Old Standard

1621 Tower Grove Ave.

St. Louis, Mo.
http://www.oldstandard.co/

The Story:

I was supposed to meet up with a clutch of ladies from the Missouri Women Bloggers group.

Supposed to.

About five or six of us had RSVP'd the invite.

I mapped the destination into my VW's hand-me-down Tom-Tom GPS machine. It got me there just fine. Too early. I spotted the eatery at 6 P.M.

I had an hour to kill. No problem I had a bottle of water, a good book and there was the vast and tidy Tower Grove Park, just a few blocks away. This day was the first real Spring-like day of the year, with the temperature finally hovering around sixty eight degrees.

In the park there were cyclists cycling, proud parents pushing strollers, runners running, dog walkers walking, the dogs stressing the leashes, eager to frolic. I Found an out of the way bench near a bright red and white striped-roof pavilion. The pavilions in the park date back, along with the many tall columns and statues, as far back as the 1870's, when the park first opened. It truly is a grand thing.

At about 6:20 my personal cellular flip phone started stirring and fidgeting in my pocket. The message, apparently sent to others in the group as well, asked if we were headed to the restaurant. I replied with a 'yup' and went back to my book. (A translated Norwegian crime thriller) My plan was to arrive at the restaurant about fifteen minutes early.

As the time approached I closed the book and drove the few short blocks back to the eatery.

I found a tight parking spot in the back, peeked into the open front of the building and saw no one that I knew. Not unusual. I'd only met the ladies once before and I have about the worlds worst facial recognition software in my brain. Yeah, I'm one of those people that simply cannot remember faces well. Probably due to my highly introvert-ish lifestyle, which includes as a major component, avoidance of eye contact.

A young lady blocked my entrance to the building. Someone in authority, obviously. "May I help you sir?" She asked.

I said I was there to join a group of ladies, which didn't seem to narrow it down much for her. I mentioned our meet-up coordinator's name. That seemed to help.

She stepped aside and pointed near the back, to a lone lady, who looked vaguely familiar, at a table space large enough to hold five or six people.

I walked toward her, hoping she would look up and show some sign of recognition. She did.

We sat and exchanged trite pleasantries. Then she said "I've ordered my meal to go."

I was confused, were we going on a picnic? 

"I got here just before six and waited, no one else ever showed up." She added. I looked at my watch, confused again, it was not quite seven.

She must have noticed my befuddlement, which meant she was much better at facial stuff than I've ever been.

"It was supposed to start at six." She said.

I felt pretty silly. I explained that I'd spent quite awhile making sure I could find the place, but had not revisited the initial invite itself and somehow had just solidly assumed that it was to start at seven.

She seemed okay with that, more frustrated that no one else had even replied to her message.

A server stopped by, I asked for tea. We explained that we weren't sure if the others would be joining us.

Her food sack arrived, She apologized and left, she'd already told her husband that she'd be bringing some home.

I was alone at a big table with a nice glass of tea and a menu in front of me. What to do.

Impromptu review. It was the obvious thing.

I'd brought my electronic tablet with me, along with some paper and a pen, I was ready.

The Place:

As pointed out earlier, this is a part of town that dates back to the mid-1800's, if not earlier. Many of the old
buildings have been maintained and re-purposed. There's a lot of old brick shotgun houses and storefronts. Old Standard's building was originally a stable for carriage horses. If I heard the waiter explain it to the couple at the next table correctly, it had also been a service station, a machine shop, etc. It'd had many lives.

The front bar area had the exposed slightly arching rafters you'd expect in an urban stable. The back dining area was more squared off. The stable section was exposed and white-washed brick, the dining area identically painted concrete block. The floor throughout was bare, unpainted concrete.

All the tables were wood, not painted to look retro-rustic. Rather than give it an antique appearance though, it looked a bit hipster.

The small space was pretty full and because of the acoustic nature of bare concrete, brick and high ceilings, it was also pretty loud. 

Sort of a cool, quirky place. Not bad at all.

In the back dining area, longer than wide, there was bench seating along the divider wall and wooden chairs opposite in the aisle. It was a tight fit for a large number of patrons, not a lot of elbow room. Cozy.

I was left there at the large table feeling even more awkward than I usually do. 

So when the waiter apologized profusely as he asked me if I would mind moving to a smaller table so they could accommodate a walk-in group, I was not put off by it, I was actually relieved. He moved me to a two

top in the very back. I bumped my head twice on the suspended light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

It was back there, next to the kitchen entry, that I encountered my first displeasure.

