Supperclub San Francisco

by janet on February 21st, 2010

It’s pink cuz the whole place was bathed in pink light for V-day <3.

Me, a blogger: “How would you describe this place?”  R2, a professional writer: “Dinner theatre where dinner is the theatre?  An establishment that wears its lack of inhibition on its sleeve – if it were wearing sleeves…or any clothes at all for that matter?”

Good, good.  For Valentime’s day R2 surprised me with quite the extravaganza at Supperclub SF.  Despite reservations, we waited forever just simply to get in, but that didn’t matter.  Because  in the hallways as we waited there were (a) bathtubs and silk nests containing boy-girl and boy-boy combos of scantily-clad hot people making out nonstop – with TONGUE OMG!  (b) amuse bouches – too dark to see, but I think it was a potato chip with some sort of aioli with a dollop of caviar on top.  Plus, (c) the reason for the holdup was because each guest was treated to two minutes or so of banter by the greeters – a smokin’ hot glamourpuss named Asia and Miss B – a drag queen with the tightest ass and sexiest stems I’ve ever seen (better than mine WTF).  They teased R2 for being too buttoned up, squealing “show us your chest hair!” and unbuttoning his shirt. Except R2 doesn’t really have chest hair so there was disappointed awkwardness all around.

We were assigned to “Couch 22” and ushered into a bar area which had some of the most Janetastic cocktails (all with elderflower or cucumber or prosecco, my faves).  I was fretting because it was unclear to me how or when we would be shown to our actual table/couch, so if you go – don’t worry.  Everyone gets seated all at once, since its more like a dinner show than a restaurant.

I should have known this, because my sister’s boyf joined the Supperclub SF group on Facebook, and being the stalker that I am, had noticed this and checked it out a couple months ago.  I think I forgot about it because I had dismissed it as a place that was too cool for me to ever go to.

The concept is – well, just read the second two sentences in this post and you’ll get an idea.  Also their website.  Also, the description of their food, which is only one part of it:

Be your own guinea-pig. Taste what you’ve never tasted before. Food at supperclub tickles your heart and caresses your soul. Then deliberately humiliates dogmas like ‘le cordon blue’ [sic] to shock your taste buds with new flavors. Be your own guinea-pig; delete your culinary expectations and open up to the unexpected: new seasonings, new combinations, new tastes, and a new…you.  Dinner in bed.  And no need to worry about the crumbs.

The dinner in bed part – there are a few tables in the center of the two-story open space, but the entire perimeter of both levels is one big couch.  As we settled into our cushion nest I realized that THIS was why R2 said, “Now I know you’re not going to like this, but you should really wear underwear tonight.”

We were sandwiched in between two awkward couples.  Awkward couple to our left consisted of what was clearly a very new-ish couple who were all stiff and polite to one another.  Probably they were both a little pissed that the timing worked out that V-day had come up too early in their courtship.  Both of our tables had awful obstructed views of the stage, so she scampered over to where she could see the first act (a guy poking his upper body through a giant sheet and undulating to a techno version of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds).  When she got back, I asked her how it was and she told me she was “over it” after the first thirty seconds…not a good sign re: her enjoyment of the entire night.

Awkward couple to the right: the slowest-eating couple ever.  I believe we were waiting for our mains before they were even done with their SALADS.  I’m all for enjoying your food (recently I’ve been trying to chew each mouthful 20 times – try it) but this was a little weird.  I very much liked it, therefore, when the guy was in the bathroom and the girl took that opportunity to fucking scarf down her food lol.

The food.  Despite the florid description above, I would say it was very good but not earth-shattering.  Asparagus with a mirin-esque sesame-ish dressing. Soup – lobster bisque or, for crustacean-allergic me, carrot with a dynamite cheddar crouton that was shaped like a gigantic biscotti, but one millimeter thick.  Main – lamb chops with sugar snap peasharicot vert, and au jus.  And, of course, for V-day, something chocolatey so flourless chocolate cake.  We ate it lounging on the pillows and holding the plates in our laps and using our fingers, washing it down with the bottle of champagne perched at every table and making out between every bite.  It was quite decadent.  The “royal court of Marie Antoinette” vibe was furthered by the center table, which was full of very glamourous old people with white white hair and frilly big dresses who were having the time of their lives.

The acts. After the LSD piece came a chick who sang something opera-ey.  I imagined her being an opera major at San Francisco State and telling her family back in Nebraska that she had made it as a professional opera singer and was performing every night.  Then, a hot hapa guy who did the requisite spoken word Valentime’s piece, with the cliched “cunt” thrown in here and there (“Pornographic poetry / is a spaceship of lust / that carries my metaphysical cock into your. hot. juicy. cunt.”).  Then a poor man’s Cirque act, with silk sheets hanging from the ceiling and twirling and such.

Then, finally, the fabulous Miss B (who started his act by saying “now, bitches, my name is not Miss V or Miss G – it’s Miss B.  Everyone say it with me now – HELLO MISS BEEEEEE” and then despite this, later, R2:”My favorite act was Miss V.”  Me: “Sigh.”).  He danced and grinded and humped his hot bod to Video Phone and ended by pouring an entire bottle of champagne all over himself.  So.  Not a romantic night per se, but truly awesome nonetheless.

Supperclub San Francisco
657 Harrison Street
San Francisco, CA 94107-1312
415.348.0900

One Response to “Supperclub San Francisco”

  1. stab jackson says:

    it’s miss V, like vagina 😉

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