Genre Fiction
![J. Ryan Stradal - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B010XYMBEK.jpg)
Saturday Night at the Lakeside Supper Club: A Novel
"Stradal serves up another saga of food and family, hurt and healing, pitched between cliff-hanger moments. . . that make the pages fly." -People
From the New York Times bestselling author J. Ryan Stradal, a story of a couple from two very different restaurant families in rustic Minnesota, and the legacy of love and tragedy, of hardship and hope, that unites and divides them
Mariel Prager needs a break. Her husband Ned is having an identity crisis, her spunky, beloved restaurant is bleeding money by the day, and her mother Florence is stubbornly refusing to leave the church where she's been holed up for more than a week. The Lakeside Supper Club has been in her family for decades, and while Mariel's grandmother embraced the business, seeing it as a saving grace, Florence never took to it. When Mariel inherited the restaurant, skipping Florence, it created a rift between mother and daughter that never quite healed.
Ned is also an heir-to a chain of home-style diners-and while he doesn't have a head for business, he knows his family's chain could provide a better future than his wife's fading restaurant. In the aftermath of a devastating tragedy, Ned and Mariel lose almost everything they hold dear, and the hard-won victories of each family hang in the balance. With their dreams dashed, can one fractured family find a way to rebuild despite their losses, and will the Lakeside Supper Club be their salvation?
In this colorful, vanishing world of relish trays and brandy Old Fashioneds, J. Ryan Stradal has once again given us a story full of his signature honest, lovable yet fallible Midwestern characters as they grapple with love, loss, and marriage; what we hold onto and what we leave behind; and what our legacy will be when we are gone.
From the New York Times bestselling author J. Ryan Stradal, a story of a couple from two very different restaurant families in rustic Minnesota, and the legacy of love and tragedy, of hardship and hope, that unites and divides them
Mariel Prager needs a break. Her husband Ned is having an identity crisis, her spunky, beloved restaurant is bleeding money by the day, and her mother Florence is stubbornly refusing to leave the church where she's been holed up for more than a week. The Lakeside Supper Club has been in her family for decades, and while Mariel's grandmother embraced the business, seeing it as a saving grace, Florence never took to it. When Mariel inherited the restaurant, skipping Florence, it created a rift between mother and daughter that never quite healed.
Ned is also an heir-to a chain of home-style diners-and while he doesn't have a head for business, he knows his family's chain could provide a better future than his wife's fading restaurant. In the aftermath of a devastating tragedy, Ned and Mariel lose almost everything they hold dear, and the hard-won victories of each family hang in the balance. With their dreams dashed, can one fractured family find a way to rebuild despite their losses, and will the Lakeside Supper Club be their salvation?
In this colorful, vanishing world of relish trays and brandy Old Fashioneds, J. Ryan Stradal has once again given us a story full of his signature honest, lovable yet fallible Midwestern characters as they grapple with love, loss, and marriage; what we hold onto and what we leave behind; and what our legacy will be when we are gone.
Editorial Reviews
One
Mariel, 1996
Mariel Prager believed in heaven, because she'd been there once, so far. She'd like to report that it looks an awful lot like Minnesota. The next best place to heaven, in her experience, was a type of restaurant found in the upper Midwest called a supper club. When she walked into a good one, she felt both welcome and somewhere out of time. The decor would be old-fashioned, the drinks would be strong, and the dining experience would evoke beloved memories, all for a pretty decent price.
Since she was a kid, Mariel had spent countless days at Floyd and Betty's Lakeside Supper Club on scenic Bear Jaw Lake, Minnesota. The place wasn't particularly scenic itself, just a one-story brown wooden building with bright red front doors and tall windows on the side facing the lake. The sign outside read fine dining at a fine value since 1919, and because everyone trusts neon, fulfilling that promise was the duty of the owner, which, for the past two weeks, had been Mariel. On her watch, a proper supper club meal began with a free relish tray and basket of bread, followed by a round of brandy old-fashioneds, and then a lavish amount of hearty cuisine, with fish on Fridays, prime rib on Saturdays, and grasshoppers for dessert.
Before he died, Mariel's grandpa Floyd had told her that she was ready to take over sole ownership, but this morning, she wished that someone else-anyone else-were in charge instead. After locking the front door of her house, Mariel wanted to hurl her body into the lake and float away.
