Keeping it Epic

When taking in the SATC movie, the last thing you'd want to be part of is a cliched sundressed quartet click-clacking your way into the Boston Common theatre.  That was one of the excuses bandied about as four of us sat on the city sidewalk, conjuring some epic and soaking up the late day sun with al fresco cocktails.  Should we scrap the 4:55 movie all together and just plant it right where we were until our 8 p.m. dinner reservation? It was tempting. At 5:05,  we decided we'd better woman up and get ourselves to the movie, lest dinner -- this month's Suppah Club -- become an event, a vodka-drenched one on an empty stomach with shoes gone missing.  A very good call.  So, we saw the movie, which was what we expected -- four episodes in a row, meow, meow, meow. However, it sort of brought everyone down a bit, which was very unexpected. We slogged off to Ivy in a haze and were seated next to a bachelorette party with a giant inflatable pink penis (that had a face) as a centerpiece. Needless to say, it took awhile for our somber waiter to deliver the dirties.  From thereon -- all hopped up on olive juice -- it went all heroic and silly around the edges.  For whatever reason (maybe b/c of the neighboring inflatable and the fact that I possessed a video) there was an engaging discussion about this thing.  Absolutely mesmerizing.  The South Shore's proverbial American Beauty plastic bag.

Suppah Club: The Flipping Off of the Shusher

(Wait..didn't we just have Suppah Club?)

A late-March gathering made it seem that way. For April's SC, we headed to The Square Cafe in Hingham, a fantastic place save its utterly joyless clientele (more on that later.) Dinner got off to a late start after a phone call from Code Red let us know that she and Cameo had pulled into a gas station on 3A to investigate a "strange smell" in the car. It turned out to be the smoking remnant of a Heineken bottle, an automotive dumpling that some inebriated neighbor hurled at Cam's car last December. How rude. Crisis remedied, the table full, and SC in full-effect, we talked about about how Corporate America treats people like naughty little children, how it's fun being the oldest people on Facebook, and how the John Adams miniseries is awesome, but all those "Colonial sex" scenes are tough to stomach.

Then we got "shushed."

Like naughty little children. First, by two keg-shaped hags behind us and then a second time by a high-pocketed man who was probably the same age as us. How rude II. Never in my life have I witnessed such a thing. I won't get into the acoustics of the Square Cafe or the fact that were were a table of seven women or how the periodic eruptions from the bar area where people were watching the Red Sox were also shushed. Bottom line is -- it's not the MF library. If you don't want to dine among the masses, stay at home and whisper in hushed tones in your own dining room. Nobody was barking on a cell phone or carrying on inappropriately. At the very core of the shushing: Unhappy people simply can't stand the sounds of laughter and merriment.

As Mr. High Pockets passed by the window outside, Auntie gave him a passive-aggressive buh-bye wave. Confounded, he lifted his hand to reciprocate, but Gwennie -- not having it -- casually flipped him off. The shusher was flustered; he appeared to wet himself, then quickly flashed his middle finger and scurried down the street. We rejoiced, having chased away a restaurant bully. SC has a zero tolerance policy for buzz kills.

That said, everything else at The Square Cafe -- the waitstaff, the service, the food and wine -- was all fantastic. If they ever institute an anti-shushing policy for the rude and joyless, it'd be easier to become a regular.

In keeping with the "old people on Facebook" theme -- the Status of Suppah Club:

Cameo is...chastised for "smiling too much" during cheesy role play at a leadership training seminar
LPD is...wishing people at the table would refrain from using the term "heavy petting."
Auntie is...loving a good slipper.
Gwennie is...NOT about to be shushed by a man in angle-grazing khakis! .
Code Red is... wondering if they teach that shushing hand motion at Hingham town meetings.
Jess is...just going to drop and roll.
KJ is...is freaked out by wild turkeys

Some shots...


Auntie makes herself a little sick discussing the "many layers" involved in Colonial sex, corsets and such.

Code Red gasses up on Plumtinis ahead of her "old and cold" tour in Miami.







