There is supper, and there is club, but the two don’t mix like oil and water. A young Sexy Dishes book-featured chef, Alex Molitz, does his best with the fresh produce and some succulent chicken leg (which is about the sexiest leg in house) but honestly, the food could have been much worse, and no one would have noticed. Well, where to begin… the concept started in Amsterdam eons ago, spread out to London, Singapore, Istanbul, and they say, Kiev… haven’t been to my home town in ages, but here, in San Francisco the experience seemed rather juvenile, and in part dramatic. Oh, I know, I know, I’m so 15 minutes ago with my silly demands for professionalism. Now, to the dramatic part. Scene 1. On arrival, I’m asked if I have a reservation. (Duh, how else would I be here?) Who confirmed your reservation - Adelaide, Aurora or Eugenia? (all names changed to protect… who knows who). Hmm… Mary Smith confirmed my reservation. Who? A person who works here. On staff. Has a position. Title. I think she does. She has a business card (I’m losing ground and searching for the card)… Hmm… What is your name? Emma Krasov (my own real name, not changed). Oh, I see, you are Arcadiana Catnip? No, I insist on being called Emma Krasov. Ok, but you are Arcadiana Catnip on my list. (?) (A series of suspicious glances. I feel like a person who does not know her own name.) Ok, here’s a ticket for you. Stick it to your chest, proceed to the bar, have a drink, and wait there to be seated. Scene 2. In the bar (red light, 25 disco balls flickering overhead, groups of bare-shouldered women from 30 to 60 having girls’ nights out or just looking for guys on the off chance guys do come here on their own). A bartender: where is your ticket? I stick my chest out. That’s all you got? I feel insulted. No one complained before. Oh, he means a ticket, some additional ticket. No, don’t have any. That’s the only ticket stuck to my chest that I got at the entrance. Ok, he says, what would you like to drink? Me: I prefer sour cocktails. Please give me your least sugary one. How about this sourpuss with a lemon wedge? (all names made up). He: no, that one is no good. Try this one, I invented it myself. It’s so sweet, everyone loves it. Very popular. Called sweetness wrapped in sugar. (No point in arguing, right?) Scene 3. An hour later, the bar area empties with the last groups of supperers being taken inside, behind the white double doors with letters S and C on them. My dining companion and I are all alone in the bar under the strange looks of twin bartenders. I start regretting my stubbornness. Should I have agreed to be called Arcadiana Catnip we might have been taken inside half an hour ago. Scene 4. Inside. Wide white beds with large pillows along the perimeter of the dining room. People take off their shoes and awkwardly climb up. Tiny tables are placed in front of them. Strobe light in pink and purple hues. An abstract film projected on the back wall. Deafening music. Our hostess looks around helplessly and sees no place for us. She gestures toward two groups of diners on the bed. Do you want to sit in-between, by that round table? The round table is actually a tray put between two buts (pardon me, backs of the seated patrons). The arrangement does not seem feasible… She walks away to consult her colleagues. Do you prefer to sit in the upstairs area? Scene 5. Upstairs. The blasting speakers are now on the ear level. I feel how those tender little sound receptors die out in my ears in droves. Our waiter, [over]dressed in Adidas (others are in drag and rags of undistinguishable sort), decidedly cannot hear us, and just because he happens to wear shades in a half-lit room, he most likely cannot see us either. Good that the menu is prix-fixe, so I just nod and smile. Scene 6. Performance and massage (yes, you read that right). All waiters are performers. Acrobats, contortionists, pole dancers, and what not. They perform their numbers between the courses, and then make up a living staircase from the open kitchen to the tables on the second level to deliver the next course. From our vantage point we can clearly see how the food is prepared conveyer-belt style, and some flashing body parts of the performers (all the legit body parts, don’t get me wrong), but the full view is obscured by the security fence. The concept of actor-waiter comes to its full bloom here, although it’s hard to tell which side of it comes across as more amateurish than the other. What blows me away though, is the presence of a stocky middle-aged masseur dressed as a waiter in a long black apron. He is wearing glasses and his hair is braided on the back of his head. He is offering his services for real, and even performs a couple of vigorous neck and back massages in the midst of blasting music, flickering lights, and shrieking half-drunk gals of all ages who just want to have fun. Scene 7. We leave the club 4 deafening hours later (sorry, I still mourn the death of my sound receptors) and race each other to our car. The street parking is free and abundant in this area. Supperclub is located at 657 Harrison Street, San Francisco. Call for reservations: 415-348-0900. Photography by Yuri Krasov. 1. Cool disco balls in the bar. 2. Awashed in pink. 3. Get a room. Not this one. 4. Girls just wanna have fun. 5. Waiter-actor performing mock striptease.