An aroma swept through the room, just for a moment, but it curled my gut. I should have known or expected it, they were cooking down some greens. Though the aroma eventually passed through, an essence of it remained in my smell-memory. A few more times during the evening I be assaulted again by the preparation of a new order of the vile stuff.

I grew up in the south, I am quite familiar with southern comfort food. I love fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, black eyed peas, blackberry cobbler, apple pie, barbecue and even burgoo (look it up).

I grew up sharing meals with my ancient grandmother, one of the worst cooks to ever come out of the proud southern tradition. There was not a dish that she did not over-boil or scorch. Aromas, more correctly, odors, wafted through our small shared house nearly every day. Gagging, putrid smells would linger for hours, forcing us to play outdoors routinely, where the air was only fouled with rotting roadkill and untidy outhouses.

Grandma would grab a small knife, go back behind the sagging garage and chop whatever wild 'green' was growing there, then chop it up and boil it down to its molecular framework on her stove. How did it taste, you ask? 

Ha! I have no idea! I could never stand to get close enough to it to put any of the sloppy, slimy stuff in my mouth.

So greens are not a great smell-memory for me. I do not equate that odor with any sort of 'comfort'.

The Food:

This was the easy part. They pretty much only make fried chicken and sides. The only decision was which sides and how many and which chicken parts. Unlike at many chicken places, you can specify exactly which parts you prefer. If you know me, you already know I prefer dark meat.

You would also know I'm not a breast man. Angel certainly knows this. I'm a leg and thigh man. I like the lower parts, more muscle matter, more natural taste.

The reason so many things in the universe 'taste like chicken' is that refers to the the dull chicken breast, which is almost devoid of any definable or unique flavor. A generic meat taste and texture, similar to tofu, that works best only when soaked or dipped in something. Wings have a bit more muscle tissue, but not much since we've bred poultry for bigger breasts making their already weak wings pretty much unused. Plus, wings are a lot of trouble for the paltry amount of meat they hold.

So give me the thighs and legs.

I ordered one thigh, one leg and a side of slaw. That order, the '$10 Deal' came with a biscuit. Or so the menu said.
It lied.

The wait was longer than I had anticipated or wanted. I was a long way from home, alone, with only my tablet and the eatery's waitress-obtained WiFi password with which to fill the time. Not much going on in social media, no new emails, nothing popped to mind to browse and I don't have any games on the tablet. I'd purged those a long time ago. So I took photos of the tea, the menu, the dangling light bulb which was still swaying from its last smack of my forehead.

I hadn't tracked the time, fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe more. I had assumed they had a bunch of chicken piled up in a steamer tray in the back and slaw certainly wasn't made to order.

I finally decided that they had taken my order and only then started the frying process. Nothing else I could fathom, short of criminal sloth, could fill that gap. During that time, two or three more vile, nasal assaults took place.

The food finally arrived on some rustic tray. Immediately I worried about the bird gams. Very, very dark breading. 

Old Standard double dredges and then pressure-fries their 'famous' chicken, not unlike how the Colonel makes his. This is a tricky way to do things. When you pan-fry chicken, it takes longer, but you know when to stop cooking it. In a pressure pot you have to seal up the whole deal to maintain the 15 PSI of searing steam generated. You can't see it until you stop cooking it, gradually reduce the pressure, during which the chicken continues to cook, then finally and carefully open the lid. This is fine for a roast or other naked meat, but with more fragile and fickle bread crumb coatings, difficult too maintain consistency from batch to batch. A lot of variables at play that don't really apply to a tong-equipped mom standing over an open skillet. Thus, overcooking is a real risk.

Hopefully the outer shell will have protected the inner meat. And I do mean shell. The crust was the color of overcooked toast and pretty dried out.

The cornbread substitution surprised me, pleasantly. Cornbread is about my all time favorite bread. My dad made it the way his mother, my other grandmother, had shown him. Usually it was pan fried and pancake shaped. No need for fancy pans, just a skillet, some grease (his mom used lard) some batter and a skillet.

Southern style cornbread is not very sweet, its more earthy, relying on the very mild sweetness of the corn meal itself. City folks and big restaurant chins usually add sugar, or honey, or something, to sweeten it up considerably. I usually don't mind it though. This would be a good test of what statement Old Standard was trying to make. Was it going for a traditional plate or were they trying to impress the more upscale locals.

The slaw answered the question before I even had a bite of anything on my tongue.

