Spent a very quick (2.5 days) getaway in St. Louis and thought I'd report in via this wonderful ongoing thread. This isn't exactly laser-focused because it's excised from a write-up I did elsewhere. Apologies. The opening about the hotel may be deemed too off-target, but it does deal with the hotel's food offering, if you bear with it.
Some time ago—I have since forgotten when and exactly how—Southwest Airlines offended me in a manner and to an extent that could not be countenanced. And so my seconds called on theirs and the result was the issuance of vouchers on their part which, though monetarily negligible were sufficient, in conjunction with an apology, to satisfy the code of a gentleman and obviate the need for further hostilities. When I discovered recently that said vouchers were trembling on the brink of expiration, I was for the second time in my checkered relationship with SWA, faced with a dilemma and spurred to action: Where to go on short notice that would extract full value from the vouchers while minimizing any additional tariff? While I had hopes for Minneapolis, the answer to this (and for all I know, many other questions as well) turned out (born of Mrs. B's diligent research ) to be St. Louis.
Never been there.
What the hell.
Off we went.
What I knew about St. Louis going in extended as far as: tallish arch, goodish symphony, wide-ish river, loathsome beer giant, even more loathsome MLB franchise (In fact, I really have no feelings on that score. Just a tip of the hat to my north side Chicago friends.)
Turns out, there’s a good deal more to the place. All of it pretty charming, some of it stunning.
But first we pause for a commercial message: (Those who travel with children and less than abundant means may wish to read on. Others may choose to fast forward.) In the course of the same research which identified St. Louis as our best destination, Mrs. B. also found a hotel package which we took a chance on, propitiating the whimsical gods of travel with our standard invocation: “All we really need is running water and a place to store our stuff without bedbugs. Anything more is gravy.” (In much the same way that whenever we try a new recipe out on company we ritualistically intone, “If it’s a disaster, we can just order pizza.”)
The hotel was the Drury Inn Plaza (several other Drury Inns dot the St. Louis landscape), and it could not have better executed its pet-and-family-on-a-budget-friendly mission. (Note: If, as I did, you reflexively refer to it as the “Drury Lane,” you will bemuse the natives.)
Neat, clean, well-staffed; good TV/wi-fi/cable and plenty of outlets in the room for those who travel with multiple devices. Extras included a complimentary breakfast buffet which was miles ahead of the bins of stale cereal and toaster pastries which many corporate “inns” offer with a straight face, and at least as good as what I’ve had at higher-end places. A cheerful and indefatigable woman worked a medium sized grill churning out mounds of freshly scrambled eggs, scraping it down, then switching to fresh pancakes, and back again to eggs in a Sisyphusian loop. (So helpful was she that when I stopped by her station just to ask where S&P might be found, she offered to bring it to my table. I told her there was no need for that, I could find it. Yet 2 minutes later there she was at our table, across an acre of lobby, with 2 shakers and a smile, before loping back to her grill.) There were acceptable sweet rolls, completely unacceptable “bagels,” not-stale cereals, passable coffee (and real half-and-half), juice, potatoes, etc. Every day.
Fresh popcorn and soft drinks were produced starting at 3:00, and happy hour began at 5:30. This comprised a rotating selection comparable to any decent happy hour, but also including a ticket for up to 3 drinks per day. My cynical expectation was wretched, watery, premixed cocktails or Solo cups of Loathsome Lite from the local brewing behemoth whose signage was ominously omnipresent. But no! Honker’s Ale was an option. Any company that sends me out into the early evening of a vacation weekend with 3 complimentary Honkers under my belt (you have 2 min. to amuse yourself with double entendres, then back to work), has already earned from me a loyalty of samurai-level intensity.
In addition there was a good-sized pool and a weight room which, it must be said, was clearly an after-thought. But then, so is my weightlifting regimen, so again, form precisely followed (my) function.
