Singles Supper Club - some thoughts from Singledom Town

Finally we have the low down on the Singles Supper Club, this time coming to you from the lovely mayor over at Singledom Town. As this whole experiment was really his fault I figured he should put the effort into telling you all about it. (If you really want my opinion you can catch it on his blog here!) 

(FYI - As you'll discover, I seem to be known as Big Instrument. Not sure how I feel about this.)

Dear all,

As avid readers, you are aware that BigInstrument (not her real name) and I came up with the notion that she should host a Supper Club for gay single dudes and that I should blog about it. We would combine our incredible blogging powers and crossblog until the blogosphere exploded with bloggy gooey goodness. This is my half of the post-Supper Club deal. BigInstrument’s can be read at SingledomTown.

Lest you be confused, I’ll state that this is my first foray into food-blogging, so you’ll have to excuse my approach. Rather than simply rabbit on about the amazing mouth-bound creations of BigInstrument, I’m going to attempt to recount the evening by parsing events via the contents of the menu. That’s right folks, I can write all I like about dating and being single, but when it comes to food, aside from chewing and swallowing, I have no idea what I’m doing.

After myself and BigInstrument blogged our invitations to the Supper Club, gay dudes from far and wide began inviting themselves in, and yet it still took a while for us to fill the eight seats outright. It seems Dublin ‘mos aren’t as daredevil as we might have been led to believe. Nevertheless, the hour approached, and we knew we had our table (our very beautifully set table at that).

I arrived a few minutes early to find BigInstrument and CuteButStupid (thereafter known as TheHelp) (neither are his real names) dressed up and twitching with the nerves. Well, I say ‘dressed up’. Big was stunning in full evening wear, Cute had pulled a cardigan over the usual garb and pulled a brush through his hair. I think he’d pulled a brush through his hair.

First in the door: FlowerBoy (not his real name). This IT professional, a one time resident of Shannon, and total git, blew the competition out of the water in terms of ass-kissing, by bringing a bale of flowers for Big. It never even occurred to me to bring flowers. Thank God I brought port. Cute took his coat, got brought a glass of mulled wine, and the two of us got to chatting by the fire.

Next up: AllSmiles (not his real name). In real estate by trade, and from Mayo by extraction, this gent knew how to come in all smiles and chat, and the three way conversation skidded along with excellent lubrication by both Big and Cute.

Third singleton in the door: CarCrash (not his real name). I can’t really say much about CarCrash as he really didn’t reveal much. His reticence was what made him the most intriguing of the bunch, but in the end, he was a bit of a car crash, which I will touch on later.

Fourth: ProfessorPlum (not his real name). A lecturer on a topic so specific that I couldn't describe it or I'd give the game away entirely. Clearly, the dreamiest of the bunch, ProfessorPlum would make just about anyone salivate, unless you are food addict, like myself, whose dribbling ways were focussed entirely on getting a mulled wine refill while chomping on apple chips and home-roasted nuts.

A known master of tardiness, EnormousQuiff (not his real name) was fifth in the door, beaten out only by MrT (not his real name), a man even worse for the time-keeping, and then NurseyNursey (not his real name) who had been working late and had a legitimate excuse (he was saving lives, nurse-style). To put it in context, all these men were single, intelligent, attractive Dublin-based gay dudes who, except for CarCrash, I somehow knew in one way or another.

This is a bad diagram

The very badly improvised diagram here shows exactly how I knew them all. For the others, there were many more new faces than there were for me, and as gay men often will, they did the spiderweb diagram in their minds and one of the first, if brief, topics of conversation, was their amazement that none of them had slept with any one of the others.

With the conversations in full-flow, a few clangers fell out of men’s mouths for immediate and violent verbal consumption by the pack. MrT’s excellent contributions included declaring, twice, he couldn’t remember a single one of our names. He then invited all comers to leave their keys in a bowl. I should note though, that while there was the odd sex joke, considering the company and event in question, they were quite politely left behind.

The chat veered from initial introductions, to ‘what do you do’ style questions, to, imaginatively enough, ‘what did you want to do when you were a kid’. ProfessorPlum pulled at heartstrings with ‘I wanted to be a binman’. MrT drew yawns with ‘An accountant’. I was entirely derided when I revealed I had had a Wordsworth-esque relationship with nature as a teen and fancied myself a bulb farmer. My stock comparatively rose when EnormousQuiff inexplicably revealed a desire to be a priest. At that, Big invited us around the kitchen table and we took our seats, cleverly ordered to ensure no one was sitting beside anyone they knew (I’m not sure to what extent Big was aware that I knew nearly everyone).

