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Liza Treyger Is Having a Time
Photo-Illustration: Sarah Kilcoyne
Comedian Liza Treyger’s first Netflix special, Night Owl, debuted on January 28, and she still isn’t over it: “I keep taking pictures of myself on the home page,” she says. She spent the week having celebratory lavish dinners — and the occasional afternoon cocktail — before inevitably coming down with the flu. Even that hasn’t dampened her spirit as she celebrates the first anniversary of her move back to New York after four years in Los Angeles. “It’s just kind of magical,” she says. “Even when I’m sick, I’m like, I’m in my New York apartment. I have exposed brick. Can you believe it?”
Wednesday, January 29
It’s 2:40 a.m., and I’m with three girlfriends at my apartment. We’re drunk, eating Taco Bell, and watching Sex and the City. Heaven. I had a party celebrating my Netflix special, and I really didn’t want it to end. I order a Crunchwrap Supreme and a cheese roll-up with steak and potato; we also get a spread of communal cheesy potatoes, a cheese quesadilla, and a dozen of the custard-doughnut things. This is insane behavior; back at the party, I had approximately 100 cupcakes, many chocolate blunts and white-chocolate “joints,” one strawberry shortcake, and one cookie. I love to overorder, especially when I’m wasted.
I wake up at 8 a.m. and am not happy about it. I crack open a crisp can of Fresca; my fridge is so cold that it’s a little slushy on top, and it just hits. I would usually go back to bed, but I’m still raging about some drama from my party the night before, and I want to unleash it, so I text my best friend. She keeps me in check, but I’m a person who stews, so then I do what every self-help guru would tell you not to do in the morning: scroll on my phone, watch new episodes of Real Housewives of New York and Beverly Hills, and play my daily movie games and Tetris.
I pass back out and get up around noon for the full day. I’m heading to midtown to be on the Bennington radio show at Sirius. I live above a coffee shop, and I love the smell of coffee and bacon that wafts through my window every day. I also love being a regular there; it fills me with joy when I get a free or discounted coffee, or when I’m just waiting in line and see that my drink is ready. I love moments that make me feel like I’m in a New York fantasyland. I usually get an iced coffee with a splash of half-and-half or an Arnold Palmer, but I’m feeling extra special today, so I get a dirty iced chai latte. It is perfect.
After the interview, I head to the building’s first floor to kill time at Del Frisco’s. I order a Maker’s Manhattan straight up and a rainbow roll with tuna, salmon, avocado, and sesame seeds. I like looking around at all the business people wearing tech vests. It’s 3 p.m., so it’s a weird crew of people who work at Fox News or are cheating on their wives in Connecticut. I reply to messages about the special. I’ve heard from people across every part of my life — high school, elementary school, comedy peers — apart from two: my parents. I think my sister told them I’d be busy and to leave me alone. But, for the record, that is not what I want. Even if I ignore your call, you should be calling me.
One of my favorite people is in town from London. She is a partner at a PR firm, and she has meetings around midtown. We’re supposed to get dinner, but I suddenly get a text from a friend asking, “Are we still down to see Death Becomes Her? I got us tickets.” That is the first of many plans that were made while I was blackout drunk the night before. I’m a little bummed that I have to rush through dinner with my friend, but she’s a chill, cool woman. We have espresso martinis, and I follow her to her next meeting at some hotel, where we have two more Manhattans. They send over a hummus plate with pita and little tomatoes that I really enjoy. This is a special week for me — I don’t normally have Manhattans all day long, but tonight, I’m hammered, and it’s 5 p.m.
I think about taking my friend to the Smith — she’s like, “I just want a salad in a metal bowl,” because to her, that’s American — but we walk to Ocean Prime instead, since it’s close to the theater. I order another Manhattan. We share a $48 lobster mac ’n’ cheese, and it’s worth every penny. We run into trouble with the caviar deviled eggs. We assumed it would be one egg and a hunk of caviar; instead, it’s six deviled eggs. As in, three full eggs. The yolk is piled high, like a soft-serve cone. I wish the waitress had said, “Hey, it’s a lot of eggs for two women.” We leave a lot behind.
