The Hive

609 N. New Ballas Rd.

Creve Coeur, MO

http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Hive/209500972435162

Though I live in Hillsboro, I work in Maryland Heights, which is a western St. Louis County suburb. It is just under forty miles from my rural compound and vastly more suburban.

Occasionally a small group of us go out to lunch together, places that I’d never go with the family since the drive is too far for a casual Saturday evening outing. A few of my co-workers have in the past asked if I was going to critique the places we lunched at, I’d always said no, I didn’t want to mix business with hobby.

But I’ve changed my mind. We’ve been to some really excellent places, why spare them from the wrath of my formal critique? I may not critique every outing, but I will be reviewing some.

The Place:

The Hive is a two-story bar and grill, an old, repurposed building, maybe even a house. The stairs are steep and the poor waitresses must develop thighs and calves otherwise restricted to marathon runners and ballet dancers.

There are bars on both floors, but a kitchen on only one.

We walked into the lower level and were greeted by a tall, tanned, toned, bare-midriff’ed bartender who seemed quite proud of her cleavage.

For the purposes of this review I’ll call the co-workers I was  with  Rob and Doug. I’ve worked with Rob for over five years, we worked at that beer company for three years together, then, six months apart, we both jumped over to where we are now. Doug has been at our current company for around a decade. Both are great guys, hard workers, smart and funny. Doug knows more terrible jokes than any one person I’ve ever come across. Rob, like me, is rather quiet, focused, and not prone to frequent outbreaks of chit-chat.

The place was crowded, a Friday lunch in an area filled with office buildings. Lot’s of khakis, a few ties, and only occasionally a pair of jeans. The place packs them in for afternoon happy hour specials as well.

The Hive is unapologetically a sports bar. Posters and memorabilia everywhere, TV’s mounted on every wall, all flashing one sort of sports or another.

I’d heard that the local professional baseball team is in some sort of playoff, and the mood of the place seemed to be full of talk and excited chatter about stats and players; RBI’s, ERA,s and someone called ‘Pujols.’ (unfortunately pronounced ‘poo-holes’)

The menus were already on the small table as were the requisite drink lists and condiments. Looking around I saw the place was filled with cheap black metal chairs and small, crowded tables covered by mismatched tablecloths. There was barely enough room between them to move around, and no discernable aisles. I supposed that’s why they only hired skinny women to work there.

The menu, a laminated tri-fold, was no-nonsense and un-illustrated. No need for pictures or lengthy explanations really, the food was all straightforward bar and grill fare. I wanted to eat light, I normally eat little or nothing at all for lunch, as doing so often leads to the two-thirty groggies. I scanned the entirety of the menu, the choice was obvious. BLT.

We ordered our drinks, tea for Doug and I, Rob, being cheap, asked for water. I should have as well, as the tea cost two bucks. I suppose that’s because of the quantity, The Hive serves up its non-cocktail drinks in quart-sized plastic pitchers. No glasses are offered, you drink straight from the small pitchers. It’s a gimmick, quaint, cute.

We placed our orders through another slender young lady, clad in short-shorts and a barely large enough top. The Hive is apparently almost Hooter’s-like in it’s hiring of wait staff. Hey, it’s a sports bar, in order to compete you have to do what you must.

Fortunately Rob, Doug and I are all professional, mature and seasoned adults, amused perhaps, but ultimately immune to such obvious and overt displays of feminine wiles. While most of the other men in the bar were observed to be smitten with the ladies, the three of us remained in our perfectly chaste and sober state. We tsk’d the baser behaviors of some of the less mature men in the place, pleased that we were better than that.

The Food:

I ordered my BLT with whatever default side was offered, chips, as it turns out, and a pickle spear. I’ve said it before, BLT’s constitute a ‘light’ lunch in that a BLT doesn’t weigh very much compared to a sub or burger. It probably also weighed less than some of the salads I’d observed at other tables, they were served in what can only be described as mixing bowls.

Rob asked for the patty melt and chips, Doug went wild and asked for the Bleu Bomb burger, advertised as containing Bleu Cheese and bacon, and upped the ante by ordering the house-made kettle chips.

We waited, the TV’s showed hockey and baseball highlights. Doug and Rob started a conversation about sports, so I found myself drifting away into my own thoughts, nodding my head occasionally as if I were actually engaged in the topic.

I have nothing against sports, I just have very little interest. I often find myself drifting off when around groups of guys.

I took notice instead of the place; dark, rough wood walls, uneven floors and ceilings. The emergency lights were held together with duct tape. Somewhere there were speakers pouring out an almost too-loud phalanx of techno-music with simple, but fast-pounding, metallic bass-beats. I recognized none of the songs or artists since I really don’t keep up with music either.

