Cirque du Supper

Teatro ZinZanni gives you something interesting to look at when you go out to dinner. Since eating is only one important aspect of the dining-out experience, this feat is no meaningless accomplishment. Over the years restaurateurs have offered up every sort of diversion to fill the between-courses void (and to take their customers' minds off the food when it eventually arrived) -- jesters, dancing girls, dinner-theater productions of Bye Bye Birdie. Most eatery owners, however, rest on a laurel-leaf bouquet of good food, attentive service, and the occasional aperitif poster. Single diners, adrift at their counter seats, study the china patterns and count wall sconces, while neighboring couples share desultory chitchat, sip an Oregon pinot gris, and wait. In such a climate, with the salad plates cleared and the conversation exhausted, how does the average diner occupy herself until the paprikash arrives?

Under Teatro ZinZanni's voluminous tent at the northeast corner of the Embarcadero, all she has to do is look around. This spangled, carved-wood pavilion comes out of the 80-year-old spiegeltent (mirrored tent) tradition, in which velvet, brocades, leaded glass windows, and wooden floors create a sumptuous setting for wine tastings, cotillions, and (in Teatro ZinZanni's case) cirque in its most eclectic, all-inclusive sense. Each distinctly adorned spiegeltent is crafted, pitched, and interlocked by hand without either tools or nails; this one, the Palais Nostalgique, was built in 1926, is 66 feet in diameter, and seats 250 diners-cum-revelers. After 50 years of hosting a variety of amusements at fairs and festivals across Europe, it was restored by its builder's grandson, Willy Klessens, and since 1998 has been the setting for Teatro ZinZanni.

Even the lobby bar is dazzling, full of glittering, plushly upholstered splendor: cut glass, gold leaf, hand-carved wood, and burgundy velvet, with elaborately framed oil paintings, crystal-bedecked chandeliers, voluptuous settees, and buxom barmaids with Gold Rush décolletage scattered hither and yon. Against one wall is Leonardo's Boombox, a da Vinci--inspired mechanique of animatronic temptresses, purple neon, trumpets, triangles, saxophones, kettledrums, cymbals, and an accordion. It's a fine accompaniment to the venue's specialty cocktails -- preferably the Zootini, an ice-cold, sweet-and-sour admixture of Vox vodka and green-apple liqueur, served in a martini glass with a wedge of pippin. Another tasty option is the Diva, in which the Vox is combined with lime, cranberry, and pineapple juices; its sweet, citrusy flavor is ideal to this lively setting.

Inside the grander, mirror-lined dining room/performance space, booths mark the tent's circumference while tables rest in concentric circles around a central ring, the setting for most of the suppertime antics. At its essence the show is one expertly played, eclectically assembled routine after another, a rambunctious burlesque show/supper club/circus with an edgy overlay of 21st-century attitude. A sallow, dissipated maitre d' out of Cabaret leads the festivities: a poker-faced trapeze act, a nimble-fingered juggler, a leopard-skinned contortionist, plate-tossers, a tap dancer, Maria Muldaur belting out "Dontcha Touch My Leg," and a variety of Fellini-esque entr'actes, all of it accompanied by a sprightly orchestra of accordions, mandolins, clarinets, trumpets, tubas, and euphoniums. In between, actors, magicians, and other lunatics stroll from table to table disguised as waiters and busboys, crawling under tables, performing sleight of hand, and adding further ambient vaudeville to the dining experience. What's more, a drag queen known as Cookie announces each course with appropriate flourish and thespian vigor: a conga line for the salad, a triumphal march for the entree, a no-holds-barred, bungee-jumping, plate-spinning brouhaha for the dessert.

The food, prepared and served in association with Taste Catering and Stars Bar & Dining, is often surprisingly good, especially considering that 250 diners get the same thing at the same time in the grand old institutional tradition. The first of the five courses is an elaborate antipasto featuring a silky, port-imbued pâté; spears of focaccia ribboned with baby fennel; a dollop of light, lemony cucumber mousse; a dynamite, curry-edged hummus; a selection of pungent Mediterranean olives, fresh radishes, snap peas, and caperberries; and plenty of flatbread to scoop it all up. The celery-root soup that follows is a disappointment: It's got a hint of spice here and there and an attractive drizzle of parsley oil on top, but overall it's bland and watery. The soup is followed by a pleasant enough endive-cress salad with plenty of Gorgonzola and caramelized walnuts but practically none of the wine-poached pear advertised on the menu.