Experience the Best of the Midwest at Hobnob Restaurant & Cocktail Lounge
Eclectic decor, comforting fare and boozy ice cream drinks are all on the menu at this classic Wisconsin supper club
I became acquainted with Wisconsin supper clubs during frequent trips to Door County in the early-2000s. First up was Donny’s Glidden Lodge, a timber and stone-clad restaurant on the shores of Lake Michigan with white tablecloths and a signature beef tenderloin with Merlot sauce. My next encounter was Sister Bay Bowl, a more casual establishment with formica-top tables, a six-lane bowling alley and a formidable platter of fried perch and crinkle-cut fries.
At both supper clubs the nostalgia factor was high and the bar was the focal point of the dining room, turning out well-prepared Brandy Old-Fashioneds, Wisconsin’s unofficial (maybe soon to become official) state cocktail.
Neither prepared me for the opulent environment and over-the-top culinary preparations at Hobnob (277 Sheridan Rd, Racine, WI), a supper club operating in its current location since 1954.
Driving down rural Highway 32, dotted with run-down motels and one-room cottages, it’s hard to imagine there’s any reason to hit the brakes until a cherry-red neon sign with an illuminated arrow comes into view.
As you pull into the massive parking lot, a two story-high martini motif on the building’s retro exterior suggests you’re in for an irresponsibly good time.
The clean, crisp lines and beige coloring of the building’s facade belie the topsy-turvy, razzle-dazzle nature of the interior. It’s nearly impossible to focus your eyes as you walk past the sparkling-gold coat check counter down a hallway whose numerous chandeliers drip with crystal pendalogues.
While the side rooms are enticing—the room with curvaceous, white Naugahyde booths, patterned purple wall fabric and a bronze torso, particularly so—the action takes place in the main dining room: an aesthetic mash-up of Art Deco, Goth and your wacky Aunt Marsha’s house.
Its walls are covered in filigreed, black lacquered panels displaying stylized 1930s prints in gilded frames. The centerpiece is a ceiling cutout with multi-colored, recessed lighting whose swooping shape echoes the bar’s curvilinear form.
The ideal perch for the evening is in one of the oversized booths along the perimeter; you can watch the masterful bartenders prepare a variety of stiff drinks and observe the celebratory gatherings at long tables adorned with oversized brass candlesticks.
Taking a cue from my Door County hosts, I always order a Brandy Old-Fashioned. After trying the sweet (topped with lemon-lime soda) and sour (finished off with sour mix or a grapefruit soda like Squirt) preparations, I’ve landed on “press,” which combines club and lemon-lime sodas. In place of the standard maraschino cherry garnish I request olives.
With beverages in hand, it’s time to review the menu, though after the many visits we’ve made in the recent years, our order is pretty much dialed-in. The variable is how many appetizers we will order, and which boozy ice cream dessert we will split.
The inclusion of escargot—succulent snails braised in a heady mixture of garlic and butter and topped with flaky puff pastry—is non-negotiable. Depending on our party size, we also indulge in the crab stuffed mushrooms and onion rings, which arrive as a tangle of skinny, golden-fried slivers of onion pressed into loaf-form.
On our most recent visit the menu had been updated to include a relish tray, a staple at many supper clubs. According to our server, a relish tray had been on Hobnob’s menu in decades past but was only recently reintroduced.
I’d never encountered a relish tray in the wild, so I was giddy with excitement. An assortment of cold, crisp radish, celery and carrots, along with gherkins, tangy, green cherry peppers and Ritz crackers were the perfect accompaniments to three homemade dips: a delightful liver pate studded with chopped pickles, a zippy lemon dill sauce and a small tub of pub cheese (this is Wisconsin, after all).
The relish tray is a responsible (read: not too heavy) way to start your meal, which includes a hearty entree accompanied by soup, salad, potato, bread and butter. As much as I’m compelled to order the french onion soup with its massive cover of melted gruyere, I always opt for the cheese-less onion soup as a stomach-saving measure.
My entree of choice is the wiener schnitzel: a thinly-pounded veal cutlet the size of a baseball mitt, pan fried in butter and garnished with capers and lemon wedges. It’s moist and crisp and among the best schnitzels I’ve had.
I can’t resist the loaded baked potato, which, although it reminds me of my New England grandmother’s twice-baked potatoes, has one distinctly Wisconsin twist—loads of melted butter.
Benihana Boyfriend always orders the stuffed pork chop, a 14 ounce beauty filled with sage stuffing and topped with country gravy. It’s the best of Thanksgiving (stuffing and gravy) with a juicy hunk of pork in place of ho-hum turkey.
About halfway through dinner, as we begin to shift uncomfortably in our seats, we discuss dessert. Sure, there’s a selection of cakes and créme brulée, but one of the key pleasures of Hobnob is ending your meal with an ice cream drink.
Hobnob describes these delights as “traditionally prepared hand-muddled and stacked.” That’s right folks, these are not your standard blender shakes, these are made-to-order, hand-scooped concoctions.
It’s evident when an ice cream drink order comes in because the bartender—who not only has to tend to the thirsty masses crowding his bar and provide libations for all seated diners, but is also responsible for making all ice cream drinks—develops a pronounced scowl. He angrily flings open the freezer lid and digs mounds of vanilla out of the bins, muttering to himself and shaking his head.
It’s a Sisyphean task. Once one of the towering desserts, drenched in liqueur and topped with a cherry, is paraded around the room, many more will follow. But can you blame us for wanting to end an incredibly decadent, booze-filled evening with even more decadence and booze?
Of the eight varieties, it’s hard to pick a favorite. While I love the Banana Banshee and Brandy Alexander, we most recently split the Chocolate Grasshopper, which was the perfect balance of vanilla ice cream, crème de menthe, crème de cacao and chocolate syrup.
At the end of our meal I recline against the plush banquet, take in the room full of happy customers and revel in the longevity of this nearly 70-year old institution. It’s a distinctly Midwestern sensibility—one where tradition, hearty fare and brandy reign supreme—that leads to the enduring appreciation for the supper club, and I am glad to call this adopted region my home.
All photos by Jared Wheeler.
For two good primers on traditional supper clubs, check out this post from
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Hob Nob is the best. I love it so much. They are the only place I know to hand blend their ice cream drinks. Everyone else uses a blender.
The best!