Monday seemed a perfect night for dinner from Costco. My friends with the black SUV and Costco membership cards would show me the ropes, guide me to the goodies, and carry the booty back to their house for an inexpensive feast. 

         I’ve been jealous since these pampered and indulgent uptown pals discovered Costco on the FDR drive and made it their supermarket of choice. They endlessly rave about the $5 rotisserie chicken as does everyone else I know with a Costco card.  And among the financial wizards at their recent small dinner party, Costco’s marinated shrimp – exquisitely cooked – was a huge hit, most especially with me, although I must say the Trois Petit Cochons terrines I brought from Fairway got big play too.

 

        We grab a cart – biggest I’ve ever seen – and head for the chickens. But – no surprise – we have to walk for miles through gleaming attractions to get there.  Bargains call out to me: 92 oz. jug of fabric softener, laundry detergent that would last a year. Of course we have no space under our sink for jumbos. But then I am stopped dead in my tracks by a bright green canister of Benefiber, bigger than a bowling pin, 190 servings for $2 more than I paid for 80 at my discount pharmacy. My companions stare at the green monster I drop into the cart, fiber apparently not a fetish they share. Steven tries to pretend we’re not together.

         At last, the roasted chicken racks. I ask the chicken tenders which are the freshest – the hour they came out of the oven is marked on each container, they inform us. One of these big fat birds would be enough for the four of us, but I want to take some dark meat home and leave enough white behind for our hosts’ entire brood to have sandwiches the next day.  Crusty baguettes come two to a package for $4.49, the price of one big bread at Citarella.  I pick up two $10 containers of cilantro and lime marinated shrimp ($7.99 a pound), so we’ll all have leftovers, and for $4.99, an 18 inch tall jug of salsa.

        Shall we have cheese? one co-conspirator asks. Of course. She drops a generous cut of Comte ($9.99) and a half kilo round of French triple crème – Le Délice Saint Faron – into the cart, then eyes a big bin of black and white cookies. “ I shouldn’t get these because I’ll finish them myself,” she says.

       “Let’s skip sweets,” I suggest. “Now where is the toilet paper?” I ask. “I’m not leaving this Costco without a year’s supply of toilet paper.”  Charmin, 24 double  rolls, $19.39.

        "How am I supposed to carry this home after dinner in a taxi?” Steven asks.
 
         “Like this. Under your arm.”

Costco is the new metaphor for “Home” cooking. Photo: Steven Richter

         Amazing chicken as advertised, cooked to the instant of juicy perfection. Shrimp as before, poached with great discipline. Leftover string beans from the fridge. “Also from Costco” our hostess says.  The Comte is Comte but the triple crème, in the prime of its youthful maturity, is a killer.  My friend and I fight over it. 

         “You have to take it,” she cries.

         “No, you have to keep it.”

         “Give it to your assistants.”

         “Give it to yours.”

         Suddenly the cookies appear. She sneaked them in. She eats the black, I break off a bit of the white. Too sweet.

         I add $5 for parking and subtract $40 for the non-edibles and $10 for the shrimp we didn’t need – no one told me they couldn’t face a lime-drenched shrimp after OD’ing on it after last week’s dinner party.  And that means dinner in a townhouse cost $40, not counting a lovely Spanish wine from the cellar, exactly what we paid for fried chicken and sides at Pies ‘n’ Thighs in a chilly garage.

         Next time I hitch a ride to Costco, I’ll bring a few totes.  Did you know they don’t bag?  I didn’t. I’m so urban.

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