Fetch me a bowl of loud mouth soup!









"A tuna tar, a tuna tar, a tuna tar tar"

Suppah Club: Totally Gaslit

For a few years, my favorite verb has been "to gaslight." Gaslighting, if you don't know, is form of psychological torture where aspects of a victim's environment are subtly altered, thereby upsetting his or her peace of mind, sense of security, etc. I've long suspected my family of gaslighting me with all the moving of shoes and excessive Natasha Beddingfield songs. But now I have a new variation on my favorite verb:
To gaslight (v): To enjoy several carafes of Cote du Rhone at Gaslight in the South End, thereby experiencing a warm, overall sense of well being and finding everything, as a neighbor once said, "tits-out-on-the-Blue Line hilarious"

The new definition comes courtesy of this month's Suppah Club where we gathered at this fab "brasserie un coin"(brasserie on the corner) on what was once the shite end of Harrison Avenue. Just a few years ago, the only thing on this corner was a belligerent homeless person armed with a lighter and hairspray. Now, thanks to the folks at Aquitaine, it's one of pomme frites and garlic braised escarole and all things au poivre. A place that, according to its website, "courts all who appreciate a good time." Right on. Also, there is FREE PARKING, as in, "Park anywhere, ladies, it's free." Before you could say tinkle winkle, LPD pulled into a spot and she, Auntie and I busted into a slow jog toward the entrance. Inside, we feasted pomme heavy and enjoyed several half carafes, toasting Cameo's passing of the Series 7 and how James bribed her with New york strip steaks to bring her new boyfriend to our house.




Gwennie does a dramatic reenactment of Steven Tyler freaking out after being asked for ID at Logan.







Next Suppah Club theme: Steaks & Sex in the suburbs.

Suppah Club: Caroling for Shut-Ins and other Elderly Things

For this month's Suppah Club, we headed to Fuji 1546, a happy sushi place in the Q with brightly colored pendant lights and smiley Japanese people that are to the attitude what wasabi is to the sluggish metabolism. The wait staff puts your pinot grigio on ice. The menu accommodates those who don't put things in their mouths with names like "seared saki belly," offering "Turkey Club,""BLT," and "Philly Cheese Steak" sushi rolls as alternatives. Quincy riff raff begin trickling in around 8 p.m., frontloading Scorpion Bowls in anticipation of karaoke. It all added to the energetic vibe that we were desperately craving on an icy late winter evening.






With the exception of the glow-and-fro Flaleys, all were in need of some escape from their current realities, whether it was seeking amnesty from corporate America or getting a rejuvenating chemical peel. There is little doubt that the dead of winter exacerbates the inner hag, and that was evident in conversations and actions. There was a slight reprieve when the 19-year-old waitress, seemingly oblivious to our old lady aura, carded all of us. (Big tip). After that, it was all memory lapses and liberal applications of hand cream and discussions of how pale dry skin makes you want to do insane things, like go tanning. And not the “safe” kind where creamy chemicals mutate your skin into a “healthy” glow, but those old school radiation booths, the electric coffins that actually cook you a little.

At some point, we discussed how living in an active adult community would be fun, sort of like college with money and wisdom. Then Auntie dealt a verbal reality slap about how her parents, who have a condo in one of these AACs in Florida, spent last Christmas Eve "caroling for the shut-ins" Silence. Joking about feeling old is one thing, sharing a peer group with people who can no longer feed themselves is quite another.

Perhaps the current mindset was best summed by LPD. While rummaging through my purse for my camera, ("Do you have any hard candy? Any sour balls in there?")I commented on its elderly contents like tissues and Purell. LPD tilted her head to one side and said: "you don't look elderly, you're just doing elderly things." It's all a state of mind. Once we cease doing elderly things, we can turn it around. There is hope. Happy places like Fuji help; I think all we need is a little sunshine and a few Zumba classes.

