American Psycho, the satirical novel by Bret Easton Ellis, is about many things you’re already familiar with. It’s a not-so-thinly veiled critique of Generation Jones yuppies, the increasingly consumerist culture of the late 1980s, the inescapable white powder that is progressively (disappointingly) diluted with laxatives. It’s about jealousy and insecurity disabling man’s search for identity. It’s about the profound emptiness of existential despair and the literal or figurative violence that inevitably spurs from the void

But at its heart, American Psycho is about food. Bateman chronicles in beautiful, luxurious detail, a desperate, even comically tearful urge to inject his vapid life with culture, meaning, and most importantly, flavor. 

The endless bistros, delicatessens, and cafes — cuisines covering everything from Nouvelle Southwestern to California Classic — signify Bateman’s ultimately futile desire to feel full – and what a trip that is. In a way, the novel is what happens when you let every intrusive thought you’ve ever had run delightfully, wickedly rampant.

Ambitious, curious people are always looking for the energetic epicenter of things: to explore, deconstruct, understand, even control. Through Bateman’s endless hunger, Ellis asks an important question: what if you are already at the center, but ambition and curiosity burn through you anyway? Where do you look to, then?

During the production of Succession’s third season, Jeremy Strong requested a script rewrite. In a scene where Kendall Roy meets a reporter for lunch, he’s supposed to order a Waldorf salad. Strong changed this to a fennel salad with vinaigrette, insisting that a Waldorf salad is “something my dad would have ordered”. Waldorf salad – a sweet, mayonnaise-y salad consisting of grapes, green apples, walnuts, celery, and lettuce – was popular from the 30s to the 70s, taking a Jell-O-encased detour until its popularity eventually dwindled.

Food is fuel, sure, but what Strong astutely observes is that food tells us where we are in time and space. This leaves us with one question: does it also tell us who we are? According to Patrick Bateman, yes, it does, and that’s why he reserves his McDonald’s trips for when he’s alone, unobserved, and momentarily free.  

Step into the novel (preferably in Ferragamo cap-toes) and let Bateman guide you on where to go and what to order. Dust off a copy of Zagat and try to find real-world alternatives to these incredible, somewhat ridiculous establishments. You never know — you might find yourself shaving black truffles over sliced fruit in a moment of panicked desperation to prove your social relevance.