You book a seat on Monday, receive a cryptic text Wednesday at 9:47 PM with an address on Hancock Street, and show up Thursday at 7:30 PM to a brownstone where twelve strangers will eat thieboudienne at one long table. This is how Awa runs her supper club, and she's been doing it this way for three years without a website or Instagram account.
The Wednesday Night Text Always Comes Late
Awa sends the address from a different number each week—she rotates between three phones to keep the guest list manageable. The text includes the street number, apartment buzzer code (usually 3B), and a single line: "Bring cash and an empty stomach." She doesn't answer questions about dietary restrictions because the menu doesn't change. You're eating what her grandmother taught her to make in Dakar, and if you can't eat fish, you probably shouldn't have signed up. The building changes every few months when she rotates between three different hosts who lend their apartments, but it's always within a four-block radius of Tompkins Avenue. She pays each host $200 per dinner, which covers their absence for the evening and any cleanup beyond what her team handles.
You'll Smell the Yassa Before You Reach the Third Floor
The stairwell hits you with onions caramelized in mustard and lemon, even though yassa isn't the main course—it's what Awa makes for herself and her two assistants while they prep. By the time you ring the buzzer, she's been cooking since 2 PM. The door opens to her cousin Mamadou, who checks your name against a handwritten list and points you toward a coat rack that's usually a pile of jackets on a bed. The living room has been stripped of its normal furniture. One long table runs the length of the space, set with mismatched plates from the Salvation Army on Malcolm X Boulevard. Awa buys them in sets of twelve every few months and rotates them out when chips accumulate. She prefers the weight of ceramic over the practicality of melamine.
The Palm Wine Comes in Repurposed Snapple Bottles
Mamadou pours from bottles with faded labels, the liquid cloudy white and slightly effervescent. This isn't the pasteurized version you'd find at a West African grocery—Awa's uncle ferments it in his basement in Flatbush and delivers it Thursday mornings. It tastes like sourdough starter mixed with champagne, sharp and alive on your tongue. She serves it in small glasses because it's stronger than it seems, and she's learned that Americans underestimate fermented palm sap. If you ask for a second pour before the food arrives, Mamadou will give you a look that suggests you pace yourself. There's also hibiscus bissap in a glass dispenser, sweetened with more sugar than you'd add at home, the way Awa says it should be. The ice cubes have mint leaves frozen inside them.
Thieboudienne Arrives on Enamelware Platters at 8:15 Sharp
The rice comes out red from tomato paste and palm oil, studded with carrots, cassava, and half a Scotch bonnet pepper that Awa warns you not to bite into directly. The fish is usually red snapper, sometimes grouper, depending on what looked best at the Fulton Fish Market that morning. She drives there herself at 5 AM every Thursday. Each fillet gets stuffed with parsley, garlic, and rof—a fermented paste she makes from dried shrimp and keeps in a jar that could clear a room if opened carelessly. The vegetables have cooked in the same pot as the rice, so everything tastes like everything else in the best way. Awa serves family-style, which means you're passing platters to people whose names you learned six minutes ago. She sits at the head of the table and doesn't eat until everyone else has started.
The Conversation Happens in the Pauses Between Courses
Awa doesn't force interaction, but the table configuration makes silence impossible. You're elbow to elbow with a rotating cast: last month's dinner included a Senegalese cab driver, two architects from Fort Greene, a Columbia professor, and someone's visiting sister from Montreal. The architect on your left will probably tell you about the brownstone she's renovating on Stuyvesant. The professor might explain Wolof verb conjugation if you ask about the music playing—Youssou N'Dour from a Bluetooth speaker that sits on top of the refrigerator. Awa occasionally stands to refill platters or adjust the speaker volume, but mostly she watches the table with the attention of someone conducting an experiment. She's said in the past that she started these dinners because she missed eating with people who weren't in a hurry.
Thiakry Comes with Instant Coffee on the Side
Dessert is millet couscous mixed with yogurt, vanilla, and pineapple, served cold in individual bowls that don't match the dinner plates. It's lighter than you expect after the fish and rice, almost refreshing. Awa makes it the night before and lets it set in the fridge so the millet softens completely. The instant coffee is Nescafé, served black in espresso cups, and if you ask for milk Mamadou will bring you a small pitcher of evaporated milk that's sweeter than cream. This is when people start asking Awa questions about Dakar, about her grandmother, about whether she'll ever open a restaurant. She always says no to the restaurant question. The overhead of a commercial kitchen doesn't interest her, and she likes controlling exactly who sits at her table. The dinner ends when it ends, usually around 10:30, sometimes later if the conversation continues.
Practical Notes
Reservations open the first Monday of each month at noon via email only—awasupperthursdays at protonmail. Spots fill within two hours. Cost is $85 cash, paid at the door. The address arrives Wednesday between 9 PM and 11 PM. Nearest subway is the A/C at Nostrand Avenue, about a seven-minute walk depending on which building she's using that week. She takes December and January off. No dietary modifications, no exceptions. Bring cash in exact change if possible—Mamadou keeps a small float but prefers not to break fifties. The dinner starts at 7:30 PM regardless of who's arrived. If you're more than fifteen minutes late, your seat goes to someone on the waitlist who lives within ten blocks.
Please drink responsibly. Must be of legal drinking age.
Tags: #PullUpAChair #BedStuy #SenegaleseCuisine #SupperClub #Thieboudienne #UndergroundDining #NYCFood #BrooklynEats #WestAfricanFood #SecretDinner #CommunalTable #HancockStreet #NYCInsider #FoodCulture #AuthenticEats
Sources consulted: eater.com · timeout.com · infatuation.com
All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
