The breakfast club

Legs and eggs at Cloud 9

“I’ve never done this before,” the scantily clad dancer coos to a man on the barstool next to me. “This is my first time.”

“Me, too, sister,” I think to myself. “Me, too.”

It’s the middle of the night and I’m at Cloud 9 Gentlemen’s Club with two lady friends—one, a writer who can’t resist a good story; the other, a badass lady-chef who’s no stranger to the establishment—and a gentleman pal we’ll call “Uncle Steve.” We’re not here for the skin, but for the legendary buffet known as “Legs & Eggs,” served every Friday and Saturday from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m.

It’s shortly after 2 a.m., and the club is exactly the rowdy escapade you’d expect. It’s difficult to spot the alleged breakfast buffet through the melee of booty shaking and flying dollar bills. (I had never seen someone literally “make it rain” before.) I finally spot it: a red-and-white checked picnic table cloth next to a small buffet station, its little heat lamps shining like a beacon through the black lights and machined fog, an anachronism in the miasma of chrome and mirrors and neon.

Initially, I feel too intimidated to break through the bacchanal of lap dances to get to the buffet. 

But, I push through, squeaking out the occasional “excuse me” and interrupting a dance as I arrive at my destination, Styrofoam plate and plastic silverware in hand. The buffet is stocked with all a drunken heart desires – scrambled eggs, bacon, two kinds of sausage (links and patties), fried potatoes, and a vat of gravy. I’m spooning eggs onto my plate when one of the lap dancers bumps into me. I apologize, but she graciously says “oh honey, don’t you worry,” and continues with her performance, undeterred.

Never in my life have I felt more like Leslie Knope as I cheerfully fill my plate with everything the small buffet has to offer while the walls of the small building rumble to Kylie Minogue’s “I Can’t Get You Outta My Head.” 

It’s rumored that cream cheese is added to the eggs, so they won’t look green. Admittedly, under the black light, it’s tough to discern the true color of the eggs; but it’s not tough to tell they were of the powder variety. The fried potatoes are emaciated and a bit on the chewy side, but nothing a healthy squirt of ketchup can’t remedy. The bacon is the star of the meat selection—a nice crispy strip with a little bit of give. The sausage patty is crumbly, but the sausage links have a great snap with each semi-flavorful bite. The biscuits, obviously not homemade by grandma, pair perfectly with the gloopy gravy hiding in a seemingly bottomless heated container.

The food is reminiscent of the hot breakfasts offered by modest motels, though a make-your-own-waffle station is sorely missing. Still, not bad, especially at 3 a.m.

My chef pal, who had a long day and no food, fills her plate and devours it.

“I gotta say, I ate every bite of that and I’m not mad about it. At all.”

As we peer around the place, we ponder where they might be preparing the food. I ask the guy bringing fresh pans of vittles. He guffaws.

“Yeah, we cook all this up right in the strippers’ dressing rooms!”

Still amused by my question, he tells me that Fajita Rita’s caters Cloud 9’s breakfast, as well as an all-you-can-eat $5 lunch on Thursdays and Fridays. 

As we eat and talk, I forget where I am, until a statuesque dancer—one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen—takes the stage. 

We ladies are suddenly enraptured. The three of us quietly, simultaneously, light cigarettes as the woman undulates gracefully. Uncle Steve conscientiously delivers dollar bills to the dancer as we sit motionless, hypnotized. 

As the morning has worn on, the energy of the place has deteriorated from frat party frenzy to a quieter, almost desperate mood. Men sit alone, spooning eggs into their mouths and sipping their complimentary Red Bulls, eyes never moving from the stage. With our plates clean and our visions dirty, we exit, stage left, glad for the adventure but unsure if we’ll ever do it again.

For more from Angela, read her article on Julie Morgan's Indian tacos.