DOT Suppah

Suppah Club is back with a vengeance after a four-month hiatus brought on by weather-related disasters. At long last, the burds gathered at 224 Boston in Dorchester which never disappoints. Even when the place is jam-packed. Even with the ever-present possibility of face-butting another patron. Even when conversation involves hollerin' over the Boston Street Cod Cakes and imaginary (or not) elfin-like whistles that followed us trom the trunk of Auntie's car.



Fine dining in a vice-like grip between chair and table.








(Flo-Ha bound)

After dinner, KT and I headed over to Florian Hall for a fundraiser beneath flourescent lights where we sought out DT and James among a sea of men in January jorts.

Suppah Club: A Big Night Timpano, Birds in a Ficus, and Midwestern Horrification

It was my turn to plan Suppah Club this month and I thought it'd be nice to do Restaurant Week in the North End. Several weeks ago, I made a reservation for 8 people at Taranta but realized only a few days prior to SC that their Restaurant Week policy was crafted by a bunch of fascists. "Only full parties will be seated. If you change/cancel your reservation within 48 hours, you must pay a $25 cancellation fee as well as the full price of the meal." WTF. This would not jive with Suppah Club, which in its very essence is non-commital -- for valid reasons. Planes are delayed, babysitters cancel, people have to work late or can only make it for drinks or dessert.

Needless to say, I put the kibosh on the Taranta reservation a full 96 hours in advance and booked at Bricco instead --- a place that we've been dying to try for a while, a place that wanted NO part of Restaurant Week. It was a good call on many fronts. First, the reservation for 8 dwindled to 2 thanks to vacations on the Cape and in Maine, business travel and, of course, new mamas tending to newborns. Cameo and I, Bricco cheerleaders from the outstart were the dynamic duo. I requested, via Opentable, a table by the window so we could sit in the open air and peoplewatch on Hanover Street. When we arrived, there was line out the door but our sidewalk-side table was waiting for us. It was all very romantic and Cam noted it was the best date she’d been on in a while but assured me I wouldn’t have to put out.

Feasting: Spice crusted rare tuna appetizer (tonno!) with three different sauces, a Timpano -- pasta wrapped stuffed pasta wrapped in pasta -- inspired by the movie "Big Night," roasted chicken and sausage raviolis and a few organic meatballs. Conversation turned philosophical; it was reminiscent of our roundtable chinwags in EB, except we had some Doris Kearns-Goodwin look-a-like eavesdropping at the next table.

Then Suppah Club added another layer to the evening in the form of the spontaneous good time.

When we were being seated, we spotted Mike Mc sitting a few tables from the front door, entertaining some clients from the midwest and ordering up the wild boar entree. (“Was it gamey? I bet it was gamey.” – Cam) It was so pleasantly random, that the meeting almost appeared staged, his clients sizing up Cam and I, no doubt wondering if Mike had added some high-end hookers to the expense account to escort them round town. After dinner, we joined them at the Living Room for a glass of Pinot where we hung out on big couches next to a overgrown ficus tree that I swore had birds living in it. A ton of laughs followed, although I'm certain we horrified the midwesterner. I'm sad/thankful my camera batteries died.

We took off, grateful that Cam was in the custody of Suppah Club this evening and not in Peru where the earth was quakin. We drove back through the city, playing Silversun Pickups on the radio loudly. Until next month...Gwennie, you're up!

Suppah Solstice

(Sea Burds)

To celebrate the summer solstice, we gathered at Tavern on the Water last night for a seaside Suppah Club. The TOTW is a favorite al fresco haunt from the Charlestown era. The back deck is the perfect hang on summer nights where you sit surrounded by views of the harbor, the North End wharves, and the Zakim bridge. The occasional LNG tanker, with its clustered chaos of helicopters, tugboats and armed FBI agents, serves as a reminder that your quaint harborside dinner could be interrupted by an apocalyptic explosion at any moment -- but it's all part of the experience.

It was not terrorism that threatened our estival nosh last night, however, but a Boston.com weather advisory posted by Todd Gross predicting severe thunderstorms and hail (Hail!?) around our arrival in the Navy Yard. Not again.