This was not either of my  grandmas' coleslaw. Finely shredded cabbage swirls, a sprinkling of whole kernel corn and something curly and orange, not carrots, that firmness could not curl that tight. Peppers maybe? There was also no mayo in the mix. This was going to be a vinegar based offering. The stuff looked moist, but shiny, not creamy or milky.

I prefer the creamy kind. They were not traditionalists here. They were definitely fishing for a more

'sophisticated' palate. 

I went ahead and tried the slaw. Yup, vinegar. The little orange curls were more pickled. Pickled peppers? Who does that? I wouldn't be finishing it.

I had noticed when the food was served that though there was cornbread, there was no butter offered to fix it up properly. The server responded to my mention and returned to the table with a condiment-wrappered packet containing enough butter to grease a while pig. I needed about a teaspoon but was given ten times that.

She did show off the two unmarked squeeze bottles of house made sauce, one sauce white and creamy, the other the color of highway safety cones. She explained the white one, using the words 'honey', 'yogurt', then something else. I had stopped listening at 'yogurt' "It's great on the chicken." She claimed. I would taste it and see for myself, expectations, low. I knew what the bright orange stuff was, hot wing sauce. No thanks.

I scooped out some of the soft butter and split open the disappointingly cold cornbread wedge. Good thing the butter was soft because there certainly no BTU's left in the bread to melt it. Optimistically I tried it ahead of nearly everything else. I knew the chicken needed a minute to cool since I'd cracked open the crust on both pieces. Tightly sealed fried chicken holds in all that searing steam for a while.

Well, hell. Sweet. Too sweet, sweeter than Jiffy Muffin mix sweet. Almost dessert-sweet. No earthy, subtle cornmeal taste to be detected. Disappointing. 

Time for the real test. How badly was the breading overcooked?

It wasn't awful. There was a crispiness there, not quite the texture of old linoleum. Harder than the Colonel's, to be sure. It had a slight, but not over-powering burnt toast taste. I peeled off most of the breading and pushed it aside. 

The chicken thigh and leg meat was cooked perfectly. Still very moist, cooked through, but not too much. The outer shell had sealed in some seasoning, the pressure pot squeezed it into the meat. Not a strong or distinct seasoning, no single note rang out, but better than non-seasoned meat.

I finished all of the meat, a little of the breading, most of the too-sweet bread and barely any of the slaw.

Summary:

Ten dollars and thirty seven cents was the tally. I couldn't tell if they'd intended to charge separately for the tea, which was quite good, but all I saw was the amount on the bill. I fished fourteen dollars out of my dusty billfold and just handed it to the lady. I'd been there long enough, I was ready to hit the long road home, I didn't want to bother with another waiting period to process a card.

The servers were nice enough, I guess. They were pretty busy and appeared somewhat harried. They didn't chat or up-sell, nor did they even seem especially outgoing. They were not crass or insulting though. They got the order right, by that I mean the plate delivered was pretty close to the one ordered. The time lag was in the kitchen A tea refill offer came only after the pointlessly narrow glass was near empty, no other was ever offered. I felt no connection to the servers though. Between the guy and the lady I didn't get the impression that either of them were too concerned about a lone, middle aged guy at a two top.

The food was quite a bit less than I had hoped for. They were trying to upscale a fairly basic meal. I'm sure I was not their target demographic, they just weren't cooking for my tastes. There's nothing wrong with that. As I get older I notice lots and lots of things offered up that I'm just not the target for. Movies, TV shows, clothes, cars. . . It's not just food. I know there's a crowd hungry for what they offer, the place was really busy. They don't need my vote.

Back when I worked at that Big Beer company, the people I worked with would regularly line up for lunch at another, much larger and well regarded, chicken house. They loved it. They still invite me to tag along occasionally.

Big plates, lots of starchy sides, enough to nearly fill some of the biggest boys I worked with. The few times I went, I found the chicken to be unnecessarily greasy, generally lacking in flavor, the potatoes over-mashed and the veggies over-boiled. But they raved about it. 

I get it, different people like different things. I've taken a similar hit whenever I bring up St. Louis style pizza. I just don't get that either.

So my criticism about the food is based on a recognition that tastes are widely varied. I hope I've described it well enough for you to decide on your own whether you might like it or not.

I'm at a point where I enjoy tried and true old favorites, un-tweaked, simple, basic, rather than replaced by or jacked up with whatever is newer, trendier, more modern. . . Which also explains why I keep Angel around.