There is supper, and there is club, but the two don’t mix like oil and water. A young Sexy Dishes book-featured chef, Alex Molitz, does his best with the fresh produce and some succulent chicken leg (which is about the sexiest leg in house) but honestly, the food could have been much worse, and no one would have noticed. Well, where to begin… the concept started in Amsterdam eons ago, spread out to London, Singapore, Istanbul, and they say, Kiev… haven’t been to my home town in ages, but here, in San Francisco the experience seemed rather juvenile, and in part dramatic. Oh, I know, I know, I’m so 15 minutes ago with my silly demands for professionalism. Now, to the dramatic part. Scene 1. On arrival, I’m asked if I have a reservation. (Duh, how else would I be here?) Who confirmed your reservation - Adelaide, Aurora or Eugenia? (all names changed to protect… who knows who). Hmm… Mary Smith confirmed my reservation. Who? A person who works here. On staff. Has a position. Title. I think she does. She has a business card (I’m losing ground and searching for the card)… Hmm… What is your name? Emma Krasov (my own real name, not changed). Oh, I see, you are Arcadiana Catnip? No, I insist on being called Emma Krasov. Ok, but you are Arcadiana Catnip on my list. (?) (A series of suspicious glances. I feel like a person who does not know her own name.) Ok, here’s a ticket for you. Stick it to your chest, proceed to the bar, have a drink, and wait there to be seated. Scene 2. In the bar (red light, 25 disco balls flickering overhead, groups of bare-shouldered women from 30 to 60 having girls’ nights out or just looking for guys on the off chance guys do come here on their own). A bartender: where is your ticket? I stick my chest out. That’s all you got? I feel insulted. No one complained before. Oh, he means a ticket, some additional ticket. No, don’t have any. That’s the only ticket stuck to my chest that I got at the entrance. Ok, he says, what would you like to drink? Me: I prefer sour cocktails. Please give me your least sugary one. How about this sourpuss with a lemon wedge? (all names made up). He: no, that one is no good. Try this one, I invented it myself. It’s so sweet, everyone loves it. Very popular. Called sweetness wrapped in sugar. (No point in arguing, right?) Scene 3. An hour later, the bar area empties with the last groups of supperers being taken inside, behind the white double doors with letters S and C on them. My dining companion and I are all alone in the bar under the strange looks of twin bartenders. I start regretting my stubbornness. Should I have agreed to be called Arcadiana Catnip we might have been taken inside half an hour ago. Scene 4. Inside. Wide white beds with large pillows along the perimeter of the dining room. People take off their shoes and awkwardly climb up. Tiny tables are placed in front of them. Strobe light in pink and purple hues. An abstract film projected on the back wall. Deafening music. Our hostess looks around helplessly and sees no place for us. She gestures toward two groups of diners on the bed. Do you want to sit in-between, by that round table? The round table is actually a tray put between two buts (pardon me, backs of the seated patrons). The arrangement does not seem feasible… She walks away to consult her colleagues. Do you prefer to sit in the upstairs area? Scene 5. Upstairs. The blasting speakers are now on the ear level. I feel how those tender little sound receptors die out in my ears in droves. Our waiter, [over]dressed in Adidas (others are in drag and rags of undistinguishable sort), decidedly cannot hear us, and just because he happens to wear shades in a half-lit room, he most likely cannot see us either. Good that the menu is prix-fixe, so I just nod and smile. Scene 6. Performance and massage (yes, you read that right). All waiters are performers. Acrobats, contortionists, pole dancers, and what not. They perform their numbers between the courses, and then make up a living staircase from the open kitchen to the tables on the second level to deliver the next course. From our vantage point we can clearly see how the food is prepared conveyer-belt style, and some flashing body parts of the performers (all the legit body parts, don’t get me wrong), but the full view is obscured by the security fence. The concept of actor-waiter comes to its full bloom here, although it’s hard to tell which side of it comes across as more amateurish than the other. What blows me away though, is the presence of a stocky middle-aged masseur dressed as a waiter in a long black apron. He is wearing glasses and his hair is braided on the back of his head. He is offering his services for real, and even performs a couple of vigorous neck and back massages in the midst of blasting music, flickering lights, and shrieking half-drunk gals of all ages who just want to have fun. Scene 7. We leave the club 4 deafening hours later (sorry, I still mourn the death of my sound receptors) and race each other to our car. The street parking is free and abundant in this area. Supperclub is located at 657 Harrison Street, San Francisco. Call for reservations: 415-348-0900. Photography by Yuri Krasov. 1. Cool disco balls in the bar. 2. Awashed in pink. 3. Get a room. Not this one. 4. Girls just wanna have fun. 5. Waiter-actor performing mock striptease.
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