I Got My Future Read at a Psychic Brunch
Illustration by Adam Waito.

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Food

I Got My Future Read at a Psychic Brunch

On a recent afternoon in Forest Hills, Queens, I met a group of psychics over a smorgasbord of eggs, bacon, and French toast to discuss my future.

An average Thursday afternoon on Metropolitan Avenue in Forest Hills, Queens is something straight out of a The Truman Show/Harry Potter mash-up: There is so little going on that it's suspicious, and it looks like Jimmy Carter was still in the office the last time the storefronts saw a tune-up. Unlike the avenue's westernmost end in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, this stretch is home to only a couple of Italian patisseries, seedy pawnshops, beige funeral homes, and humble-looking restaurants.

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Call me a dreamer, but whenever I find myself in this neighborhood, I look for a portal. Today, I'm in luck.

"The Other Place Presents Psychic Brunch featuring New York's leading Psychics!," reads a poster outside a bar that I always walk by, but have never walked into, simply because it looks like a place where bros come to watch football and be loud. "Brunch includes a one-on-one personal reading," the affiche argues otherwise: "Make your reservation now!" Psychics and brunch are two of my favorite things in life—but what would this actually be like? Are we going to eat eggs Florentine and shuffle tarot decks? Get tipsy on mimosas and bawl to strangers about family secrets?

Not quite, it turns out.

"It's been really great to be able to do this, expose people to psychic culture—and have it be a fun day or night out," says Rejean, the founder and head psychic at ESP Connection over the phone in her Marianne Faithfull circa "Broken English" voice, two days before the event. "We are expecting at least 50 to 60 people, so it should be a full house." Born and raised in Brooklyn, she started reading people when she was in college as a music student. (She is a professional musician with impressive IMDB credits, it turns out.) "When I was in high school, I started to realize that I had some sort of edge to know things. I thought everybody could do that initially," she says. "And then, fast-forward to college, I knew I had a 'knowing.' It was very scary—it wasn't like I got up one day and said, 'Oh, I wanna be a psychic,' or did a ritual. I just knew. I really avoided it for quite a while because it was uncomfortable for me. But then, I started to talk to people that I didn't even know—friends of friends—and the next thing I knew, I had people coming to my house. It just grew from there."

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Rejean has now been doing this professionally for over 25 years, in the span of which she's done events for everyone from NBC to Columbia Records, Hermes, and Ralph Lauren. Along the way, she read the likes of Nicole Richie, Puff Daddy, and Beyoncé. "Oh, she was very nice!," the seasoned psychic chirps when asked what Beyoncé was like in person. "But that was seven or eight years ago. I don't know what she's like these days. But I think you are kind of who you are."

On the day of the brunch, we are eons away from that one-percent Beyoncé glamor. With squeaky-clean floors, a beer hall-style table in the middle, dark wooden panels and 70s-flavored art on the walls, The Other Place is far less bro-y than what I thought it would be. Alas, Sunday Sports is alive and well on the television, with a few football fans scattered around the space.

All in all, these women look less like scamming psychics from Times Square and more like your aunt leaving the Ann Taylor store in Greenwich, Connecticut.

Recognizing her platinum hair and distinct voice, I silently wait for Rejean to finish her conversation with an early client. "Hi Rejean, I'm Busra," I extend my hand eventually.

"Well, I know!" she responds, with a "watching you" V-sign gesture, breaking into laughter.

She then gives me a quick tour of the space: The large table in the middle and many other medium-sized ones surrounding it are reserved for our group, which is expected to be a party of 50 today. At the very back of the room, there are seven small tables bordering the large kitchen, occupied by the psychics who are on duty for today's brunch. Ranging from their mid-40s to early 60s, these are all stylish, put-together women. Next to Rejean's shawl-covered, empty table, there is Joan, with nothing but a sign that reads "past present future" on hers. On her left her sits Loraine, who dons a handmade crystal tree, a Hallmark angel, and two sets of playing cards, as well as a black-and-white argyle sweater that matches her cards. Next to her is Barbara the Tarot Mistress, who rocks a small statue of Bastet, the Egyptian cat goddess, as well as a jade-hued pyramid and multiple card decks on her table. Far left is Sherry, an elderly woman with an Old Hollywood charm sitting gracefully behind a sizable glass globe containing an angel. Across from her is a younger woman, dressed in all black. "They call me The Black Lady," she whispers with a half smile. All in all, these women look less like scamming psychics from Times Square and more like your aunt leaving the Ann Taylor store in Greenwich, Connecticut.

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The "special customers" have been flocking in for the last 15 minutes: With everyone arriving in clusters of five to six, psychic brunch proves to be a group activity—at times, with children in tow. A group of Jersey moms settle into the table next to mine and immediately order mimosas with some extras for the table. A Chinese lady in her 80s rolls in with her daughter and starts looking around somewhat suspiciously, with a curled hand on her temple. There is the occasional male doing his best to downplay the whole thing. I'm sitting with a cheerful group of five, all from different zip codes in Queens. Most of them are colleagues, with the exception of the two that met at a Weight Watchers group.

I thought it was going to be like group therapy, with one psychic sitting at each table and people talking about their relationship troubles while eating. In reality, it's more like speed dating with cards, just a tad more intimate.

