Mr Mister Supper Club

There are nights that don’t ask for planning, they just happen.

As we dropped our child off at her friend’s house, Jeff and I were contemplating, shall we stay in or shall we go? Jeff’s playful ultimatum, “It’s either now or never.” A rainy Saturday at six isn’t exactly prime time for snagging a table, at Mr Mister Supper Club

I dashed into my closet, put a sexy black dress, grabbed stilettos, my evening bag, and tossed my makeup into the car. Twelve minutes in the passenger seat is all I ever need to transform from “just left the house” to “ready for the night.” A mist of perfume, a quick touch-up, and off we went.

The parking lot was packed, “Of course it is,” I sighed, already preparing myself for the wait. But timing is everything. We walked in, I flawlessly sprinted toward the bar, and just as we arrived, a couple stood up to move to the dining room. What a perfect opening. A tiny miracle. “Thank you,” I told them, “You made our night.”

We started with French 125, my favorite French 75’s elegant cousin, and when Melissa, a brilliant bartender makes them, they’re not just cocktails, they’re an experience. Bright, balanced, and dangerously delicious. The kind of drink that makes you lean back, exhale, and think, yes, this is exactly where I’m supposed to be with the love of my life.

Fresh off a Boston trip, seafood was still reminiscing in our minds. A dozen oysters, yes please, six East, six West. The West Coast beauties stole the show. Creamy, flavorful, perfect texture. Their ginger mignonette is divine, but don’t skip the horseradish. A little lemon, a little heat, a little brine, a pure perfection.

We loved them so much that the Junior Tower was inevitable. More oysters. Oishii shrimp. Hamachi ceviche. Tuna tartare. A shimmering, chilled celebration of the sea. YUM!

Then came their iconic Caesar salad, beautifully and elegantly crowned with a cheese dome and topped with an egg. Breaking the egg and folding it into the greens is quite satisfying, you get this feeling of like mastering your own dish. Rich, creamy, indulgent. A Caesar worth remembering.

And since the red wine was ordered, and because we love meat, the prime steak tartare was a must. Silky, flavorful, beautifully seasoned, which I paired with their smoked shrooms, which are so, so good, honestly, those babies deserve their own applause.

Meanwhile, as we were talking to another bartender, a jerky genius, Nick, who smokes his own products, Jimmy, the owner, came over to check on us.

And what began as a warm conversation, Jeff and I praising the service and the food, while Jimmy shared stories from his travels and life as a restauranter, turned into something even more memorable, the four of us, including Jimmy and his extremely talented chef, Anthony Pupo, sharing an incredible bottle of cabernet and more stories.

What started as a spontaneous “now or never” turned into one of those evenings where everything aligns, the weather, the timing, the food, the drinks, the company. Two bar seats opening at the exact second we walked in felt like the universe nudging us forward.

It wasn’t just dinner. It was a little adventure. A rainy-night romance. A reminder that sometimes the best nights are the ones you never planned.