Given its mission, or as they might say up in corporate, the market space they wish to occupy, its virtues included not merely the various benefits offered, but the absence of downsides one might reasonably expect to be unavoidable in such a place, e.g. a heightened ambient noise level, some threadbareness around the edges, the sense of incipient chaos or even all hell itself about to break Miltonically loose. But, again, no.
The appointments were not merely neat and clean but new and fresh. Guest babies didn’t scream but grinned, burbled, or slept angelically at maternal breasts. Along the corridors and even in the notoriously testing close quarters of elevators, one encountered charming dogs of all shapes and sizes, all of whom appeared to have attended the same Swiss finishing school.
And now, back to our program.
EATS
While it was not organized as a food tour we ate pretty well indeed, usually for a bit less than here (Chicago), and found that the misses were never bizarre or catastrophic, and that both food and restaurant space aesthetics seemed to pleasantly recall Chicago 20 years ago.
ROOSTER: For logistical reasons rather than any preference we ended up having 2 meals here. The first was a very meh lunch, the second, a somewhat better breakfast. Roosters bills itself as “a Bailey’s restaurant.” Bailey’s seems to be a Lettuce Entertain You-esque concern, comprising 5 fairly high-concept fantasy eating environments, with a genuine commitment to quality, sustainability, local sourcing, and humane animal care, a la Melman. When they err, it is in allowing visuals to undercut taste. Roosters is a sort of cheeky yuppie take on the rustic farmhouse, with dark wood and folky arty chickens painted on the walls. They do a bustling business and offer an attractive menu of crepes, scrambles, sandwiches, and salads. The place is spacious, energizingly noisy when busy and generally attractive. Service is friendly and efficient with the exception of longuers between coffee refills which simply should not happen in a breakfast-focused restaurant. It’s the kind of place you really want to like more than you can, and whose unforced errors are all the sadder for being avoidable.
The Roosters Reuben: I’m not ultra-orthodox about this. I can live without the Russian or 1000 island, and if you want to replace kraut (which I love) with something daring or just different, I say have at it. Unfortunately, it was three strikes on three pitches for this sandwich. Described as, “house-made corned beef, spicy slaw, rooster mayo, & emmenthaler on rye,” what was delivered was this: Bread that might have been wheat, or some sort of multi-grainish hippie commune loaf, it tasted nothing of rye and, most hopelessly, wasn’t pan browned and greasy, but obviously toasted under a salamander or a mere toaster. From the get-go then, irredeemable. Corned beef without any “corned” tang. Blah. Pinch-hitting for the kraut, the “spicy slaw” was merely crunchy and bland. A second chance to score some tanginess blown. Whatever “rooster mayo” may be, we’ll never know from eating it on this sandwich, unless it’s a special invisible mayo developed for the CIA to help WASP agents eat comfortably while infiltrating Jewish delis. Some went down swinging, some just looking, but the entire Reuben line-up went down in order. An edible sandwich, yes. A Reuben, no way.
The Breakfast Scramble: Here’s the thing about a “scramble.” The whole point is that the various savory ingredients get coated in rich, eggy goodness. That’s the sine qua non of the whole damn enterprise. Yet Bailey’s allowed some misbegotten plating/presentation idea to sabotage what would otherwise have been a perfectly good scramble. They started with a pile of good stuff—in my case “seasoned black beans, cheddar, red onion, salsa.” But they didn’t scramble it with eggs. They put a mound of it on the plate, and then delicately placed a slab of separately scrambled eggs on top, perversely guaranteeing flavor apartheid. Compounding the error were the refrigerator-cold twin mounds of actually excellent salsa bookending the dish. With no tortilla or chips included, there was nothing much one could do with the salsa, which sat, unemployed, imparting its deep chill to the rest of the dish. This was really a vintage Cubs sort of a loss---solid, attractive ingredients oddly deployed and unable to get it together, due largely to managerial bungling.
MANGO: This Peruvian place was the site of our first dinner during which a crackling tension was maintained between the genuine competence of the kitchen, and the genial but not-quite-ready-for-prime-time front-of-house operation.
