, that I snapped out of my voyeuristic trance. Every bead of sweat traced a shimmering path down his chest.

"Hello, miss," he greeted politely. "Do you know what you'd like to order?"

"I'm terribly sorry," I confessed, a hint of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. "I couldn't decide in time. What would you recommend?"

Opening the menu, I found only two pages: the first listing glasses and bottles of champagne, lambrusco, and prosecco; the second dedicated entirely to variations of a single dish—wrapped dates.

Some were stuffed with picante gorgonzola, others with brie.

The names of various dynasties and groups were listed on the menu: Belz, Bobov, Breslov, Lubavitcher, Ger, Satmar, Skver, Slonim, Spinka, Tolna, Vizhnitz, Sadigura, Modzitz, Toldos Aharon...

And then the yeshivas: Mir Yeshiva, Lakewood Yeshiva, Brisk Yeshiva, Chaim Berlin Yeshiva...

"Umm," I hesitated, unsure.

"Yes?" the butler prompted kindly. "Can I assist you? I'm happy to answer any questions. It's farm-to-table, no GMOs. We source the dates from Arava and Megillot. You choose between picante gorgonzola or brie, or opt for no cheese, and select whether you prefer Hassidic or Litvish wrapping. Litvish tends to be darker meat. Personally, I favor the Litvish wrapped dates, though the Satmar variety is quite popular these days."

"How is this even legal?"

"Well, people don’t want the skins anymore. Lots of celebrities and tech gurus come here. There are plenty of health benefits too. Helps reverse senescence. Emperor Nero has been coming here for two thousand years. He even donated that fountain. It matches his tub," the waiter explained, gesturing towards the marble fountain with his damp, gloved hand. "So, what would you like to order?"

Reluctant to be impolite, I opted for a bottle of Armand De Brignac rosé champagne and six gorgonzola Satmar-wrapped dates, then settled into the tub. The butler returned promptly with the champagne and dates. The polished silver tray he carried wobbled slightly, his grip slick with perspiration struggling to maintain its hold.

He precariously placed the charcuterie into my tub as I sipped my champagne. The skin, intended to be crispy, was now soggy and pallid. The dates, plump and sticky, split open under the weight of the melting gorgonzola. The blue-veined cheese lumped with the foreskin grease. The steam only intensified the pungent aroma— sweet dates, savory skin, and sour cheese that turned my stomach.

Pushing the charcuterie board, slick with condensation, away from me, I waited a few moments. The butler returned and noticed my discomfort.

"Are you enjoying the food and accommodations, miss? You look rather green in the face," he remarked.

I nodded uncomfortably. He left briefly and returned with a bald man who looked like a fatter Foucault and a charming woman with a broad, veneered smile.

"Hello, usually this never happens," the bald man greeted me. "Is everything okay? I’m the owner of this emporium. We strive to provide the best service. We’ve had all the greatest men come here."

"Not really," I began to retch in the tub. "How do you even source these skins?"

"We get them from a mohel named Bob," the bald owner admitted. "Would you like a refund?"

"Nuhh. Blaarrggh.. NOo..." I barfed. "Gaahhh.. No. How? How?"

The owner seemed unfazed by my barfing. "Well, the 'mohel' is more of a Rastafarian than a traditional mohel, but he runs a tight ship. It’s all legit."

"No, no, no. Why is it all Jewish foreskins?"

"Well, if we used Christian or Islamic foreskins, the public would have a conniption, and we’d be shut down," the bald owner explained.

"And what do you think God would think of all this? He would surely smite you," I retorted, wiping the orange puke from my mouth.

"I beg to differ. God is a woman," the lady with veneers interjected, shaking her head disparagingly at me.

"Just another reason to hate women," I replied. "God is an asshole. Also, why do people always say 'beg to differ'? Why can’t anyone be courageous enough to 'demand to differ'? It's like when people say 'with all due respect' and no respect is due. Wait, are you guys Jewish?"

"No," the bald man replied. "We’re the Micuccis. We’re Italian."

"Same shit."

"And this lady you disrespected is my wife, Sharon. Sharon Micucci."

"SHEH-rin’ Muh-COO-chie?" I snickered.

"Yes, Sharon Micucci. What’s so funny?" the man demanded, his fists balling by his trousers, knuckles white with anger.

The owner and his lady stormed off.

I sat in the tub filled with my boiling vomit, roses, cheese, and foreskin, and took a sip of my champagne, staring at the exquisite Murano glass ceiling. Vertigo seized me. I lowered my head and saw the man in cabana six: an ugly, short, balding man with cystic acne and a comb-over pageboy haircut. He was eating foreskin-wrapped dates and sipping champagne with his tiny, clammy hands. I didn’t know his name, but his demeanor screamed of someone who had never worked a day in his life, convinced of his own specialness. He kept eating and sipping without a concern in the world.

The man lounged in the hot tub, sinking deeper into the steaming water, staring blankly at the ceiling with pupils mere pinpricks against the whites of his eyes. A faint tremor ran through his limbs, fingers twitching uncontrollably just below the water's surface. His breathing became shallow and erratic, punctuated by occasional gasps as his chest heaved.