Our baskets were delivered by the same barely-clad skinny girl, poor thing. The chips delivered to Rob and I were merely from-a-bag ripple chips, not even the expensive ones. Doug’s chips were thicker and darker. He offered a couple up for tasting. Next time I might get those instead as they were much tastier than the cheap chips in my basket.

The toast for my BLT was buttered, a leaf of lettuce, a rough-cut tomato slice, and a decent pile of bacon. It was just standard white bread, but that suited me better than a thick chunk of sourdough or something else heavy and fancy.

Doug’s burger looked like a burger, Rob’s patty melt seemed to be decently sized. Doug’s burger disappeared fast, not surprising though. Doug has raised five children. I imagine it’s a fight for survival at mealtimes. Eat as much as you can as quick as you can or risk going without.

Rob and I were more leisurely, Rob has a kid, maybe two, I forget, and there’s less competition for food. Doug did say that his burger was thoroughly cooked, but not dry and he found that pleasantly surprising.

The BLT fell apart quickly. The generous tomato slice was very juicy and the weak bread just didn’t hold up well. The second half fell completely apart and I ended up pinching out the bacon and tomato with my fingers, leaving a lot of the disintegrating bread behind. I didn’t mind, less bread equals less filling.

Summary:

We all enjoyed our meals, I didn’t eat most of my chips but only because I’m not accustomed to that many calories and carbs in the middle of a workday. The bill came in, I didn’t see Rob’s or Doug’s, but I assume they were similarly priced. Mine was $8.60 and I added a $2 tip, hoping the poor girl could buy herself some long pants or maybe a shirt that at least covered her tummy. The service was pretty good, barely flirty at all, but professional and efficient. The food was pretty good, and not overly priced or pretentious.

We’ll go back I am sure, it’s not that far from work and it’s much better than those convenience-store hot dogs that Doug usually has for lunch.

Taytro’s Bar and Bistro

343 N Creek Dr.

 Festus, Mo.

http://taytros.com/

My turn to choose. My original thought, Bob Evans’ was universally frowned upon. I gave it some more skull-time and realized that we’d not been to Taytro’s in quite a while. It was pretty new when we first went, enough time had passed to see if they’d managed to keep up the good work or if they’d spiraled into decline.

The Place:

On a hill next to an ATT store and a couple of other ubiquitous strip mall shops, Taytro’s parking lot allocation was less than half full, this wasn’t an indicator of anything other than that we dine earlier than most people. We were seated immediately at a table next to the door. The place hadn’t changed much at all. Bright, festive red walls, lots of Mardi Gras gewgaws and artwork. The overhead chalkboard exclaimed something I already knew, that Ed Null would be performing live later that evening. I don’t know Mr. Null personally, but I am familiar with some of his likely ancestors, there’s quite a few Nulls populating the local cemeteries.

 When I’ was checking my Facebook earlier in the day (Taytro’s has a page there) it had announced that the evening’s special would be Tilapia and rice, and that Mr. Null would be performing at seven. It was only a little past five when we arrived, we wouldn’t last that long, we’re not lingerers.

There were only a dozen or so people in the joint, a couple of mid-sized, mid-aged women sat at the bar. Both hosted tattoos, one on her lower back (you know the kind), the other with one on either shoulder. I made out one of the two fading tattoos peeking out from her tank top as a panther, the other was either a crying clown, the scarecrow from ‘The Wizard of Oz’, or maybe Kurt Cobain. It was hard to be sure as the black ink was thick and a little smeary, or maybe the ‘canvas’ had shifted a bit since the art was first put there. I asked Adam to turn around discretely and verify, but he couldn’t quite tell either. Angel just told me to stop staring at the women at the bar. This didn’t faze me much since she simply refuses to get a tattoo herself and therefore apparently doesn’t want me to stare at her instead. Her loss.

We were handed menus, laminated this time (plain paper copies on our previous visits). They were not complicated, Taytro’s limits itself to a small selection.

I asked the waitress if they served beer, she looked at me a little funny, I guess because I was sitting facing the bar, but instead of calling me an idiot, she just launched into a recital of those they carried on tap. I almost stopped her at Sam Adams Amber Ale, but waited until finished the list with ‘Blue Moon’. I’d had that brand before, though I couldn’t recall when and where, but the wispy memory did hint that I’d liked it.

She added: “Good choice, I like mine with lemon!”

“That’s really peculiar” I answered, thinking that was the exact response she would like. It wasn’t. Apparently in some circles it is perfectly kosher to squeeze lemon into beer, who knew?

All for naught though, she returned in just a couple of minutes to tell me they were out of Blue Moon. I settled for the Sam Adams. Angel and Adam got tea and Coke respectively, no lemon.

