By Cory Sklar
By Alee Karim
By Christina Li
By Dave Pehling
By Ian S. Port
By SF Weekly
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
Alone again, naturally. I sat in the corner by myself and drank an Anchor Steam. I counted 23 disco balls hanging over the bartender and watched the dating couples touch each other's butts. I was at the Supperclub on Harrison. Try as I might, earlier I couldn't talk anyone into coming along with me for the evening. Normally I like to go out by myself. But the Supperclub is supposedly an "experience" that should be shared. For one thing, I had heard that they make you sit in a bed instead of a table. I pictured myself propped up with pillows in the center of a king-size mattress, wedged under a breakfast-in-bed tray and listening to Massive Attack while revelers with friends cavorted all around.
"Do you think you can put someone else in my bed with me?" I asked the woman who took my reservation. She was kind enough to not take my inquiry as a joke, and she assured me that they would figure something out.
The Supperclub is actually a chain of sorts, having originated in Amsterdam and then replicating itself in other chic parts of the world where people don't want to sit at tables. Once I actually arrived, I was happy to see that there weren't individual beds, but rather there was one big, long bed around the perimeter of each room.
The entrance and main bar area were dark and sultry, then you walk into the two-story dining area and it's crisp white everywhere, including the bedding. Industrial beams and staircases in pure white held the place up. It was awash in white, well lit while at the same time moody; sort of like being in P. Diddy's parking garage.
It felt pretty good to be there, I must say. But then again, I had taken a Vicodin that I had been hoarding for just such an occasion. I waited until I arrived and then went into the bathroom to take it. There is something about being in a very dimly lit bathroom at a club and bending over the sink to drink water to down your drugs that seems so very decadent. I wiped my mouth and stared into the mirror. "Jeez babes," I thought to myself. "Next stop, Lifetime movie."
The Supperclub serves a prix fixe dinner every night, 60 bucks for a five-course meal, then the whole joint turns into a dance club. Everyone waits in the main bar area until their table er, bed, is ready. I sat back with my legs crossed and arms folded and enjoyed my burgeoning buzz. Despite a bar full of well-heeled professionals, a young woman was sitting to my left by herself as well. She was reading Jane Eyre. That book has one of my favorite beginnings, where Jane is hidden in a nook and reading, lost in her own world. There was a reason that I ended up at this place all alone, I just knew it.
Soon it was time to shuffle everyone into the main room. I was offered a nice spot right in front of the DJ/stage area. I took off my shoes and climbed into my seat. Oooh, comfy. Two cages were hung from the ceiling with she-vampires slowly writhing in them. I waved at one of them enthusiastically. Apparently there is some sort of a floor show while you eat. Man, this just kept getting better.
A Dutch TV crew was set up at one bed, and the Dutch Ryan Seacrest was splayed out and talking into the camera. "That guy's HUGE in Holland," some dude told me. Wow. I decided that if they came over to me and asked me a question, I would reply in the limited Dutch that I know. "Blotabilla," I would say with a wide American smile. (It means "butthole.")
I was also excited to see the Jane Eyrereader sit down right beside me. We chit-chatted and she asked me, in a roundabout way, why I was there by myself. Then I did something that I never do. Blame it on the Charlotte Bronté or the Vicodin, but I told her that I was there because I was from SF Weekly and I was checking this place out. Her eyes got huge and she said, "My boyfriend's the manager of Supperclub!" Oh shit. Apparently I had broken my journalist's vow of silence to the wrong person.
You know that scene in The Sure Thing where John Cusack and Daphne Zuniga are stranded and they need to use her dad's credit card because it's an emergency? But unfortunately the only place open is some fancy-schmancy steak house and hotel? I was reminded of that when the in-house masseuse came over to give me a complimentary massage, or when the free drinks began to arrive. Yes, it sucked that I had blown my cover, but in the long scheme of things, it really didn't suck at all. In fact, it was awesome. For some reason they also got it into their heads that I was a food reviewer, not a bar hag, so both the head chef and the sous chef came over to make sure I was well taken care of.
The food came out one course at a time over about two hours, which was a great pace. I like to take my time. It was very gourmet stuff, all compotes and reductions and drizzles, but it was delicious. I didn't know duck could taste like steak. The portions were big, too, so I thought it was a good deal.
I had heard that the performances at this place were very Burning Man. I had heard correctly. A drag queen came out and lip-synced to Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," then "Tomorrow" from Annie, and we also saw some belly-dancing. Apparently contortionists show up a lot, too. Not my bag, people. However, I was so cozy in my bed that I didn't care. Go ahead, I thought, swallow that fire. Ride that unicycle.
The Dutch Ryan Seacrest was sniffing his duck and gave me a wink. My Jane Eyre companion was telling me about how she is on the design team that is redoing Caesar's Palace in Vegas. The vampire woman came over and slid up next to me. "You smell nice," I told her. "For the undead."
And you know what? If I hadn't come alone, none of this would have happened. Katy St. Clair