The place looked exactly like the sort of place the characters of Thirtysomething would go to celebrate surviving a sensitivity crisis---exposed brick, “rustic” dark wood, and exposed ductwork painted in soothing earth tones snaking around the ceiling.
We were greeted, oddly, by 2 hostesses, each briskly, cheerfully professional, but together stepping on each other’s lines and toes trying to decide who would greet and seat us. Once we were seated, our waitress arrived promptly to give us a brief orientation and drop menus, immediately after which a friendly waiter arrived to repeat the orientation, whereupon he was accosted by our waitress who politely asked him---more or less---what the hell he thought he was doing at this table, while simultaneously smiling vaguely at us and delivering at him a surely lethal stink-eye. He tried to disarm her with a sort of early-Ashton-Kutcher-haplessness Judo move, which actually succeeded, at least in the short term. She gave us up to him, but left the distinct impression that outside a 10’ radius of our table, his life was worth less than a cuisine minceur cookbook in Guy Fieri’s kitchen. As she left, forbiddingly, he turned to us and said somewhat blankly, "That was weird." I kind of wanted to hug him.
However, as soon as eating and drinking began, all was well. Behind the bar, a woman who might have been Virginia Woolf’s sister-gone-working class, hair piled on her head, large, dark, tired eyes tracking a stream of orders, produced a wonderful cocktail: The Chiclayo Cooler. (Is this well known to all? I have no idea, not being a real contemporary cocktail sort of guy.) Hendricks gin, muddled cucumber, cilantro, sugar and fresh-squeezed citrus—it was sweet but not cloying, and thoroughly delicious. The cucumber/cilantro notes lifting it and giving a lightness, almost an ethereality to the sweetness and the alcohol.
A shared salad with greens, roasted pepper, mango, almonds and citrus dressing was, like the drink, perfectly balanced between sweet and tart.
Aji de Gallina—Shredded chicken in creamy aji amarillo, parmesan & walnut sauce over baby Yukon gold potatoes and garnished with Peruvian olives and boiled egg with a side of rice was disconcertingly monochromatic off-white to look at (chipped beef on toast?), but rich and delicious to eat. Saltado de Champinoñe—Button, shitake, portabella & oyster mushrooms, sweet onions & tomatoes sautéed in white wine-olive oil reduction and served with rice or pasta was just the opposite—pure and distinct flavors from each of the ingredients, restrained seasoning, and a reduction in which the wine, the oil, and seasoning each sounded clearly.
CUCINA PAZZO—Generically and irrelevantly named, there was nothing “pazzo” about the cooking, just a kitchen and a management that clearly knew exactly what they were about, and went about it very well. In Chicago it would be a solid 2 stars/good value: Not Spiaggia, certainly, and perhaps not La Scarola or Piccolo Sogno, but entirely worthwhile on its own terms. Perhaps a Vinci. On a strip of restaurants where most have sidewalk tables and traffic is slow and people meander slowly, talking and waving to friends, perusing menus, etc. this seemed to be near the top of the heap in ambition and execution. Our waiter worked hard to please without wearing out his welcome. They start you off with an oily little parmesan focaccia with a nice sweet-tart balsamic sludge for shmearing. “House-made pasta” really means something here, as the texture of the ricotta-filled tortellini was exactly what fresh pasta should be and often isn’t. Surrounded by terrific large shrimp and sitting on a pool of really good white wine-cream sauce this was one of those dishes that one sees everywhere but rarely done well enough to make you sit up and take notice. We sat up. We noticed. We asked for more focaccia to get all the sauce with.
Next was the waiter-recommended stracotto, and again, everyone is doing short ribs, but this dish pulled it all together. The ribs had a perfect crunchy-bitter char on the outside, rich beefy flavor, and sat on a disk of perfectly judged gorgonzola-polenta, neither too soupy nor too stiff, and the gorg. Just present enough to add a great note of funk without overpowering the rest. To top it off were crispy fried brussel sprouts leaves, adding a little crunch, a little more char, a bit of veg. Great dish.
