My dear reader, it’s time to come clean.
I really love smoothies.
They’re fast. They’re cold. They require no utensils, no chewing, no ceremony.
They ask nothing of you — except maybe to rinse the blender, which I don’t, because I don’t blend.
That’s right.
I don’t make smoothies. I procure them. With the kind of religious consistency normally reserved for morning prayer or prescription medication.
It started back when I lived in New York.
Green Light with mango and pineapple — every day, for years. Juice Press was my temple. I walked past two locations to get to the right one.
I didn’t just have a go-to order. I had a Juice Press Black Card.
Not a metaphor. A literal “JP Black Card” they sent in the mail like I’d earned elite status for consuming liquefied greens.
Then I moved to LA, the Land of Smoothies.
And Erewhon — sweet, sacred Erewhon — picked up right where Juice Press left off.
$20 smoothies, sea moss add-ons, the quiet shame of recognizing the baristas and them recognizing you back, whilst influencers filmed TikTok dances in the corner.
Call it habit.
Call it a crutch.
Call it my most expensive personality trait. Is it? TBH - I don’t know.
I call it breakfast. Sometimes lunch. Occasionally dinner.
And yes, we’re going to talk about it.
green light.
Back in 2016, my life looked a little different.
I was living out of a carry-on, eating like shit, and pretending that a cross-country flight counted as exercise.
Sweetgreen was for suckers. Chicken McNuggets or a Shack Burger was dinner. Sometimes twice.
I can’t tell you what finally snapped. But one day, Audrey (my girlfriend, now wife) signed us up for a boxing class at a gym in SoHo. There was a Juice Press next door.
That’s where it started.
Boxing stuck. I still train every day.
But Juice Press? That turned into something else entirely — a full-blown ritual.
Religious. Repetitive. A little obsessive. Exactly my speed.
Green Light with mango and pineapple. No deviations. No “what’s new?” Just the same blend, again and again, until the staff clocked me on sight.
I planned my day around that smoothie. Knew which locations under-blended.
Which ones used the sad, icy mango chunks. Skipped the bananas — obviously.
It wasn’t a juice order. It was a system.
And in a moment when everything felt unsteady — my schedule, my body, my sense of control — this one cold, overpriced, liquefied salad became the thing that held.
This wasn’t a cleanse. Or some sad, bro-science attempt at getting “cut.”
It was just a better decision, made repeatedly, until the scale started to move.
Fifty pounds fell off. Slowly. Stubbornly. But it happened.
And I don’t think I could’ve done it without the juice.
Then one day, a little black envelope showed up in the mail.
JP BLACK CARD, embossed in matte black.
No perks. No points. Just a handwritten thank you note and the quiet satisfaction of earning elite status at a glorified juice bar.
And yes — I’ve kept it. Still in my wallet. Digital companion, too.
Because say what you want — that card meant something.
the non-influencer’s dilemma.
If you’ve spent more than five minutes on social media, you’ve heard of Erewhon.
It’s infamous. Revered. Parodied. A temple of taste and excess, all lit by the soft glow of biodynamic lighting.
Erewhon is known for many things.
Immaculate prepared foods.
A stunning, almost obscene display of organic groceries.
A $200 annual membership that gets you nearly nothing — except the privilege of saying you shop at Erewhon.1
And of course: some of the worst people in Los Angeles, concentrated in one place, always — always — in athleisure.
The kind of people who treat eye contact like a microaggression and eat “glass noodles” while filming TikToks about gut health.
But here’s the thing.
The smoothies?
They’re magnificent.
By the time we moved to LA, my smoothie addiction was well established. Friends and family pointed me to Erewhon like it was the logical next step in my evolution — a kind of final boss in the world of liquid meals.
So, I went. Worth a try, right?
Everything you’ve heard is true.
The prepared foods? Incredible.
The groceries? Pristine and obscenely overpriced.
The people? Utterly insufferable.
But the smoothies? Oh my god, the smoothies.
My dear reader — it was love at first sip.
And so yes, I am now a proud, card-carrying Erewhon member. I have a rotation of smoothies, and they’re all incredible.
I will happily endure the lines of YouTubers filming “What I Eat in a Day,” fitness influencers ordering their Chagachinos en route to a lymphatic drainage appointment, and tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of the sacred Hailey Bieber smoothie in the wild.
Because at the end of it all, I get my smoothie.
And, then I leave.
Cold, calm, and vindicated.
en place.
I know how this all sounds.
A man in his thirties, writing an ode to smoothies.
Waxing poetic about liquefied spinach.
Bragging about elite status at Juice Press and Erewhon like they’re deserving of Michelin stars.
And listen — I love food.
I love burgers. Butter chicken. A perfect steak.
I’ve planned entire trips around restaurants. I’ve booked flights for bites.
I live for salt, fat, heat, indulgence.
I’m not a wellness guy.
But the smoothie stuck.
Not because it was virtuous — but because it was mine.
A ritual. A rhythm. A small, daily promise I could actually keep.
In a world that spins fast and unkind, the smoothie gave me structure.
Discipline disguised as dessert.
A cold, sweet, silent moment that felt like control.
So yeah. I love smoothies.
Hate on it.
And if you ever see me in line — at Erewhon, at the Juice Press in Dumbo, at some new overpriced spot that claims to “redefine the category” — just know: I’m good.
I’ve got my order.2
I’ve got my reasons.
And I’ve got my membership.
(The Juice Press one still works, by the way. Doesn’t get you anything — but it does start a conversation.)
Technically, you do get 10% back on every purchase AND a bunch of discounts AND early access to Erewhon merch drops, but I’m not at all a member of the Cult of Erewhon.
P.S. My current go-to’s?
On weekdays, it’s the Coconut Dream or the Peanut Butter Blast (with a shot of espresso, obviously).
Weekends, I cave — Hailey Bieber’s Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie. Say what you will. It slaps.
When I’m back in New York? Green Light from Juice Press. Sub banana for mango. Add pineapple. No notes.