The Vancouver Sun
Vancouver Sun December, December 6, 2004 Byline: Amy O'Brian
It's easy to see why a passerby might interpret Campoverde Social Club as something it's not. In the evenings, candlelight flickers through peek-a-boo spaces left between dramatic, red velvet curtains, while well-dressed adults lounge and chat on luxurious antique couches and chairs. The absence of a sign out front and the pair of faux Greek columns flanking the doorway suggest an element of mystery and exclusivity. Situated on a quiet, leafy Kitsilano street, Campoverde is neither restaurant, nor coffee bar, nor martini bar, and its unique identity has been cause for a degree of confusion in the community. "There's a lot of people who take it the wrong way," says Michael van den Bos, a self-described permanent fixture at the social club. "Just through ignorance, they go, 'What is that? A sex club? . . . A whorehouse?" But take the initiative to walk through the front door and you'll find a warm atmosphere that has nothing -- or little -- to do with sex and everything to do with the age-old art of socializing. Established in 2002 by two Vancouverites who felt the city's population was lacking in social graces, Campoverde is one of a handful of so-called social clubs that have quietly emerged on the Vancouver scene in the past few years. They're all slightly different -- some labelling themselves networking or art-appreciation clubs. But the general idea is to get people out of the house and into non-threatening group situations. There aren't necessarily any matchmaking expectations, but everyone is expected to be friendly and approachable. The idea seems a bit trite and earnest -- and likely wouldn't suit your average cynic or curmudgeon -- but it works surprisingly well when everyone's on the same page. At 7:30 on a chilly autumn Friday night, Anya Levykh and Nancy Dunne turn on their bar stools at Campoverde to check out the stranger walking through the door. They interrupt their conversation to offer a warm welcome and promptly introduce themselves. Levykh's an outspoken 28-year-old magazine editor who lives in Vancouver and Dunne is a 54-year-old manager of a youth centre in the suburbs. The unlikely pair is making light conversation over drinks while they wait for the rest of their large dinner party to arrive. It's the regular Friday-night supper club at Campoverde and the intimate lounge and dining area is filled with the comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal being prepared in the back kitchen. The remaining diners trickle into the lounge and introductions are made by the evening's remarkably pregnant hostess, Kimberley McFarland, who owns the club with Rachel Greenfeld. The group of about 10 -- which includes a television executive, a young professor, and a business coach -- moves to a long wooden dining table, where McFarland directs the seating and everyone is poured a glass of wine. Over a candlelit dinner of spinach salad, salmon and cheesecake, relaxed conversations about the discomforts of dating, and how to tell someone they have food on their face bounce around the table. There are moments of uproarious laughter, but it is never mocking and everyone is careful to keep any sarcastic barbs to themselves. Without the burden of judgment anxiety, the conversation moves freely and the diners willingly share some of their most embarrassing moments. After the meal, conversations between smaller groups continue on couches and lavishly upholstered benches, while a few more members straggle in for a drink and a chat. In the high-stress world of Internet dating, speed dating and blind dating, Campoverde seems to be a well-conceived antidote to it all. Greenfeld is insistent that the club is not a dating club, but on the other hand, she boasts about the role it's played in pairing five couples who are now married, and about 15 couples who are in serious relationships. "We have singles, but we're not a singles club," Greenfeld insists. "It's a place where connections are made for you." While Greenfeld and McFarland take joy in matchmaking, they also delight in setting up people with job connections, rental apartments, and services. They believe it's great value for the $350 entrance fee, plus monthly dues of $20. In fact, they're so confident in the club's value, they're upping the fees. Come January, new members will be required to pay $450 upon joining, plus $450 for every year they stay a member, plus the regular $20 per month dues. Compared to entrance fees and yearly dues at the Vancouver Club and Terminal City Club -- which edge close to $10,000 for some new members -- Campoverde is quite a deal. Dunne, who became a member in August and therefore paid a one-time $350 membership fee, says the club is no more expensive than online dating -- where you pay dues and then often have to pay for dinner or drinks -- and