I order a Diet Coke for some energy and walk down to see the show. It’s amazing: The seats, the music, the wardrobe, the dancing, the set are all incredible; plus, they have some of the best Broadway merch I have ever seen. I buy water and peanut M&M’s during intermission.
I end my night with a Glacier Freeze Gatorade Zero, a joint, and leftover pad Thai from NaNa Thai Street. I’ve never ordered from there before. I usually go by quantity of reviews, and this place had over 10,000. I don’t care if 900 people liked it. I want to know if 7,000 people liked it. If you’re a new business, I can’t trust you.
Thursday, January 30
I’m still in a rage about the drama at my party, but, just like my best friend instructed me to, I waited 24 hours before sending an aggressive text first thing this morning. I play my usual movie games. The sun is deceptively bright; it’s 28 degrees outside. I am a hero and walk to SoulCycle. Karen, the instructor, is a jock and leads an intense class. I went to her class the day after the election, and I was a little nervous because her name is Karen and she’s blonde, but she was devastated. We were all kind of crying.
I stop at my deli for an egg, pepper jack, and hash brown on a croissant and a container of cut-up mango. The hash browns are a new addition. I always add them to breakfast sandwiches from McDonald’s, but a couple of weeks ago, the bodega guy suggested it all on his own. I didn’t even know they had little hash-brown pies at the bodega. I was like, “Yeah, motherfucker, that’s exactly what I want.”
I stop at my coffee shop for my usual iced coffee and watch The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City while doing admin, catching up on emails, and harassing my famous friends to post about my special. I was told you just have to get desperate. After two more phone conversations talking about the drama, it is now 3 p.m. I haven’t showered, and I have early dinner reservations — also plans made while blackout — at 4 p.m., which is exceptionally early for dinner, but it’s also the only option when everyone’s a comedian and has shows later in the night. I manage to arrive only six minutes late.
Dinner is at El Pengüino — the best. The chef and owner, Nick Padilla, is so talented at making the best versions of simple foods. Between my friends Laura Peek, Jared Goldstein, and myself, we order almost everything on the menu: boquerones with a tomato vinaigrette and a nice crusty bread, gildas, steamed clams (which always makes me think of The Simpsons), roasted oysters, plus a raw platter with three oysters, six shrimp, crab salad, scallop aguachile, and tilefish ceviche. It’s all served with a side of saltines and Ritz. Jared leaves for an early show, and, naturally, the gals stay for four more hours. The vibe is so good, and we don’t want to leave. I have two espresso martinis, a Tito’s and soda, and what I think is the best Cosmo in the city.
Laura and I meet up with two other friends. I have time for one more Tito’s and soda before I have two spots at the Comedy Cellar — a 9:25 and an 11:55. I get a can of Diet Coke right away. I know people go gaga for the fountain, but I’m a can girl.
Going to the Comedy Cellar is my favorite thing about New York. Chats and laughs are what I live for. Every night is different, and they all make me happy, whether I’m doing my spots or just sitting there until three in the morning talking shit. You never know who you’ll see. Plus, the food is fucking good. I love how I can order off-menu and just get cut-up cucumbers or buttered noodles.
Tonight, there’s a good group at the back table — Michael Che, Harrison Greenbaum, Shane Torres, Sam Jay, Alex English, and a few more. The host orders nachos for the table, Tom Papa style, which means all the toppings are on the side. This way, you get way more cheese, and I don’t have to eat around the black beans and olives. I only fuck with the lettuce, salsa, sour cream, and, recently, jalapeño. I have a “geographic tongue,” which a dental hygienist once told me is the reason I can’t handle spice, but I’ve been pushing myself and have made great strides. To be fully honest, though, I mostly like to scrape the cheese off the plate. Johnny, who made my party cakes, is working tonight and brought leftover white-chocolate blunts for everyone to share. One of the comics tonight is a magician, so he does magic for us in between shows. It’s incredible. My mind is blown.
Friday, January 31
I really want to feel better because I’m supposed to have dinner with my best friend at the Commerce Inn tonight, and I have three spots at the Cellar. I take a DayQuil and try to rest. My bestie is an angel and arrives with an iced coffee from downstairs. She recently got a new job leading a whole department. It’s amazing that she’s a boss, but it has been awful for my social life. I’m really excited to catch up, so even though I’m not feeling so hot, I’m going to push through.