The Food:

There were several great sounding options. I really, really wanted another Po’ Boy, but I’d already critiqued those and felt an obligation to you, my loyal fans, to try something else.

‘Smothered Catfish’ with rice and crawfish sauce. Oh baby, sauced crawdads!!

Angel Asked for the ‘Shrimpalaya’ A shrimp laden jambalaya dish.

Adam went for the house burger, no tomato, of course, with fries, no cheese.

We also asked for an appetizer, the fried (toasted) Ravioli, it’s a St. Louis thing.

As we waited we tuned into the provided music, at first it was Cajun style, but progressed (or regressed) to other fare including a tune by Led Zeppelin that caused Angel to hark back to her teen years. She talks little of those times, though I recall sparse stories of candles, dark poetry, Goth-like loner behavior, if not actual ritual sacrifice and blood letting. I don’t know the all the details.

As we reminisced the small, young hostess with no observable tattoos stood on one of the barstools and updated the ‘Specials’ with a steady hand and a discerning eye for pastel chalks. I recalled that she was the same girl I once compared to Kirsten Dunst, but in a good way. Dunst is cute (it’s the eyes), but her choice of movies to star in is simply awful.

The ravioli arrived with a small bowl of red dipping sauce. We dug in, each of us quietly screaming as the fried pasta released its scorching meaty innards into our mouths. It was quite good though, once it cooled down to a mere three or four hundred degrees, crispy and thick.

The salads came, simple greens topped with their delightful, sweet poppy seed dressing. Just a small bowl, not enough to fill anyone.

The main courses arrived just as were ready to nod off. The only thing on the large TV above the bar was a golf match of some kind. The only thing in this hemisphere duller than the game of golf itself is watching golf on TV.

The entrées arrived, steamy and appetizing. Taytro’s pays attention to plating, feeding the eye before the palate. My large filet rested alongside a mound of rice, it was all slathered in thick, chunks of crawfish in a creamy, light-brown sauce. Angel’s meal looked enormous, big blackened shrimp alongside more traditional sausage, chicken, celery, onion, bell pepper, etc. all Cajun-spiced and coupled with rice. She dug in, as did I. Hers came with three slices of grilled toast, mine with only one. I was jealous.

The spiciness of Taytro’s offerings is about as perfect as I can recall ever having. The taste is indeed spicy, but in a good way. The heat was not overpowering but it did build up. A full course will send you into a mild sweat and clear your sinuses, but not immediately. The heat does not at all steal the show from the food itself. “Loving it!” Angel remarked, adding: “Need more tea!”

Neither of us were able to finish our ample portions. We tried, but it just wouldn’t all fit.

Summary:

The bill came in at just over fifty bucks. Fifty bucks at ‘TGI Friday’s’ is a rip-off, at Taytro’s it’s a bargain.

 We were completely full but actually wanting more. The food at Taytro’s is absolutely first rate. The fact that they don’t try to cook/offer everything under the sun probably helps. They concentrate, quite successfully, on making a few things and making them very, very well. The staff was dutiful, attentive and responsive. There were no fights, spillage or disgusting incidents. The place was clean, well tended and family friendly. We simply love this place. I highly recommend it, even if you don’t have exposed tattoos that I can stare at.

Hillbilly’s Bar and Grill

Pevely, MO.
Pevely is a town of less than four thousand residents between Festus and Herculaneum on the eastern side of the county. It’s claim to fame was the establishment of Pevely Farms back in the late 1800’s. The farm produced milk and butter and peddled the stuff in St. Louis. Between trains the dairy products were kept cool in the nearby springs. At one time Pevely was touted as the best place in the country to get fresh dairy products. The farm has been converted to a grand golf course and Pevely Dairy which thrived for over a hundred years in St. Louis was bought out by Prairie Farms, then a few years ago the last of the Pevely Dairies were shuttered in favor of more modern facilities. Pevely still boasts the largest flea market in the Mid-West, though I’ve been to it and wasn’t all that impressed. Size isn’t everything.
Nowadays Pevely still has a couple of quarries and other rock/mineral related industries but is mostly a bedroom community like many other Jefferson County towns.

