The first time I went to a strip club, I was so nervous I spiked my morning coffee with a pour of Baileys. I was anxious because I didn’t know what to expect: Would the clientele be trench-coat-wearing men with slack jaws and red eyes? Would the surfaces be sticky? It was 10 a.m. on a Friday, and I had to go to work. The plan was to hit up the Gold Club for its $5 Friday lunch buffet around noon, which had seemed like a good idea, thanks to its affordability and the obvious street-cred appeal.
Turns out I had nothing to be nervous about. The Gold Club dancers were awesomely talented. My friends and I kept looking at each other, eyes wide, as we mouthed, “How can we learn to do that?!” watching Scarlett or Sierra hang upside down at the top of the pole – toned abs and, yes, boobs, stretched in our direction. And the food… well, the menu had its ups and downs, but $5 for an all-you-can-eat buffet and some skillful pole dancing was a freaking good deal. We emerged from the darkened club into the glare of a SOMA afternoon, deeming the experience one of our better work-time lunches ever.
A few years have passed since my first foray into San Francisco’s tit scene. Since then, I’ve taken a pole dancing class (I bruise too easy to be a pole-star, sadly) and launched into food writing. With a heightened palate and a critic’s sensibility, it seemed like the perfect time to return to the Gold Club and give its Friday lunch deal a once-over. But what’s a good review without context? San Francisco has no shortage of strip clubs, though relatively few serve more than flesh – something I learned as I called about 10 of them, asking after their food menus (I’m guessing it’s a question they don’t often get).