The first course was potted crab (potted in the daintiest antique china cups you ever did see) accompanied by pickled cucumber and home-baked sourdough bread. It was delicious. I bloody love crab and this was great. I think pretty much everyone tucked in and to be honest, while I’d been talking like the clappers by the fire, my trap closed for the purposes of talking once the food was in front of me, and I used the jaw to chomp chomp instead.

CarCrash, sat beside me, used the jaw to neither talk nor chomp chomp. His only contribution to the conversation was to say he felt terrible he hadn’t eaten anything. Was it a sea-food allergy? Perhaps he was allergic to China? He didn’t elaborate.

With one course devoured, and the introductory awkward conversation left behind in the sitting room, the chat went round and round the table. I had been worried that with myself and MrT sat at either end of the table, we might dominate the conversation through too many in-jokes and familiar talk. I shouldn’t have worried. MrT dominated the conversation all by himself.

All of us a similar age, we found plenty to talk about and plenty in common: there was a penchant for 80s cartoons (and some loud singing of theme tunes); there was the inevitable slagging of those of a non-Dublin heritage (Shannon has a lovely firestation; Athlone a lovely train station; Drogheda a lovely niteclub); there were holiday tales of being held at gunpoint and experiences of deportation; we were all fans of sci-fi (though ProfessorPlum didn't admit to being as much of a Trekkie as his USS Enterprise-D alarm clock would testify).

Our starter dishes cleared, the main was presented to us: mushroom and pesto lasagne with bean salad. I’m not going to lie: this astounded me. I don’t actually like mushrooms. Picky eater MrT had, in advance, requested an alternative meal (as provided for in the invitation to Supper Clubs) and couldn’t face a plate of mushrooms. My adventurousness was rewarded: the lasagne was absolutely delicious. What usually kills me about mushrooms is the texture but somehow Big had transformed this aspect and created something firmer and more tangible. The smokey flavours and creamy layers were perfectly complementary and I scraped my plate clean, as did mostly everyone else. 

Except CarCrash. Again, he felt terrible handing back a full plate. Was it a cheese allergy? Or bean? Who knows. He didn’t elaborate.

As per the rules of a Supper Club, each of us had brought our own drinks to quaff and by now the table was seeing the coming and going of empty bottles. This only added to the decibels at the table. I’d imagine the neighbours thought there were far more than eight men at the table, and soon there weren’t eight. Following the very satisfying dessert of apple and quince tart with homemade custard, CarCrash returned from his fourth cigarette break to make a dramatic announcement (!). He had to leave: his ex-boyfriend had been in a car crash.

I barely suppressed the laughter behind my hand. ProfessorPlum, at the far end of the table, gave me a stern look. ‘Oh right’, I thought, ‘this is serious’. I straightened up and attempted to look concerned. This is hard when your face is floating in Cava bubbles. CarCrash’s ex was at that very moment on the way to James’ and CarCrash insisted that AllSmiles accompany him. You could tell AllSmiles had no more interest in that, and yet felt obliged, since the ex was his flatmate.

They may not even have been out the door when I guffawed. NurseyNursey’s professional opinion was that if the ex was on the phone, ‘he would walk it off’. I admitted I had a ‘car crash’ waiting on the end of the line, just in case the Supper Club turned out to be a bust. So with two seats spare, Big and Cute joined us at the table for coffees and fresh biscotti, the last of the wine, continued nattering and the big decision: where to next? We were all in firm agreement: we were not going on the scene. Sure the gayness of that would kill you, so we opted instead for Against The Grain.

NurseyNursey, who hadn’t been drinking, threw Big, Cute and FlowerBoy in the back of his car, while EnormousQuiff, ProfessorPlum, MrT and I walked the short stretch over to Camden Street. Installed on a couple of stools, myself and ProfessorPlum got into a round of niche beers of his choice and the group downed yet more booze and drowned each other in ribald tales. As soon as the lights flashed, we lurched across the road to Solas, where dancing was done.

It’s funny, while crossing the road, ProfessorPlum said he had the oddest inclination to ask ‘So...when are we all hanging out again?’ I felt exactly the same. We had had such a good time as a group, it seemed only natural that you’d want to repeat the experience. In Solas, plenty of confidences were shared, numbers swapped and even a kiss was had (I’ll not say between whom) and certainly, a shine was taken to others by more than one party.

I personally think the night was a triumph. I can’t say enough about BigInstrument and her skillz. We cheered her about a dozen times that night and I had to be reminded that at one point, we held her aloft and whooshed her into the air on the Solas dancefloor, chanting her name.

The night was bloody marvellous. Roll on the next Supper Club, Singles Supper Club, Straight Supper Club, whatever. They’re all great.

Team Supper Club: BigInstrument, WooWoo and CuteButStupid, pissed in Solas