Brownguy banished our discouragement, kicking off a positive-thinking email chain: Are you going to believe this guy?

(Don't turn around. Uh oh.)

Right on. It wasn't one of those days where the air was so thick and moist that the skies just erupt under the pressure. The "wall of ass" wasn't present. As a weather junkie, I just wasn’t feeling it.

Positive thoughts coupled with a talisman -- an email sign-off of "Fuck Todd Gross (FTG)" for the rest of the afternoon -- seemed to work. But as Jess, Auntie and I made the slow crawl up 93, a text message told otherwise. Brownie sent us a picture from the deck of the Tavern that showed a menacing Independence-Day-like cloud rolling in from the north. FTG.

Amazingly, the ID cloud missed us, and when others loomed, we used Auntie’s hair as barometer: If it wasn’t curling up or fraying at her temples, it wasn’t humid enough to thunder. It didn't.

(Mamas)

As our shelter-seeking anxiety subsided, Suppah Club convo finally kicked off: Jess talked about wanting to go on a high-end safari and we wondered aloud about the difference between high-end vs. low-end safaris. Low-end: A busted-up Jeep, some mosquito netting and the ever-present danger of being mauled. High end: Perched on an African veranda overlooking the desert, sipping martinis and commenting -- in a very affected Howell-ish tone -- "Oh darling, look -- monkeys."


We toasted JAL’s still-legal, always-to-be-legal marriage and marveled at Cameo who is headed to Peru to volunteer at an orphanage for a few weeks. So very proud. It's sure to be a life-altering experience for our friend on many levels. We’re just hoping the alterations don't involve a Peruvian infant in a Baby Bjorn on the Nantucket trip next month. Godspeed!

Burds in the Test Kitchen

It was a Seaport Suppah Club last night at LTK, a test kitchen that serves up Legal’s seafood with a side of flying wineglass shrapnel. Upon taking our seats, JAL’s glass of red spontaneously combusted at the table. Moments later, our waiter hip-checked our bottle of pinot grigio, knocking a chunk of salmon with wasabi cream sauce onto my lap before spilling all over me. Cameo, quick and nimble, saved neighboring diners from injury, grabbing the wine bottle seconds before it rolled off the table and shattered to pieces.

It just wouldn’t be Suppah Club without some sort of jive ruckus.

(Gwennie "points" out the Dell'Olio fetus with glee)

Quite the afterwork scene happening at LTK. A wee bit of a sausage fest in the bar area, mostly young men of the corporate persuasian. A few gaggles of young women who haven’t yet learned to drink in heels teetered on the fringes. That said, to get to your table, you had to bob and weave through a gawking zone that rivaled Post Office Square park.

Good times, though. And even though some of us returned home looking like we’d been in a food fight, we’ll likely become regulars there this summer. It's the perfect gathering spot for Pavillion preshow cocktails and eye candy.

A 50 Percent Chance of PG

Trattoria San Pietro, Norwell -- Auntie, all browned up from her Bermuda vacation, swooped back into town to host April Suppah Club tonight, dropping a bomb smack- dab in the middle of the antipasto: The Bags' family is expecting again; Jack will welcome a new brother or sister later this year. And like Caroline and Paulie, the Bags' babies will be a mere 14 months apart. Babies, babies everywhere. Princessica and LPD will be birthing babies mid-to-late summer. Those of us with two or more babies are making sure our IUDs are secure. To the Mamas and Papas to Be: We'll always be here when you need us, whether it is to babysit or kidnap you for daytime wine binges.

2008: We're going to need a bigger bounce house.

De-Stressed at Bin 26

(photo: I see dead people, love)

Contrary to popular belief, the Big Dig is not the most stressful place to work in Boston, it's Bin 26 Enoteca on Charles Street. The Beacon Hill eatery appears to be operating under some sort of fascist regime. First, it's a lovely restaurant with a lot of unnecessary rules. Second, the staff is so riddled with anxiety about enforcing those rules that you'd swear they'd be shot on sight for giving someone the wrong bread basket. For awhile there, it appeared that this month's Suppah Club was going to be a bit of a pressure cooker.