It's 12:02 PM and we're a full house. A cool $45 buys unlimited access to the brunch buffet set behind The Black Lady and one drink, as well as a 15-minute reading with one of the psychics. "This is the first time we're having a brunch, and having it be buffet-style," asserts Rejean. So far, psychic events have always been "three-four course dinners"—except for that one time they held the event at a make-your-own-pizza joint, which led to complications. Today, it goes pretty much like this: Once you pay, you get a ticket stub with your name in the back. You then go fill your plate, get your drink, and go nuts with your brunch until Rejean affectionately nudges you on the shoulder and sits you down with herself or one of the other psychics. Although the process was explained to me at least twice beforehand, I thought it was going to be like group therapy, with one psychic sitting at each table and people talking about their relationship troubles while eating. In reality, it's more like speed dating with cards, just a tad more intimate.

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Seeing that all the psychics are already sitting down with their first customers, I head over to the buffet. Which, in all fairness, should be called a smorgasbord, and not a buffet—as "buffet" connotes a Golden Corral, or something that belongs at a retirement home in Florida. Although the eggs Florentine I was hoping for are nowhere to be seen (they're on the regular brunch menu when there isn't an event going on, it turns out), the overall quality of the existing food is well above the buffet standards. There is yogurt and granola, bagels, mini muffins, French toast, roasted ham, sliders, some green salad, bacon and sausage, a carefully maintained batch of scrambled eggs, fresh-baked biscuits, penne with tomato sauce, chicken potpie (minus the pie), and different types of cornbread. Sliders seem to be a big crowd-pleaser, as well as the chicken. Having already eaten half a bagel and a whole biscuit with butter and jam, I lament not fashioning a scrambled egg sandwich with the biscuit instead. As the clock gets closer to 2 PM, our posse moves on to white wine, and the place gets noticeably louder.

That isn't anything new for the owner, Jamie File, whom I meet by the scrambled eggs. Jamie's other business is the most renowned bar in Forest Hills, Dirty Pierre's, a watering hole that sees much rowdier crowds than this on the regular. At 58, Jamie looks like April Bloomfield's more athletic older sister and has the most sincere smile I've seen on a restaurant owner's face. Today is The Other Place's first time hosting a psychic event, I find out. "Rejean lives on my block, and she's one of my few neighbors that I spend time with," she says. "She was like, 'You should have a psychic brunch.' And I was like, 'I don't know.' And she was like, 'Come on!' I mean, she's a really good person, and she wants to enlighten people. She wants people to be happy, and not angry and miserable. Look what happened in France—how horrible is that?"

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That type of tragedy isn't new for File either—she was a paramedic during 9/11, and could barely escape the collapse of Building 7. That's part of the reason why she thinks she's connected to her spiritual side more than the average American and/or restaurant owner. File has never had an official reading with Rejean, but sometimes gets her advice in conversation. "Sometimes I'll say, 'Oh, I had such a bad day,' and she says 'This is what's gonna happen.' And it works! It unfolds exactly as she said. So far, everything she said was gonna happen happened."

I then move onto the tables of those who already peeked into their futures with their appointed psychics. Alice and Carrie, both around their mid-50s and fabulous, are here with Frederick*, the former's 20-something son. How did they find out about the event? Carrie owns a shop down the block and also dabbles in tarot. "I hold private events at my house, for ten people or so. I'm a pretty good reader, I think," she says.

Over at the next table, the 26-year-old Bekah and her younger sister Lena, whose mother live right around the corner, have mixed feelings. Bekah, who made the journey all the way from Bushwick for the event and saw one of the tarot readers, is particularly disappointed. "I thought, 'This is gonna be kitschy, fun, and maybe some more—psychic insight at best. But she didn't even give me fun. It was like getting a bad manicure."

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Lena got her reading from Rejean, and feels pretty good about it. "She had cards, but said she didn't really need them," she reveals. "She said there were spirits talking to her about me, which was nice to hear."

I then head to a middle-aged guy's table—he's clad in all black, and has been sitting across from Barbara for the last 40 minutes. I ask him what gives. Is he going to be a millionaire? Not exactly, but things are looking pretty good otherwise. Later, he explains that his wife passed away only a month ago, and he got misty during the reading as these are "the kind of things she was very into," tears filling his eyes once again. He is a 51-year-old sound technician and he found out about the event when he and his friend's band stopped by to drop off fliers the previous week.

By the time it's my turn for a reading, I'm consumed and can feel a headache and a new wave of hunger creeping up. (My tribeswomen already moved onto their second plate and umpteenth drink after getting read.) I wonder if those who weren't content with their readings try to get their money's worth from the smorgasbord. I also wonder how the psychics are dealing with it—so many people with so many things to talk about, and not one of the readers has taken a bite, or even a bathroom break, yet.

Barbara, looking as fresh as when the event first started more than three hours ago, gives me a pretty accurate tarot reading, concluding by saying that I'm on a good path for work, love, and freedom. Suddenly, it feels like there wouldn't be a better note to end this day on. As the sun goes down, I say my thank yous and step out to the great unknown, which now somehow feels less anxiety-inducing.

* Names of the attendees have been changed