For a long time, she'd simply managed the Lakeside's bar. It was a job she'd kept since becoming the owner, because it was the greatest watering hole in the north. It was loud and smoky, her hands were never dry, she never sat down, and she loved it. Every summer weekend, the horseshoe-shaped bar and its wood-paneled lounge were packed with people fresh from fishing boats and softball games and cars that had driven up from the Cities. It was a place where people chose to be on the most memorable nights of their lives, and it was a pleasure to be at the center of it all.
After what happened last night, though, she wasn't up for any of it, but that didn't matter. If she wasn't standing behind the bar when it opened at 5:00 p.m., people would talk.
Mariel's quiet, peaceful commute to work had always been her favorite part of the day. From door to door, it took exactly fifty-four seconds-the time it takes to make a perfect old-fashioned-to walk at an ordinary pace down her driveway, across a county road, up the gravel shoulder, and into the paved parking lot. It had her two favorite smells, the sharp, earthy tang of pine trees on one end, and the stubborn mix of stale cigarette smoke and fry grease on the other, smells she'd...
Mariel, 1996
Mariel Prager believed in heaven, because she'd been there once, so far. She'd like to report that it looks an awful lot like Minnesota. The next best place to heaven, in her experience, was a type of restaurant found in the upper Midwest called a supper club. When she walked into a good one, she felt both welcome and somewhere out of time. The decor would be old-fashioned, the drinks would be strong, and the dining experience would evoke beloved memories, all for a pretty decent price.
Since she was a kid, Mariel had spent countless days at Floyd and Betty's Lakeside Supper Club on scenic Bear Jaw Lake, Minnesota. The place wasn't particularly scenic itself, just a one-story brown wooden building with bright red front doors and tall windows on the side facing the lake. The sign outside read fine dining at a fine value since 1919, and because everyone trusts neon, fulfilling that promise was the duty of the owner, which, for the past two weeks, had been Mariel. On her watch, a proper supper club meal began with a free relish tray and basket of bread, followed by a round of brandy old-fashioneds, and then a lavish amount of hearty cuisine, with fish on Fridays, prime rib on Saturdays, and grasshoppers for dessert.
Before he died, Mariel's grandpa Floyd had told her that she was ready to take over sole ownership, but this morning, she wished that someone else-anyone else-were in charge instead. After locking the front door of her house, Mariel wanted to hurl her body into the lake and float away.
For a long time, she'd simply managed the Lakeside's bar. It was a job she'd kept since becoming the owner, because it was the greatest watering hole in the north. It was loud and smoky, her hands were never dry, she never sat down, and she loved it. Every summer weekend, the horseshoe-shaped bar and its wood-paneled lounge were packed with people fresh from fishing boats and softball games and cars that had driven up from the Cities. It was a place where people chose to be on the most memorable nights of their lives, and it was a pleasure to be at the center of it all.
After what happened last night, though, she wasn't up for any of it, but that didn't matter. If she wasn't standing behind the bar when it opened at 5:00 p.m., people would talk.
Mariel's quiet, peaceful commute to work had always been her favorite part of the day. From door to door, it took exactly fifty-four seconds-the time it takes to make a perfect old-fashioned-to walk at an ordinary pace down her driveway, across a county road, up the gravel shoulder, and into the paved parking lot. It had her two favorite smells, the sharp, earthy tang of pine trees on one end, and the stubborn mix of stale cigarette smoke and fry grease on the other, smells she'd...
Readers Top Reviews
DWBookworm
2.5 stars rounded up - I've read this author's work before & I expected this new one, "Saturday Night at the Lakeside Supper Club" to be just as wonderful, but I was sadly disappointed. It went bad for me from chapter 1 with an animal death (TW) that I really didn't feel was necessary. The, there's still more - miscarriage & death of a child, which was NOT the quirky restaurant-set story I was looking for at all. Feeling a bit let down & needed a palate-cleanser red afterward. My sincere thanks to the publisher & Net Galley for the complimentary DRC, I wish I could offer a more positive review...
Katie
The Lakeside Supper Club had quite the history! As the story goes through several generations, we learn how the supper club shaped each generation. This was a touching story about family and the strength given from one generation to the next.
Beth H
This is the story of two restaurant families in the Midwest, with the iconic supper clubs and their relish trays. The story jumps between a few different generations - from Mariel and her husband Ned, to her mother Florence, as well as Mariel's grandmother. Each generation has their own opinions about the restaurant business and their role in it. The story brings back some fun supper club memories that are very midwestern, and also touches the reader with the focus on family and legacy.