The Place:
On Main Street, which frankly doesn’t seem all that ‘main’. I’d been able to guide us there without problem. I’d looked it up on Mapquest earlier in the week, remembering it to be south of Highway Z and east of the interstate. I assumed that Main Street would be marked, it was, and just within eyeshot of an intersection. I proved myself as useful as Angel’s Tom-Tom, yet again. It was located behind the large Western Auto and across the street from the railroad tracks. It’s a squat, unassuming place with only a small sign to announce itself. We parked in the ubiquitous slush and entered through a plain wooden door. We were in the large bar. A few patrons watched the TV screens and threw back bottles of beer. There was no music and all the TV’s were muted. We stopped and glanced around until someone invited us to the back. There we found the low ceilinged, dark, smoky dining area. A couple of small families were seated at tables, most of the place’s patrons never made it past the bar. It was dark with only sparse recessed lighting, a few neon beer signs to light the room. There was a small stage in one corner, unoccupied for the time being. We were hoping to be done and gone long before the advertised Karaoke event started up.
Against one wall were some large flat screens displays showing bright and crisp video game screens. A Keno screen was mounted overhead.
We were seated by a casually dressed young lady and asked about drinks; tea, tea and coke. She plopped down the menus, thick, heavily laminated things, about six pages deep.
The menu was overwhelming. Not typical bar food, they offered full breakfasts, pizza, sandwiches, burgers, seafood, pastas, and regular dinners. This concerned me at first, a tell-tale indication of a place trying to offer too much, and mastering none.
The tables, chairs and booths were solid, but not at all ornate. The carpet was generic print and worn, the walls were adorned with some flea market’s catch of the day, airplane propellers, raccoon hides, mounted ducks, a metal tractor seat, etc. It was less ‘hillbilly’ and more junk store.
Our drinks arrived in tall heavy glasses, very much like my favorite tea glasses at home. They’re available at the Dollar General for a buck. I could tell that this was an early swing and miss the tea was cloudy. We took a while to choose our dinners since there was so much to choose from.
The Food:
I finally chose the Fish and Chip Feast. It sounded huge. Two different fish fillets, fries, hush puppies, coleslaw, clam strips, and three jumbo shrimp. Angel ordered the Pigs at Sea. Shrimp, breaded, wrapped in bacon. She added a Caesar salad and a baked potato. Adam decided on the Chicken Fried Chicken fillet with mashed potatoes and broccoli soup. The waitress advised against the soup saying that the last people that ordered it said it tasted burnt and they decided not to serve anymore. He switched to the chicken dumpling soup instead.
Looking around I noticed that the condiments on the tables were stuffed into a quaint bathtub-shaped tin bucket. I also noticed that there was a ceiling mounted security camera pointed straight at us. I waved to it though I couldn’t imagine anyone was actually monitoring it. More patrons oozed in, the bar was filling up. This appeared to be a very popular local watering hole, most of the people seemed familiar to each other.
Angel’s salad arrived first. As it passed in front of me I grabbed some of the lettuce, Adam swiped a crouton. It was pretty good. They didn’t use iceberg lettuce, they actually used the greener, denser, fancy stuff. Angel lit into it and said that it was surprisingly good for a neighborhood bar.
The dinners arrived after a few minutes, Angel’s first, six or eight fat shrimp diapered in bacon and spice-blackened and a pretty large foil wrapped potato. Adam’s plate was generous as well, just enough brown gravy and plenty of chicken and mashed potatoes. The soup was overtopped by thick, swollen dumplings. Then my plate arrived, it weighed about seventeen pounds. Not a clear spot on the plate, even the coleslaw (which was the best I’d had in quite a while), served on a sheet of that fancy lettuce overhung the edge of the plate. The three by six inch fillets were stacked one on top of each other, the shrimp and hushpuppies fought for territory together against the overwhelming pile of fries. There was no way I’d be able to finish this in one sitting.
There was also no way this food should have been as good as it was. The kitchen had to be rather small, the staff not exactly overflowing, but everything was in fact excellent. Angel got overwhelmed by the spicy bacon, eight strips as it turned out, and unwrapped the shrimp, doling out the bacon to Adam and me. In turn I turned my entire pile of clam strips, mostly hiding under the fries, over to her, because I do not care for snotfish. She tried to get Adam to try one, but her argument that they were like deep fried rubber bands really wasn’t as convincing as I think she thought it might be. I insisted that they tasted like cauliflower, which she disagreed with but I told her that most things I don’t like tasted like cauliflower or broccoli.
The food was all hot, fresh, crispy and well spiced. Nothing overwhelmed except for the sheer volume. Adam cleaned his plate quickly, Angel almost finished but stopped just short of exploding. I surrendered about halfway through. We asked for a big box and the check.
Summary:
Surprisingly good, surprisingly so for the variety of offerings. The quality and even the plating were outstanding, the staff was efficient and familial. The atmosphere was definitely bar-like, but not in a loud, obnoxious way. It was all in all, quite good. The bill came it under fifty bucks, more than a diner but considerably cheaper than a chain. Quite a good value overall. I’d recommend it with only one caveat. Jefferson County hasn’t passed smoking bans in restaurants (yet), and this place was kind of heavy with the stench. If you are sensitive to smoke and ex-smoke, you might not enjoy it so much.