Dessert was a cooked-to-order chocolate-nutella soufflé and it was fine, but when all is said and done, it was a brownie. A good, freshly baked brownie. But a brownie. After the terrific service and the great entrees, I’m not complaining.
THE DELMAR LOOP
I have no idea why they call this area a loop. It seems to go straight up and down a single street. It’s a very enjoyable studenty-touristy area of boutique shops and small storefront restaurants of just the sort one wants to encounter on a beautiful spring day: Middle Eastern, pizza (far better than the St. Louis pizza reputation alluded to above, and offering local/regional/seasonal beers, even in 4 oz. sampler pours if you like!), bakeries, gelaterias, etc. Piccione bakery gave us 2 fantastically good cannoli (classic pistachio and coconut cream, neither flavor upstaging the fresh ricotta they were mixed with) which we then smuggled into Bluepoint Coffee, where they go whole hog with the pour-over, and the footnoted lecture preceding each order, and the resulting brew served in a science lab beaker. But somehow it’s all done without undue solemnity, and made for a nice bit of sipping, nibbling, and people watching before leaving for home.
Our greatest regrets on leaving were missing out on World's Fair Donut, and Salume Beddu. We did stop in to the one little donut shop we stumbled on, and it was an odd and somewhat dispiriting experience. It was a strange little outlet of what is surely a larger chain called Pharaoh's. It was tucked away in an office building and its little, barren corner was as bare and dim and uninviting as a UPS or FedEx drop-off point might be. A counter. A girl. Some donuts. The product was neither awful nor revelatory but just OK.
From Dickens’ “American Notes” (Which, I gather, posterity has judged rather harshly, but I enjoy.)
“There are queer little barbers’ shops , and drinking houses too, in this quarter; and abundance of crazy old tenements with blinking casements, such as may be seen in Flanders. Some of these ancient habitations, with high garret gable windows perking into the roofs, have a kind of French shrug about them; and, being lop-sided with age, appear to hold their heads askew besides, as if they were grimacing in astonishment at the American Improvements.
It is hardly necessary to say that these consist of wharfs and warehouses, and new buildings in all directions; and of a great many vast plans which are still “progressing.” Already, however, some very good houses, broad streets, and marble-fronted shops have gone so far ahead as to be in a state of completion; and the town bids fair, in a few years, to improve considerably: though it is not likely ever to vie, in point of elegance or beauty, with Cincinnati.”
I think Dickens would be pleased with how things turned out, though whether Cincinnati must at last yield the palm in terms of elegance or beauty, I’m not prepared to say.
PICCIONE PASTRY
6197 DELMAR BLVD.
ST. LOUIS, MO 63112
[email protected]314.932.1355 PH
PI PIZZERIA
6144 Delmar Boulevard
St. Louis, MO 63112
314.727.6633 – phone
CUCINA PAZZO
392 N. Euclid Ave.
St. Louis, MO 63108
Phone: 314.696.8400
http://oghospitalitygroup.com/a_pazzo/html/location.htmROOSTER
314.241.8118
1104 LOCUST STREET ST. LOUIS MO
From Bailey's Restaurants web page: We have a unique central kitchen and our own bakery — this allows us to make nearly everything from scratch. We butcher and smoke whole hogs, bake all of our own breads and pastries, and make every sauce and dressing. We do everything we can to bring you Farm-to-Table-Fare without the price hikes that type of food usually demands.
Additionally, we serve only locally & responsibly raised, antibiotic & hormone free meats, including Missouri grass fed beef. We truly believe in better foods for the benefit of the environment, the midwest, and most importantly, you.
MANGO
1101 Lucas Ave.
St. Louis, MO 63101
314.621.9993
Hours: Mon.-Thurs.: 11-10, Fri. & Sat.:11-11 / bar open til 1:30, Sun.: 4-9
"Strange how potent cheap music is."