Goy arrived first and bellied up to the bar to have a glass of red while she waited for the rest of us. The bartender shooed her away, informing her that patrons were not permitted to sit at the bar and have a glass of wine unless they were also eating. When she said she had dinner reservations and was simply waiting for friends, she was told she could have a glass of wine on the bench in the waiting area or sit by herself at the table for eight until the rest of the party arrived. Choosing the lesser of two discomforts, she took to the table, self-consciously flipping through the loose-leaf wine list. Cameo, LPD, Code Red and I arrived shortly thereafter -- our party of eight had dwindled to five having lost Paige to the Mung, Nic to temp single mamahood and Auntie to a work dinner in Connecticut. When we informed the hostess of this change, she nearly had a panic attack. She looked like crazy-eyed Jan from the Brady Bunch movie. Suddenly, high drama. Jan dashed into the dining room to reset our table. When we tried to follow her, she beat us back with an imaginary whip and chair -- back! back! --into the waiting area where we were forced to communicate with Goy through a granite laundry chute. By the time we were allowed to take our seats, we were all stressed out.

Luckily our easy-on-the-eyes waiter brought vino and a doting, laid-back vibe. He called everyone "love" -- and he wasn't even a Brit. From there on, the evening went from distressed to de-stressed. We got loud over a nosh of yellowfin tuna and some Fusilli Jerry walnut cream pasta. While LPD supsected our Tuscan Tomato Soup was just a warmed up jar of Classico, it wasn't half bad. Don't be surprised if we start serving up jarred spaghetti sauce as an appetizer soup at the next dinner party. Good times, burds.

I'd definitely go back to Bin 26 but I suggest they post a rulebook on their Web site to promote a stress-free dining experience for their customers. And maybe some in-house shiatsu for the uptight staff.

Ki-YA!

It was Nic’s turn to organize Suppah Club this month and she decided to kick it up a notch with a big Ki-YA!

Instead of simple dinner and drinks where conversation would have inevitably turned toward the diapered astronaut love scandal, we took to the Dojo and honored Code Red’s 20-17th birthday at the same time. Nic and Code Red signed us up for their karate (ka-ra-TE) class to learn some basic self defense techniques. They’ve only been at this a few months but already have more moves than Daniel LaRusso. Nic has her yellow belt and Code Red almost has hers after only a few weeks.

Last night, they were all togged out in the traditional white Gi as was the rest of the class. Enter the Burds: Cameo, Auntie and I -- in head-to-toe black -- were referred to as “The Ninjas” for the rest of the night. LPD, in a bright orange Tennessee t-shirt, stood out like a wee baby carrot as “Tennessee.”

Then, after the requisite bows, our workout – a.k.a. Hong Kong Phooey sideshow -- began.

I almost lost consciousness during the warm up, a side effect of not working out for seven years. LPD stubbed her toe during the high-impact skipping exercise but worked through it like a shinobi. Then we teamed up with each other, taking turns throwing kicks and elbows and punches. At one point, I couldn’t stop doing some involuntary bicycle motion with my pointy arms. The karate instructor reminded me it was not West Side Story. I still couldn't stop the flailing.

At one point, we were instructed to not just kick and punch the board but to kick and punch through the board, really kick and punch the shit out of it. “That’s kind of hard when your friend is on the other side,” we piped up. But then Nic flared up --“THERE ARE NO FRIENDS IN KARATE!!!” with the crazed look of a Cobra Kai.

It was a fantastic time all around, certainly one of the most physically-challenging Suppah Club’s yet. After class, we headed over to Salsa’s for a Mexican nosh where we ate, drank and discussed the diapered astronaut love scandal. Good Times.