Christine P
This book tells the story of a “Lakeside Supper Club” located in the mountain areas near lakes in Minnesota. The story goes between Florence, beginning in 1934, her daughter, Mariel, and her granddaughter, Julia. It tells of how Florence came to the supper club and the generations of women after her. The story is filled with great and memorable characters. Some of the story is very funny, and I chuckled out loud-and there are parts that just make you gasp and cry. It made me want a cocktail or two, with the great cocktails that they served. I have read J. Ryan Stradal before and I was looking forward to this ARC and was happy to get the copy from @netgalley. I was not disappointed. Great read.
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
Mariel, 1996
Mariel Prager believed in heaven, because she'd been there once, so far. She'd like to report that it looks an awful lot like Minnesota. The next best place to heaven, in her experience, was a type of restaurant found in the upper Midwest called a supper club. When she walked into a good one, she felt both welcome and somewhere out of time. The decor would be old-fashioned, the drinks would be strong, and the dining experience would evoke beloved memories, all for a pretty decent price.
Since she was a kid, Mariel had spent countless days at Floyd and Betty's Lakeside Supper Club on scenic Bear Jaw Lake, Minnesota. The place wasn't particularly scenic itself, just a one-story brown wooden building with bright red front doors and tall windows on the side facing the lake. The sign outside read fine dining at a fine value since 1919, and because everyone trusts neon, fulfilling that promise was the duty of the owner, which, for the past two weeks, had been Mariel. On her watch, a proper supper club meal began with a free relish tray and basket of bread, followed by a round of brandy old-fashioneds, and then a lavish amount of hearty cuisine, with fish on Fridays, prime rib on Saturdays, and grasshoppers for dessert.
Before he died, Mariel's grandpa Floyd had told her that she was ready to take over sole ownership, but this morning, she wished that someone else-anyone else-were in charge instead. After locking the front door of her house, Mariel wanted to hurl her body into the lake and float away.
For a long time, she'd simply managed the Lakeside's bar. It was a job she'd kept since becoming the owner, because it was the greatest watering hole in the north. It was loud and smoky, her hands were never dry, she never sat down, and she loved it. Every summer weekend, the horseshoe-shaped bar and its wood-paneled lounge were packed with people fresh from fishing boats and softball games and cars that had driven up from the Cities. It was a place where people chose to be on the most memorable nights of their lives, and it was a pleasure to be at the center of it all.
After what happened last night, though, she wasn't up for any of it, but that didn't matter. If she wasn't standing behind the bar when it opened at 5:00 p.m., people would talk.
Mariel's quiet, peaceful commute to work had always been her favorite part of the day. From door to door, it took exactly fifty-four seconds-the time it takes to make a perfect old-fashioned-to walk at an ordinary pace down her driveway, across a county road, up the gravel shoulder, and into the paved parking lot. It had her two favorite smells, the sharp, earthy tang of pine trees on one end, and the stubborn mix of stale cigarette smoke and fry grease on the other, smells she'd always associated with belonging and pleasure. If she spotted an animal en route, she'd give it a name, like that day, when she saw a squirrel she named Pronto. Most important, if she could make it from home to the supper club without any interruption, it'd be a good day, guaranteed. The day before, her husband, Ned, stopped her in the driveway to kiss her before he left for the weekend, and it had been the worst day in a long time.
That morning, Mariel almost made it. She was a few steps into the Lakeside's parking lot when someone ruined her day.
"Mariel!" a woman's voice bellowed from a white station wagon. It was Hazel, the oldest of her regulars from the bar.
Mariel sighed, and turned to face her. "How ya doing, Hazel?"
"Better than I deserve," Hazel replied. "So, where'd you go last night? You just up and vanished on us."
"I was feeling sick, so I went home early." That's all Hazel needed to know.
"Oh, jeez. Food poisoning?"
Mariel just decided to nod.
Hazel responded with a brief, exaggerated grimace. "Well, you look all right today. By the way, nice T-shirt."
Mariel had to look down to remember what she was wearing. It was a Bruce Springsteen concert shirt from sixteen years ago. Maybe the last time she'd been to a concert.
"Thanks. Well, I should get to work."
"One more thing. Your mother called me. She needs a ride home from church, and wants to know if you can do it."
Mariel hadn't seen her mother for more than a decade, until two weeks before at Floyd's burial and wake. They'd made eye contact, briefly, but still hadn't spoken to each other.
