The Union League, Philadelphia

I have mixed feelings about the Union League Club of Philadelphia. Whilst it houses undoubtedly the best club restaurant I’ve ever been too, and is unquestionably glorious in scope and scale, my overall impression was a cold and foreboding one, with none of the charm and warmth of less impressive clubs.

Some notable things as a Brit – First, the host came over and announced they were taking care of our drinks by way of apology for the who-the-bloody-hell-are-you scene at the door. Second, we were presented with a summer berry starter without ordering one, because they thought we might enjoy it, and boy did we – Parma ham-wrapped tomatoes, blackberries, strawberries and small spots of raspberry jam. Third, the waiters and waitresses were incredibly hospitable, with one coming over to tell us he supported Tot-ing-ham, and another finishing every sentence with “cheers” to make us feel at ease.

Finally, and perhaps most significantly, the restaurant provided poufs for ladies’ handbags. A delicate black handbag was perched on a small duck-egg blue leather pouf to prevent the undoubtedly immaculate carpet fouling the member’s bag. Simply sublime.

For the main course, I had the Brazilian swordfish which was seared wonderfully, giving the chunky and meaty fish a nice crunch and salty crispness to it. The red pepper puree on the side was delicious, and the baby corn and accompanying salad of sweetcorn surprisingly pleasant and sweetly tasteful. My partner similarly enjoyed her halibut with cajun seasoning, garlic scape, smoky aubergine puree and little dome of red pepper and cheese. Light, playful, and with cautiously adventurous execution, the fish courses were a joyous relief from the hot day.

The ice cream for pudding was perfectly nice, but the quality of gelato now freely available in the modern world has in my opinion eclipsed much of restaurant-standard ice cream. What was nice, however, were the complimentary petit-fours of white chocolate and peach jelly, accompanied by a digestif of tawny Taylor’s port which I’d ordered to see us through the home stretch, and boy did it.