Jonathan, who serves as our private instructor, helps us with the tricky loading chamber of the Glock. It’s comforting that he’s here. And that’s the second intimidating part of the experience: our fellow patrons are not there to help or even socialize much. They’re friendly but mostly silent, showing each other their guns, but that’s about it. To our right, a man practices speed drills. Farther to the right, a couple shoots downrange at a target that at first glance can easily be mistaken for a ’70s-era Olan Mills family photo. At second glance it’s two women with guns posed on either side of a man, possibly taking him hostage. Either way it’d make a provocative holiday card. I don’t know how much I would have to say, anyway. Standing here with 32.12 ounces of Austrian steel in my hand, my main conversation is with myself.
Me: We survived!
Me: That was fun!
As far as Ladies Night goes, other than half-price gun rentals and ammunition, the club doesn’t offer much. If you’re looking for Chardonnay with your Smith & Wesson, you’re out of luck. No drinking and shooting. Nothing pink or fussy. No dessert specials or people pushing Cosmopolitans. It’s the least sexist a Ladies Night at a gun club could be, while still being an event promoted around gender identity. That said, there aren’t many ladies either this night. But, in Putnam’s mind, he didn’t build the 36 25-yard handgun lanes and four 100-yard rifle lanes for women. He built everything else for them.
The club is open to the public and had 2,400 members before its first day of business. Today, there are more than 4,000. Anyone can use 30 of the range’s lanes (six are reserved for VIP members) or grab a roasted pear and Brie sandwich at the cafe and watch shooters through bulletproof observation windows. But when Putnam says he wanted to “marry the indoor range experience with high-end retail and a dining club,” the public experience isn’t what he is talking about. That belongs to the members who have opted for VIP status. And, a few days after Ladies Night, it also belongs to me and my mother, when I bring her along for a belated Mother’s Day lunch.
Romano, decked out in camouflage chef’s pants, goes over the lunch menu and encourages us to consider ordering some of his favorites from the dinner menu. Or whatever, really. “Just think of anything you might want. If it’s in the walk-in fridge, it’s yours,” he says. He means it graciously, but it also comes off as a dare.
Quail legs wrapped in bacon and hiding a jalapeño are the first to arrive. Our waitress suggests a wine for the fish I’m considering. My mother is a tiny bit drunk and praises the roasted chicken she ordered above normal conversational level. The whole meal is indulgent, so for dessert we each have our own parfait made of opera cake and chocolate and coffee mousses. My mother is now openly flirting with Romano.
“Do people join just for the food?” she asks.
He smiles, and I remind her that she doesn’t even own a gun.
“Not yet,” she says.
She is picturing holiday dinners here at the club—the men smoking cigars, the children playing a card game. She might add a spa, though.
Lunch with my mother didn’t leave enough time to properly explore the retail center of the club—it’s more than 7,000 square feet—so I come back for a third visit on a Sunday afternoon a few weeks later. It’s arranged like the jewelry counter of any department store, only the semicircle of brightly lit glass cases is filled with firearms. Cases are arranged by brand and type of gun. There is a separate case for consignment sales and rentals, and a section devoted to handmade boxlock guns, most of them rather expensive, some dating back to 1884. My favorite was a gun made in 1974 for Joe F. Toot Jr.; it retails for $38,639.99.
My date tries on a jacket. The colors are chic yet practical for shooting, here or maybe on one of those controversial private-game safaris. It hangs a little big on him. It’s meant for a man filled with more steak and leisure time, but it looks expensive and well-made, and I instantly imagine where he’d wear it. I look down and see a leather carrying case for a light wool picnic blanket. It matches the jacket.
I am unfamiliar with Stanley Marcus’ stance on firearms, but as I put down the $110 blanket holster, it’s easy to imagine that he would have approved of the Frisco Gun Club, maybe even have been proud.
But he probably would have added that spa, too.
