An exciting new addition to the Gayborhood scene a few months back was the Walnut Street Supper Club. Taking the place of a dated Italian restaurant, there”s a certain allure to a new restaurant that actually pays those hopeless theatre fags to sing as well as serve food.
There’s a certain allure to a new restaurant that actually pays those hopeless theatre fags to sing as well as serve food.
About a month after its opening, I joined Philly Homo T and a group of his friends to try it out. We had a good time, but the large party was seated in the upper balcony with limited view of the stage and cute boys adorning it. The service was good and the food was as well, though overpriced. And I nearly proposed to the busboy serving our table that night.
Afterwords, PHT and I agreed we might try it again at some point, but we were a bit more taken by the 20% off Happy Hour advertised on the sign outside, which brings us to today”s story.
A few weeks later, PHT and I decided to try out Happy Hour at the Supper Club. When we arrived, the bar was crowded, but our friendly bartender Amber assured us they were a large party waiting to be seated, and the bar would empty out shortly. Sure enough it did, and we took seats at the bar.
We gave the cocktail menu a thorough once over and ordered some of the star-studded elixers they have on offer. I had a go with a few Marilyn Monroes, while PHT was filled up with Dean Martins and the Rat Pack. We also ordered some snacks, including the mushroom ensemble we”d ordered during our previous excursion, because what happy hour is complete without an ensemble of mushrooms and risotto?
..because what happy hour is complete without an ensemble of mushrooms and risotto?
We had a great time, chatting with the seemingly bored Amber and her sexy colleagues, Jeremiah and Nathan, who seemed to visit the nearly-empty bar quite regularly during our stay. Needless to say, in our progressively more silly state, PHT and I were quite taken by the boys. Unfortunately, we weren’t taken to either of their apartments after work.
Fast forward three hours. Yes. Three hours. As we browsed through our iPhones, showing each other old pictures of ourselves, we realized it was after 9pm. So much for happy hour. We killed an entire evening in a restaurant bar– a notable accomplishment. I”m sure Amber was impressed. Having spent over $100 already, we paid and headed back to my apartment, but not before we took a moment to photograph each other posing in the restaurant”s entry. I”m sure we were the subject of conversation amongst the staff after we left.
I mixed us a few more cocktails and the night continued onward. So much for a little happy hour.
Editors Note: The preceding account took place on a Thursday evening, and we were both hungover as hell the next day for work.