The Union League, Philadelphia
Warm restaurant, cold club
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 the Racquet Club. For them to open their doors to reciprocal guests like myself is generous in and of itself, granted, but I wasn’t treated like a normal member, as is custom, and was instead repeatedly compelled to show my letter of introduction, at what felt like everywhere doorway, to prove I had a permission to be there. It made me feel like a trespasser on the verge of being pushed in front of a jury of my peers, when in fact the long-standing reciprocal arrangement between clubs is universally recognised as one of positive cross-pollination that provides custom and fellowship across cities and nations. Thankfully the stunning restaurant & bar gave us reprieve from the on-duty border patrol officers stationed every five metres.
It’s called the ostentatiously simple “1862 by Martin Hamann” and, after the routine “who are you”, the implied “what are two Brits doing in a club founded to support President Lincoln in the civil war”, and a formal request for my letter of introduction, Mrs B. and I were shown to the bar for drinks. Two G&Ts shortly arrived and we took stock of our surroundings - a beautiful, glass-enclosed restaurant, a similarly glass-enclosed kitchen, and two old boys playing a grand piano and cello just outside, with gentle blues and classical music drifting towards us.
Sat on the corner of the bar was another old boy, this time a member, who looked at us a tad peeved by our general presence, and gave us a menacing glare, albeit softened by the high bar, low bar-stool combination which, coupled with his humble stature, made him look like a child in a high chair. He consumed much of the barman’s time and attention, prattling on about the general manager’s conduct and tweaking his ear over the various liqueur’s he was missing. Immaculately dressed, on his own, and munching away on a fish course whilst guzzling white wine, I’m not sure whether he will be my mortal enemy or future self - time will tell.
Thus began the Union’s redemption arc. 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.
Mrs B. first noticed it when, behind my shoulder, a table of two couples were dining and, facing us, 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. Mrs B. 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 typically stodgy and carb-loaded food of America.
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.
The whole experience was genuinely delightful and we couldn’t shake smiles from our faces the whole way through. I’ve since thought back in wonder at the food and drink we had that night and the wider experience of the evening, which came together in an amusing narrative of ups and downs. We got off to tangibly rocky start with them, and were momentarily unsure whether we’d be seated at all, but the 1862 by Martin Hamann pulled through and it pulled through in style by excelling in service, atmosphere and quality of food. The ingredients were simple, the standard high, the complexity of execution and presentation even higher, and the venue stunning. The members clearly valued the product they’d created and they should be proud to host such an executive restaurant. I only wish the rest of the club was designed with the same attention to style and warmness.
The rating below is therefore lowered by the non-restaurant part of the club, which let the 1862 experience down quite considerably.
Food - 10/10
Service - 5/10
Vibe - 2/10
Overall - 6/10