I love the Quaker cabin vibes at the Commerce Inn and how it’s nestled into the tiny, curvy streets of the West Village. I was introduced to it by my culinary hotshot friend, Alison Leiby, who has a show at Cherry Lane down the street. It’s always such good service, but everyone wears jeans and a little white coat. They look like they would be in that show The Knick about old-timey doctors. It’s steampunk, but not annoying. Did a witch live here in the past? I hope so.
My friend’s boyfriend joins, and we become a party of three. Boyfriends can be a nightmare, but I love that he’s here. We all love to eat, and when my friend doesn’t want a tartare or a weird fish, he’s there for me. We all get oysters, one raw, one pickled, and one fried. Usually, I feel like fried oysters are like a bad sea-shack type of food, but these are awesome. We also get the lobster toast, spoon bread, house rolls, artichokes, deviled eggs, mashed potatoes, and a rib eye with fried onions. I order a pear tequila drink and a Sarsaparilla pop, which is a “spiced root blend.” I appreciate a place that says “No, thanks” to big soda brands, but I personally hate it. The mashed potatoes are the best I’ve ever had. So buttery. I wish I could eat a house roll every day of my life.
I’m clearly degrading throughout the night. I want to push through, but my friends are like, “You’re sick and need to go home. Your attitude is a mess.” (They’re right; I flicked someone off in the bathroom line.)
I have spots until two in the morning, and I know I can’t do it, so I cancel my shows and head home. I’m lucky enough to have a job that I never want to call in sick for, and it pains me to do it because my friend from London planned on meeting us for a fun post-dinner Cellar night. In general, I really hate canceling, but no one’s mad.
Going to the deli takes everything out of me. I buy a red and blue Gatorade, Diet 7UP, ginger ale, and NyQuil. I’m in bed before 11.
Saturday, February 1
I’m officially sick-sick. I cancel SoulCycle, bagels with friends, a birthday gathering, three shows at Gotham, and two at the Comedy Cellar. I’m so sick I can’t even focus on the new Drag Race episode. I can’t really eat until 4:30 p.m., when I finally order from Ippudo. I’m usually a chicken-noodle or matzo-ball soup girlie when I’m ill, but I really want a long noodle. I order two pork buns — buy one, get one free — and miso ramen with two eggs. I can barely eat anything, and I don’t know why I thought I was about to down two eggs like that lizard from The Rescuers Down Under.
Later, I have three sprinkle-covered gummy bears leftover from when I did a show at Economy Candy. I got paid a hundred dollars for the show and spent $45 on candy. Having never been before, I was in heaven.
I try to watch some YouTube videos but can barely focus. I eat a couple of white-cheddar puff Cheetos, take a NyQuil, and go to bed.
Sunday, February 2
I still have no energy. I go to the deli and get a buttered, toasted bagel; it sucks knowing that amazing bagels exist all around me, just out of reach. I can barely move. I also get a citrus zing juice with lemon, orange, ginger, lemon-lime, and a few grape Gatorade Zeroes. They definitely judge me at this bodega. My bodega guys can be very cold, but I don’t need warmth because they have 12 flavors of lollipops.
Today is my first anniversary of moving back to New York. I still can’t believe it. I love it here. My entire life flourished when I moved back. I spent the summer walking to the Cellar and running around the bridge. I’m really corny about it. Anytime I see the tip of a building, my heart sings. The romance is there for me every day, even while I am extremely sick.
I bragged about my dinner plans for tonight all week; someone must’ve given me the evil eye, and that’s why I’m sick now. Three friends and I were supposed to go to Bernie’s in Greenpoint and not have to wait for a seat because Rachel, our friend who works there, was holding a table for us at seven. Rachel is the coolest. One time, I saw her wearing Danskos, so then I also bought Danskos.
Usually, when we go to Bernie’s, we wait around for one or two hours and are happy to do it. We love it there. Had we gone tonight, we would’ve ordered the mozzarella sticks, chilled shrimp, and a mint-chip sundae. There would’ve been a long discussion with the group about entrées, sides, and salads. But sometimes you just have to lie in bed all day and watch Men in Black. I’ll be back in that sexy red leather booth drawing on the paper tablecloth with crayons soon enough.
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