Chrissy and I ran a 5k that morning at Keel Farms. Five kilometers of Florida August at 9am, which is its own kind of suffering. 55 minutes of mud and sweat, followed by warm beer. By evening the legs had forgiven us. The appetite had not.
The Supper Club was born at Rocca Tampa. Michelin star, tableside mozzarella, a server named Jayden who recited the restaurant’s origin story like it was scripture. Eight were invited. Six sat down. Two bailed. The man who originated the entire idea fell asleep. Bill: $806. We left already planning round two.
Round two was The Pearl at Water Street. The same Michelin-recognized orbit, but more casual atmosphere. It’s described as a gastropub, a class of restaurants that has gained popularity for its simplicity and familiarity but also fresh and quality food offering. Restaurant, tavern, oyster room, three identities on one marquee, all lit in bulb lights on Water Street like a jazz club that time forgot. The room is genuinely beautiful. Someone spent serious money on the dark wood and warm light and then someone else decided to run the NFL on six screens and pipe in Chris Brown. It gave the room a bit of an identity crisis, but certainly not
The Pearl at Water Street is a Cameron Mitchell restaurant. The same operator as Ocean Prime. In fact, the Executive Chef, Olivia Geisler was Sous Chef at Ocean Prime Tampa before moving up.
I had specifically invited Chad and Dena this time. We know each other through taekwondo. Their daughter Trinity trained with us for years, went off to college, and the connection could have dissolved the way those things do. I sent the invitation anyway. Deliberate. The Supper Club, I had decided, was partly about choosing who stays in your life once nothing is obligating either of you to stay.
They drove to Water Street and couldn’t find a parking spot. Monster Jam was at the arena that night. They turned around and went home. We were all disappointed but it was very chaotic. Roads were blocked off and police were directing cars by hand on almost every street. A lesson was learned that night.
The Supper Club has now shed people across two consecutive dinners without losing a single one to the food or the company. Ritchie, who invented this whole thing, has attended zero of the two. I keep setting the table. The core six keep showing up.
That core: Janet and Joe, Chris and Julia, Chrissy and me. Same six as Rocca. We ordered the shellfish tower without deliberating. Two tiers, a dozen oysters on the bottom ring in crushed ice, gulf shrimp on the level above, twin lobster tails anchoring the top. Cocktail sauce. Mignonette. Lemon. When it landed the table went quiet, briefly, the way it does when something arrives that is genuinely worth looking at.
Our server was Jeff. At Rocca, Jayden performed. Origin stories, building history, tableside narrative woven into the meal itself. Jeff did the opposite. Recommendations when asked, invisible otherwise. There when the table needed him, gone when it did not. That is a specific, underrated skill. He earned his tip in both directions.
The food was excellent for what it was. Braised short rib. Great Lakes fish and chips. Nothing that rewrote any definitions. The short rib appears on roughly half the menus in Tampa right now and The Pearl’s version is good without being the reason you make the drive. Someone at the table ordered the fish and chips, knew exactly what they wanted, and had zero interest in performing otherwise. Right call. Reviews say the roasted chicken and sea scallops are excellent. In fact, the scallops were Jeff’s favorite item on the menu.
The most famous item on the menu is the burger. Ground fresh daily, Cambozola cheese, tomato jam. I find that genuinely interesting. A Cameron Mitchell property with a Michelin mention, an oyster room, a shellfish tower at market price, and the signature is a pub burger. That is not a criticism. It is a tell. The Pearl built its menu for the person who actually walks through the door, the rest is atmosphere.
I ordered the Bourbon. Bacon. Boozy. Twenty dollars. Fat-washed Maker’s Mark, brown sugar, Peychaud’s Bitters, candied bacon. Fat-washing is a real technique: the bacon fat gets frozen and skimmed, leaves smoke and salt in the spirit without the grease, and the Peychaud’s keeps the whole thing from going heavy. It had a mild bacon flavor but was very pleasing.
On my wrist, the Tissot PRX Chronograph. Blue dial, two-tone gold and steel integrated bracelet. It sat on the reclaimed wood next to that glass of bacon bourbon and looked like it belonged there, which is the only thing you can ask of a watch. Not to impress the room. Just to fit inside the evening without demanding to be noticed.
$604 for six. We took the photo outside under the marquee, all of us plus a couple of strangers who wandered into the frame without knowing they were being inducted into the Supper Club canon. The night was warm. Water Street was moving. Two blocks away, somewhere in the dark, trucks were catching air.
Chad and Dena, I’ll get you to the table. The Supper Club is not going anywhere.
— Jaime.
Precision on the wrist. Perfection in the glass. Music to feel. Stories that last.