When I was young, my parents liked to dine at supper clubs. To me, they were swank places filled with dark wood, boldly colored banquettes and oversized menus where your dad would order a martini and your mom a Manhattan while you had to do with a Shirley Temple – but at least it came with a pretty paper umbrella and maraschino cherry.
These were the supper clubs of yore. They were often tucked away on back roads, and seemed to take hours – no make that days – to reach when you were riding in the back of your parents’ boat-like Buick. There were no iPads or cellphones to keep you entertained, just a coloring book and a box of Crayolas.