"Why didn't she just call me?" Mariel asked.
"She said she tried three times, and it rang and rang."
Mariel had been to see her doctor that morning, so it's possible her mother's claim was true, but when she'd been at home, no one had called.
"Why can't whatever friend she's staying with just drive her?" T...
Mariel, 1996
Mariel Prager believed in heaven, because she'd been there once, so far. She'd like to report that it looks an awful lot like Minnesota. The next best place to heaven, in her experience, was a type of restaurant found in the upper Midwest called a supper club. When she walked into a good one, she felt both welcome and somewhere out of time. The decor would be old-fashioned, the drinks would be strong, and the dining experience would evoke beloved memories, all for a pretty decent price.
Since she was a kid, Mariel had spent countless days at Floyd and Betty's Lakeside Supper Club on scenic Bear Jaw Lake, Minnesota. The place wasn't particularly scenic itself, just a one-story brown wooden building with bright red front doors and tall windows on the side facing the lake. The sign outside read fine dining at a fine value since 1919, and because everyone trusts neon, fulfilling that promise was the duty of the owner, which, for the past two weeks, had been Mariel. On her watch, a proper supper club meal began with a free relish tray and basket of bread, followed by a round of brandy old-fashioneds, and then a lavish amount of hearty cuisine, with fish on Fridays, prime rib on Saturdays, and grasshoppers for dessert.
Before he died, Mariel's grandpa Floyd had told her that she was ready to take over sole ownership, but this morning, she wished that someone else-anyone else-were in charge instead. After locking the front door of her house, Mariel wanted to hurl her body into the lake and float away.
For a long time, she'd simply managed the Lakeside's bar. It was a job she'd kept since becoming the owner, because it was the greatest watering hole in the north. It was loud and smoky, her hands were never dry, she never sat down, and she loved it. Every summer weekend, the horseshoe-shaped bar and its wood-paneled lounge were packed with people fresh from fishing boats and softball games and cars that had driven up from the Cities. It was a place where people chose to be on the most memorable nights of their lives, and it was a pleasure to be at the center of it all.
After what happened last night, though, she wasn't up for any of it, but that didn't matter. If she wasn't standing behind the bar when it opened at 5:00 p.m., people would talk.
Mariel's quiet, peaceful commute to work had always been her favorite part of the day. From door to door, it took exactly fifty-four seconds-the time it takes to make a perfect old-fashioned-to walk at an ordinary pace down her driveway, across a county road, up the gravel shoulder, and into the paved parking lot. It had her two favorite smells, the sharp, earthy tang of pine trees on one end, and the stubborn mix of stale cigarette smoke and fry grease on the other, smells she'd always associated with belonging and pleasure. If she spotted an animal en route, she'd give it a name, like that day, when she saw a squirrel she named Pronto. Most important, if she could make it from home to the supper club without any interruption, it'd be a good day, guaranteed. The day before, her husband, Ned, stopped her in the driveway to kiss her before he left for the weekend, and it had been the worst day in a long time.
That morning, Mariel almost made it. She was a few steps into the Lakeside's parking lot when someone ruined her day.
"Mariel!" a woman's voice bellowed from a white station wagon. It was Hazel, the oldest of her regulars from the bar.
Mariel sighed, and turned to face her. "How ya doing, Hazel?"
"Better than I deserve," Hazel replied. "So, where'd you go last night? You just up and vanished on us."
"I was feeling sick, so I went home early." That's all Hazel needed to know.
"Oh, jeez. Food poisoning?"
Mariel just decided to nod.
Hazel responded with a brief, exaggerated grimace. "Well, you look all right today. By the way, nice T-shirt."
Mariel had to look down to remember what she was wearing. It was a Bruce Springsteen concert shirt from sixteen years ago. Maybe the last time she'd been to a concert.
"Thanks. Well, I should get to work."
"One more thing. Your mother called me. She needs a ride home from church, and wants to know if you can do it."
Mariel hadn't seen her mother for more than a decade, until two weeks before at Floyd's burial and wake. They'd made eye contact, briefly, but still hadn't spoken to each other.
"Why didn't she just call me?" Mariel asked.
"She said she tried three times, and it rang and rang."
Mariel had been to see her doctor that morning, so it's possible her mother's claim was true, but when she'd been at home, no one had called.
"Why can't whatever friend she's staying with just drive her?" T...
