By Rae Boocock
It is a dark, dank evening as I slip down a side street and approach an inconspicuous group, after navigating London Fields for what seems like hours.
“Are you a first timer?” asks a thick French accent. I nod. On cue, a door to my right opens and a small, ethereal hand beckons everyone in.
I’m at Leluu Supper Club, a Vietnamese take on the “underground” concept where people transform their homes into restaurants to entertain strangers. “It started out as cooking for a lot – a lot – of friends,” says chef, host and supper club pioneer Uyen Luu. “Eventually I needed some money for all the dinners.”
Inside, the winter chill melts in a flurry of hanging coats and introductions. The small, soft-lit studio is charmingly cluttered with gold baroque mirrors, mismatched crockery, Chinese flasks, birdcages and teetering stacks of books.
It’s more upmarket flea fair than Alain Ducasse at The Dorchester. Luu tells me that my table is made from a window she took when she was forced out of her former boutique business by rocketing rent. “It’s my house, my home, all the stuff I’ve collected,” she says. “That’s why supper clubs are great, they show off people’s different personalities.”
I’m seated knee-to-knee at a table of seven singletons: a brand manger, a structural engineer, a charity campaigner, a student, a recently-moved-to-London PR and a holidaying French doctor. Conversation flows as easily as the bring your own bottle wine. The evening is sold out, and around the four tables I count 27 guests.
Luu, 36, a trendy yet friendly food photographer and author of a soon-to-be-published Vietnamese cookbook, has run supper clubs for four years.
She entertains effortlessly, gliding in and out with food and plates almost unnoticed. It’s a far cry from my mum’s annual martyrdom after Christmas day dinner for four. There’s a warm egalitarianism between host and visitor – a refreshing break from an apathetic restaurant hierarchy. Later, food served, Luu and her white Westie join my table. She drinks, chats and eats Maltesers.
The eight-course set menu is authentic, fresh and delicious. Summer rolls with poached pork belly and prawns are lightened by minty perilla and coriander. There is banh canh, a delicate udon noodle soup with dill and fishcakes, bo la lot, tender strips of sirloin wrapped in peppery betel leaf, and a dessert of red beans, tapioca, coconut water and orange zest.
Yet the most enjoyable part of the night is the communal experience. It’s Come Dine with Me without the pressure of cooking; food without formality. Leluu Supper Club balances a restaurant’s sense of occasion with the cheerful intimacy of a dinner party. Like all the best get-togethers, the noise levels rise as waistbands tighten. Laughter and anecdotes ping-pong off the walls, numbers are swapped, Twitter feeds followed.
It’s been four years since supper clubs became popular. They’re popularised by books and increasingly easy to find with social media. Yet judging by Leluu’s – a favourite among seasoned supper-clubbers – they have lost none of their magic in the mainstream.
Suddenly adamant, Luu says: “Supper clubs aren’t much of a secret anymore but I’d never do this commercially. “It’s important to stay small, where not everyone knows each other, but everyone can talk.”
Midnight is a distant memory as I step back out in the cold, my waistline contently tight. The suggested £35 donation seems a small token for the fantastic evening. I don’t feel as though I’m leaving a business, but a friend’s dinner party where the convivial atmosphere deserved a Michelin star just as much as the food.