El Sarape Suppah

The blanket supper. Or the green wrap -- "el verde wrappo" -- supper. Whatever you call it, this month's Suppah Club was cilantro-flavored and smothered in a mole sauce. It also coincided with my 20-17th birthday so there was mucho Sangria and jubilation going down at El Sarape on Weymouth Landing last night. The fact that I got carded at the bar before dinner was a present unto itself, as were special guest stars/hopefully returning regulars: KT and Brownguy.

This month, we actually learned something. KT educated us on the wonders of natural plastics and how her environmentally pioneering company is going to save the world. Our conversation went from high-minded topics like: "Spent Lipstick Case?: Just Bury it in the Backyard, it's Biodegradable" to irresistable crap like: "PerezHilton.com: Are Gratuitous Cooch Shots of Lindsay Lohan Really Necessary?" and "You're a 32B?: The Gravity-Defying Effects of the Victoria's Secret IPEX bra" (check out my hammers.) Great time, all. Thank you for littering the passage into the late 30s with refried beans, alcohol and filth. I love you all.

Paige: "Heh. I'm not in my late 30s."

Brownguy goes in for the kill.

Let's swaddle BG in el verde wrappo.

Little Beaver (&) the Brownguy

Dinner Club *CTRL ALT DEL* Suppah Club

Jess challenged Suppah Club's unstodgy tradition last night at Asian C, kick-starting a discussion about health insurance providers over a boat o' sushi. She proceeded to refer to our monthly event as "Dinner Club" -- a thinly-veiled attempt to make Suppah Club a swishier affair.


We hit "ctrl alt delete" and rebooted Suppah Club to its native form.

Back to status quo: Goy thought she detected a hint of Midori in her Cosmo and eyed the bartender suspiciously while passing her drink around for inspection. Paige got a splinter from one of her chopsticks, prompting a tiny table triage overseen by LPD (WMD was an EMT after all) CameOH regaled us with a strange occurance in her office, one that was undoubtedly sparked by her near-seat experience with Barack Obama on a Boston-bound plane last week.

Toasts:
To Auntie being back on the booze. To photos of Baby Jack in circulation. To the Dell'Olios' beautiful new home in Norwell (more on that later). These are the reasons that this was the most well-attended, most celebrated Suppah Club since its inception in Feb '05.



And Cameo is delighted to be OFF Suppah Club probation.

"Shiraaaaaaz. Shiraaaaaz."

PROPS to Goy for putting it all together.

A BACCO JUBILEE

Last night's jubilant Suppah Club at Bacco (not Bricco) in the North End brought resolution to a long-standing philosophical quandary:

Question: What makes a regular celebration a "jubilee?"

Answer: A shot of Limoncello.










Unresolved: What the hell IS that thing?

Paige Carjacked at Suppah Club

(BUH: photo taken by great waitress/horrible photog)

Despite the violent headline, it was all love at Burton's Grille at the Derby Street Shoppes last night. As usual, Suppah Club started out quite mellow and lady-like with white napkins folded in the shape of isosceles triangles on our laps. We swapped harrowing work stories over a nosh of gazpacho and sesame encrusted tuna before degenerating into the typical shenans that accompany these monthly suppahs: We discussed the possibility of growing some khat in ceramic planters on my back porch and we made plans to make like 1991 and invade Jessica's parents house in Marshfield for a wee pool party (complete with Body Bombs) on Saturday.

Paige had an early flight to California the next morning so we walked her out to her fly new automobile -- all luxe and plush, like Paige as a car. Even non-car people like us could not resist the urge to wrap it up in a pink blanket and take it home. Thus, a friendly carjacking, born out of genuine fondness, occurred. Some shameless scenes:



Jess -- a latter day Tawny Kitaen in business casual attire -- strikes a pose on Paige's (car's) trunk.









"HEY! Shut up and drive muthafucka," says Pete, after bumrushing the backseat.











"We ride donkey's in Ireland, for fuck sake," says Nic. "I'm not getting out of the bloody car. Back off! I'm going to Foxwoods." (note: Peeping Jess)













Annie's got the keys!









Sorry, Paige. Don't know what came over us.