the comfort level is much higher. After the Friday-night dinner, Dunne is having a quiet conversation with the television executive, but says later she hasn't yet made a romantic connection with anybody at the club. "That would be a plus, but it's not what I'm coming for," she says. Dunne is a suburban mother in her mid-fifties who is naturally social, but finds it hard to meet people when most of her friends are married with children. She's tried online dating with some success, and was a member of an activity-based social club that has since gone under, but says she was just looking for a safe place she could meet people when she found Campoverde. "There are a few oddballs," she says. "But if you feel like you're being bothered [Greenfeld and McFarland] will intervene." The owners and hostesses do their best to weed out the certifiable oddballs before they become members, but Greenfeld admits a few have slipped through the cracks. For the most part, a requirement to visit the club twice as a guest and fork over the entrance fee before becoming a member is enough to keep the yahoos at bay, but Greenfeld says she has had to strip three people of their memberships in the past two years. One woman slapped a man across the face, another was an incurable cynic whose attitude didn't jibe with the Campoverde ideology, and one guy was simply using the club as a place to get drunk. "The whole point is to be civilized," Greenfeld says. The club has 300 members who range in age from 24 to 60, and when they're inside the club's walls, they're all expected to get along. The age range at Social Empire, another Vancouver mingling club, is not quite as broad, but Frances Hui, executive director and head hostess, claims there are about 1,000 members. Unlike Campoverde, Social Empire does not have its own venue where people can drop by any night of the week. Instead, club members gather about once a month at some trendy, usually new, restaurant or bar in the downtown core. Most of the members are professionals under the age of 40 and all have been "approved" by the diva-like Hui. "I don't care what you do or how much money you make, but you have to able to have a conversation," Hui, 37, says while sitting prim and preened at a downtown coffee bar. A phone conversation with Hui is the only test that prospective members must endure, but there are plenty who haven't passed. Since Hui took over the club last fall from founder Miss V, she says she's had more than 200 applicants, 20 of whom she rejected either after reading their application or interviewing them. "They have to be outgoing and friendly," she says. "I won't accept people if they give one-word answers, because that's not a conversation. "We like to keep the calibre of people high." But that doesn't necessarily mean wealthy. Social Empire does not have an entrance fee, but members pay $15 at the door for each event, plus the cost of drinks. Hui, who worked for about a decade as a personal shopper at high-end women's stores, certainly dresses the part of a suave and sophisticated hostess. On a cool fall morning, she appears in a flowing, ankle-length coat that reveals only the sharp heels and pointed toes of a pair of uncomfortable-looking boots underneath the hem. Her thick, black hair hangs dramatically over her shoulders, her pencil-thin eyebrows are artfully shaped and the only noticeable imperfection in her grooming is a small amount of bright pink lipstick on her front teeth. "I like to be elegant," she says when asked about her style. "Why be average?" While Hui is friendly and open, she is also something of a formidable force. She is comfortable being single, confident in her abilities, and clearly takes pride in her appearance. "I have no problem getting dates," she says. "I actually get asked out quite a bit." Hui says she is not involved in Social Empire to meet men, and won't act as matchmaker at her events. There is no hand-holding at her parties -- she is simply there to make introductions and make sure everyone is having a good time. "I'm old-fashioned. I like people to meet each other, and don't ask me to ask someone out for you. Do it yourself," she says bluntly. Brady Dahmer, a 31-year-old graphic designer, likes Hui's edgy attitude and likes her parties. The Ontario native is naturally social, but when he moved to Vancouver about a year ago, he barely knew a soul and found the locals somewhat cliquey and guarded. "It is hard to meet people out here," he said. "It's a very escapist kind of society and I think people just like their own little protected worlds." Before getting too discouraged though, Dahmer jumped into Vancouver's organized social scene. He went to a few dinners at Campoverde, joined a business networking group, and was "picked up" by Hui at a mingling event put on by the Vancouver Board of Trade. From there, Hui introduced him to Social Em