The Supper Club
With a little effort, care, and community, even the most familiar of spaces are transformed to something new through a good meal shared.
It’s a rainy autumn evening as I approach the pub, the streets are glazed with a light sheen of spray and the streetlamps are glowing dimly, flickering inside their glass cages. The atmosphere is... dreary to say the least, but I enjoy that. There’s something about dreariness to me that goes hand in hand with cosiness. A comfort found in that characteristically British weather that, however mundane, is soul soothing. The rain provides a sort of blanket around me as I walk, enveloping my body and keeping me company for the duration of my stroll. I turn a corner and my destination comes into sight. The pub has stood here for hundreds of years at this point, its exterior has been maintained well, somehow balancing the antique with the modern. Blood red wooden panelling, navy and white chequered tiles. Old-fashioned sconces hanging over windows and door frames and garlands peaking out from inside. I hear the familiar hum of jovial conversation as I draw closer, saying goodbye to my friend The Rain as I finally shake off my coat and head inside.
I’ve been coming here since I was a child, with my family. Sunday lunches, half term treats. Now I myself am old enough to order at the bar, and the nature of the pub comes to me in full swing. The bar, a stretched oval of dark rich wood, sits in the middle, the young student bartenders hurrying around it, fixing orders. Due to the proximity to the university, most of the staff here change frequently, there is always a new fresh-faced student ready to take your order every time you come. Over the years I’ve loved seeing the faces come and go, and seeing those who, despite it all, have stuck it out. I glance towards my favourite corner of the pub, an area slightly cut off from the others, but closest to the oh-so-important kitchen. Dark leather chairs and sofas huddle in groups of the mustard-walled room, framing the fireplace. For decor, a photograph of Winston Churchill and a shelf filled with Henderson’s Relish. How very Northern.
I wait at the bar and watch the patrons. Something inside me warms as I realise that despite everything, people make the effort to be regulars here. It is something akin to self care I believe to bring yourself here to indulge in conversation and company. From the group of older men laughing raucously in the doorway, to the young students on a first date. I myself am excited, as today I get to unlock a new level to my experience of this pub. Tonight I am attending a Supper Club and ascending the gastro-pub ladder through thematically curated food.
The food here has always been something spectacular, I remember the exact moment I tried triple cooked chips for the first time, a quasi-religious experience. It had never occurred to me that something as simple as a potato could taste so utterly majestic. I stand at the bar waiting to be summoned, an autumnal chill drifting in and cooling my back while the warmth from the nearby fireplace heats my cheeks. I drift through the group of people that surrounds me, making polite conversation whilst we wait. I ask if they’ve ever attended one of these supper clubs before. A woman gushes as she describes the last club she attended in the spring and of all the delights she was able to feast on. Her tales of decadence and delicacies take effect, with the low rumble of hunger growing inside. It is at that moment my favourite waitress comes through and ushers us all upstairs, She takes names and flashes us warm smiles, as all of us strangers file into the private dining area. I pray that she doesn’t conflate my red cheeks with the burgeoning crush I have on her as she guides me to my seat.
Candlesticks glow tentatively in the corners of the room, illuminating the panelling and casting shadows across the walls. Dark crushed velvet curtains envelope the windows and keep the chill at bay. The room is of a decent size, large enough to host three large walnut dining tables, but small enough to keep everyone within earshot. I take my place at the table nearest the window and scan around, noting my seat partners. Everyone wears thick jumpers and chunky knits and we huddle around and begin to get acquainted. There is something special about this forced proximity, something uniquely human and awkward. I find that in the summer, all expansive skies and rolling hills, the world seems so vast, so wide, yet in the Autumnal throes of Halloween Night, there is a magnetism. A pull towards connection and introspection, to engage with someone other than yourself and reach out into the dark.
Tonight's meal is centered around the lore of The Brothers Grimm, a set of rather gruesome yet morally challenging fairytales. Each course is paired with a matching wine and corresponding fable. After the first course of pumpkin bread with warmly spiced butter it seems as though my tablemates have relaxed into the evening, the hum of conversation pulsing through the air. A hearty celeriac soup follows, alongside a melty and rich bone marrow risotto. A simple enough dish elevated to new heights, creamy and deeply savoury. The star of the show however is a beautifully cooked venison filet atop a sweet and earthy parsnip puree. People mumble happily as they enjoy their meals, each diner’s anecdotes a personalised reflection of the foods that have shaped each individual's culinary sensibilities. The room gains a rich, warm atmosphere. One that glows a deep passionate russet colour and smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, much like the spices included in the damson and custard tart we are served for dessert.
After the meal has concluded and dirty plates and crumbs lay scattered across the tables, I am pulled briefly out of the conversation I’m having with the man next to me and glance across the room. Some people sit in contented silence, happy to just listen and observe, whilst others all bright eyed and rosy from the wine gush over each other and exchange meaningful sentiments. A group of lads laugh loudly over the same joke that has been told about ten times over already. Others are bending over backwards to talk to people that have been seated on different tables. I find it so interesting and almost amusing how a room full of complete strangers have been brought together over something so simple as a good meal and wine, there's something almost biblical about it. Our own last supper before we are ushered into winter’s grasps.
I smile to myself and return to my conversation, my chest all warm and full of spirit. At some point I will return to the dreary street from which I came and make my way home in the dark night, but when I do so, I will do so a changed person. A slightly warmer person, a more open person, someone more receptive to experience and connection. I will leave with something more than what I came with, but for now, I laugh. I drink. I linger. I engage and make the most of The Supper Club and the friends that have come with it. ⚭
Ellison SmithThe Broadfield is open Monday—Sunday, 11:30 til late, Sheffield S7
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