Guests start arriving around 8:30 p.m., parking on a side street so as not to disturb the neighbors.

Carrying six packs of beer, hard seltzers and the occasional bottle of wine, they show up in groups, in pairs, solo. On this early February night in St. Petersburg, the night sky is laced with a low-hanging fog. Dinner is in a stranger’s backyard, so people dress for the weather with hoodies and light jackets.

Though the front entrance to the house is partially obscured by heavy tree canopy, folks-in-the-know have no trouble finding the spot. They walk right through the front door, through plant-filled rooms past vintage furniture and motorcycles to the kitchen, where a large pot of fragrant broth simmers on the stove, filling the room with the scent of star anise, ginger and cinnamon.

Outside, people take their seats at one of the tables spread out in the yard. The space is framed by bamboo and awash in golden light. Colorful lanterns strung across trees dangle above diners, while a classic Bruce Lee movie — “Enter the Dragon” — plays on a makeshift screen hanging from a wooden gazebo.

Around the table, people introduce themselves. Some are familiar, or old friends. Others are first-timers, surveying the scene with bright eyes. But everyone more or less knows what they came here for: Vietnamese pho, with a big side of community.

This is the Pho Social Club, and dinner is about to be served.

A supper club is born

Tai Truong first came up with the idea for a recurring pho party in 2021, during the pandemic. At the time, health professionals still advised against gathering in large groups at indoor bars and restaurants and Truong, a former bar owner, saw a need. Wanting to bring people together in a safe and welcoming space, he cooked up a big batch of pho — his mother’s recipe — one evening in September and invited a few friends over for dinner.

It grew quickly from there. Truong began inviting friends over to his home on a weekly basis. The parties moved to his backyard and, eventually, he gave the dinners a name: The Pho Social Club.

In the beginning, it was very much underground.

“You had to be invited by somebody,” Truong said.

At some point, he started advertising on a Facebook page, and the parties moved to a monthly rotation. The dinners now take place the first Thursday of the month and, with just a few exceptions, have been running steadily for the past four years (Truong took a year off after hurricanes Helene and Milton flooded his St. Petersburg home with two feet of water).

Truong, who does all the cooking himself, now caps the parties at 50 people. He lists the event on Eventbrite and prepares pho for roughly 42 meat eaters and eight vegans. Over the years, he’s experimented with how to finance the project, which is a labor of love and not for profit, he said. But Truong, 50, is a father to an 8-year-old and a 7-year-old and said he can’t afford to lose money, either. He’s landed on a suggested donation of $14, something to help with the costs of the food, but maintains that the event is strictly for community building, a supper club where everyone is welcome.

Dinner is served

The backyard party is in full swing.

Guests pack the tables, chatting among themselves while Truong and a few friends — all donning signature black shirts reading “We pho on the first date” — begin setting up for service.

Roughly half the guests on any given night are returning regulars, while the rest are newcomers. Some said they heard of the event from a mutual friend or connection over Facebook. But mostly, it’s word of mouth that spreads the gospel: a high school or college friend, a work colleague, a friendly stranger at a local watering hole.

Steven Herzfeld, 37, met Truong online and became friends with him at a bar. He’s been attending the pho gatherings since the beginning and is now part of Truong’s main crew, helping to plate and serve the pho when the time comes.

Mother-and-daughter duo Claudia Lambert, 47, and Dahlia Lambert, 17 are new to the event— they came after hearing about it from Dahlia’s teacher, who is also in attendance. At a nearby table, another group of newcomers said they were invited by a friend. Multiple diners agree: The scene here feels “so St. Pete.”

Shortly after 9 p.m., dinner is served.

Truong, who began making the aromatic bone broth 24 hours earlier, is joined by several friends who help serve guests. When the steaming bowls of pho are dropped, they come bobbing with steak, meatballs and melt-in-your-mouth brisket, plus wide, flat rice noodles and thinly sliced onions. Special requests include tripe and, for a lucky few, thick bones plucked from the broth, oozing marrow.

Guests grab handfuls of Thai basil, sprouts and wedges of lime to doctor up their bowls. Jugs of fish sauce and plastic squeeze bottles of Sriracha and hoisin are passed around. There’s also a bowl of crispy-fried garlic and onions and Truong’s signature sizzling-hot chili sauce, which guests are warned to go easy with.

“Less is more,” said Lisa Cody, a friend of Truong’s and longtime Pho Social Club regular. “If there’s a crimson sheen, you’ve gone too far.”

For a brief moment, a collective hush spreads across the backyard as diners dig into their meals. It’s a brief interlude, though — the pho is very good, and everyone seems eager to share their thoughts on the dish. Eventually, a bottle of tequila makes its way around the tables. Guests pour shots into small plastic glasses. “To pho friends!” they exclaim, while cheering their neighbors and throwing the shots back with a spoonful of pho broth — a surprisingly delicious chaser.

Underfoot, a small dog named Coco makes the rounds, hoping for scraps. Sheldon, Truong’s 25-year-old tortoise, hangs out nearby, munching on carrots and lettuce, taking in the scene.

Community first

Throughout the evening, Truong plays the consummate host. Wearing a black T-shirt with red letters reading “FCK ICE,” skinny black jeans and boots, he bounds back and forth throughout the backyard, greeting guests, saying hi to friends and making sure everyone is comfortable. Every now and then he leans into a vintage forest green cooler to grab a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Truong, whose Vietnamese parents emigrated to St. Petersburg from Laos in 1976, is an outspoken critic of President Donald Trump. But despite the political nature of some of his social media posts and tonight’s wardrobe choice, Truong said politics rarely, if ever, is discussed at the Pho Social Club.

“I’ve never heard politics spoken,” he said. “I think it’s kind of a neutral territory where (people) come for one night only and that’s not what’s really on their mind.”

A vintage motorcycle enthusiast who for more than a decade ran the downtown St. Petersburg bar Sake Bomb, Truong also hosts bike shows and vintage helmet art exhibitions as fundraisers. The act of welcoming a bunch of strangers into his home feels natural.

“I just like having people over,” he said. “It’s a night of schmoozing and networking and people are just so appreciative — they can’t believe they’re in a stranger’s home.”

Truong is torn on how much publicity he wants for the ever-growing dinners.

On the one hand, he wants to extend the community effort he’s built the past few years. But he also doesn’t want it to explode: It’s his home, after all, and space is always going to be limited.

For now, he’s hoping to hit some middle ground: getting the word out slowly and inviting more people while capping the number of attendees.

After the meal, diners begin slowly trickling out. As people gather their belongings and say their goodbyes, the atmospheric hum of The Brian Jonestown Massacre lulls in the background. One table is readying for another round of sake shots, not yet ready to call it a night.

The mood is jovial and light, and over and over again people comment on how good it feels to come together over food with strangers. How something as small as passing fish sauce with a smile or a collective tequila cheer can go a long way. How it all feels so very St. Pete.