The fish fry at River Valley Supper Club sells out before six o’clock on most Fridays. That’s not a boast — it’s a warning. If you roll in at 6:30 expecting a booth and a plate of perch, you may be eating somewhere else.
River Valley sits on the east side of Green Bay, over on Dousman Street in a part of town that doesn’t get much tourist attention. The building looks exactly like what it is: a supper club that’s been in business long enough to remember when supper clubs were the only option for a nice night out in Wisconsin. Dark wood, low lighting, a bar that’s been there since people still ordered brandy Manhattans by default. The décor hasn’t been updated for effect — it just never needed updating.
The menu is unapologetically midwestern. You start with a relish tray — pickles, olives, raw vegetables, the whole spread — before you’ve even thought about an entrée. Bread arrives warm. The soup is usually something like clam chowder or a French onion that’s been reduced long enough to actually taste like beef. Order the prime rib if it’s available; it comes with au jus that isn’t from a packet, and the horseradish on the side is sharp enough to clear your sinuses.
Friday fish fry is the main event for most regulars. The walleye comes battered and fried, served with coleslaw and rye bread, potato pancakes if you ask right. It’s the kind of fish fry that makes you understand why Wisconsin has an entire religious relationship with the practice. The batter is light, the fish doesn’t taste like it was frozen last Thursday, and the tartar sauce is house-made and tangy in a way that bottled versions never get close to.
The bar program is exactly what you’d expect: Old Fashioneds made the Wisconsin way, with brandy and a muddled orange and a little too much fruit for some people’s taste. If you tell them you want it without all the extra stuff, they’ll make it cleaner. The tap list skews local but not aggressively so — there’s a Spotted Cow, a couple of craft options, and the usual macro backups. Nobody’s going to judge your order.
Prices are honest for what you get. A Friday fish fry plate with soup and salad runs somewhere around fifteen to eighteen dollars, depending on what you pick. The prime rib runs higher, twenty-five to thirty on the weekends, but the portions are substantial enough that you’ll probably take something home. Split a dessert if you have any sense — the grasshopper pie shows up on the menu sometimes and it’s exactly as retro and satisfying as it sounds.
The crowd skews older on weekdays, but Fridays pull in a broader mix: families with kids in hockey jerseys, couples celebrating something, regulars who’ve been coming so long the staff knows their drink before they sit down. It doesn’t feel like a performance of nostalgia. It just feels like a place that works.
Go early on Fridays — seriously, before five-thirty if you don’t have a reservation. Call ahead. And when the relish tray lands, don’t ignore it. That’s part of the deal.
