Lord of the Flyovers
A column by Kirk Thomas
Supper Club Season
Sample / mockup content
When the lake places close, the relish trays come out.
Every Upper Midwest town over a certain age has one: a low building off the county road with a neon sign, a relish tray, and a bartender who has been making brandy old fashioneds since before you were born. Supper club season never really ends, but it hits differently once the lake places close.
The ritual matters more than the menu. You sit at the bar first, because that is what you do. Somebody orders a Friday fish fry even though it’s Saturday. The prime rib is a size, not a cut. The relish tray arrives without anyone asking, and nobody under fifty knows what to do with the cheese spread, and everybody eats it anyway.
The prime rib is a size, not a cut.
What I love about these places is that they are honest about what they are. Nobody is reinventing anything. The wood paneling is original. The carpet has seen things. The grasshopper at the end is green and enormous and you will regret the second one.
If you see a supper club with a full parking lot in October, pull off. That is the whole column. Pull off.