Munzert’s

10857 Business 21
Hillsboro, Mo.

The Place:

Munzert’s faces the afternoon sun. The door handle was hot to the touch, enough so that I almost let go of it rather than holding it open for my slow moving family. I suffered through it though.

The parking lot was only sparsely populated and as we entered I saw only one other couple in the dining area. To the left was the bar, a few people sitting quietly. Overhead a flat screen was showing an Olympic soccer match. I don’t know if you know about this sport, I thought it was a kids game, or rather an excuse to take your kid somewhere and let him run up and down a field until he tires out so you can then go home and take a quiet nap. Apparently though, some adults play the game as well, mostly overseas. I’m not sure why, the game is as about as interesting as watching kids run up and down a field to tire them out.

Maya

The sun would have been baking the interior of the joint had they not had dark Venetian mini-blinds closed tightly above the tables. So even though the sun was bright and hot, the interior of the place was quite dark.

We were seated at one of the windows in a booth. The hostess was sweet and polite, a waitress handed us menus.

I didn’t take long. I’d built up an appetite earlier in the day during a failed quest to find a simple, yet non-existent plumbing fixture, followed by an afternoon of defending an on-line political statement I’d made in frustration.

Angel had a full house of dogs, including three Great Danes and an adorable and lovable new client, Maya, a brindle Bull Terrier. Not a pit bull, Bull Terriers have an egg-shaped head and small triangular eyes. A Pit Bull, with its wide, square head is closer to a Staffordshire Terrier.

Overhead music played, 60’s stuff, Beatles, Motown, etc. I’m not a huge fan of 60’s music, though it is much more tolerable than country or anything contemporary currently playing on radio stations anywhere.

The selection process was quick and by the time the waitress served our drinks, tea, tea and Coke, we were ready to order. I jumped in first.

The Food:

A ten ounce New York strip and German fries for me. As for salad I picked the dinner version, with Thousand Island dressing.

Dinner salad

Angel, was hovering somewhere between a steak and the fried chicken, finally landing on the chicken. She opted for the Caesar salad, mashed potatoes and gravy. She said she’d prefer the German fries, but they didn’t come with gravy.

Adam picked the peppercorn strip steak, mashed potatoes and the Caesar salad.

As we waited for the salads we each played with our phones. Angel and Adam debated the strategies of a connect-the-dot game they’d been playing, I was just trying to get my phone to turn on.

The tea was cloudy and not exactly fresh, but it was wet and cold. The salads arrived in about the right amount of time.

Steak, German fries.

The salads looked fresh and bright, though mine was a bit skimpy on the tomato front. Two small tomato chunks, that’s all. Other than that it was quite good.

A few minutes, but only a few, passed between the salads and the main course. They did not deliver one course on top of the other as did Cracker Barrel a couple of weeks back. Bobby’s been in the restaurant business for several decades and knows better than to rush customers through.

The potatoes were served in small bowls on the larger plates. My steak, sizzling, with deep, dark grill marks was starting to let loose of it’s inner moisture, I didn’t want to waste that luscious stuff so I dumped my bowl of potatoes onto the plate.

German Fries are large chunks of skillet-fried potatoes with lots of onions. I’ve never had them anywhere else, but I absolutely love them. Even with soaking up the steak drippings they did not get mushy.

Chicken, mashed potatoes.

My knife glided trough the grilled pink meat just like a knife is supposed to. Take note Cracker Barrel, steak knives should be able to slice things, like, say for example, a steak. The first bites were heavenly, I had several before I even noticed the rolls.

Long, firm bread, still warm. The butter was in individually foil-wrapped tabs, frozen.

I don’t like frozen butter, warm rolls are never warm enough to melt an iceberg. Fix that will ya’ Bobby?

The family dived in to their meals. Angels’ first three pieces of chicken were quickly converted into a growing pile of bones, Adam’s steak disappeared rather quickly as well. Primal, grunting, animal noises and knives scrapping plates were the only sounds from our table for several minutes.

Peppercorn Steak

Angel stopped before the fourth and final piece of chicken, she surrendered. I  looked at my steak, three quarters gone and decided to stop as well. I had an idea for breakfast, thin slicing the remaining steak along with some fried chopped potatoes and scrambled eggs.

Adam all but finished his, saving the last few bites for the box.

We were stuffed, and we all laughed when the waitress offered us cheesecake or carrot cake.

Summary:

In the few times we’ve been to Munzert’s we’ve learned this much. Bobby makes an excellent steak as well as some fine fried chicken. We were not disappointed this time either. Except for the cloudy tea, and the too-few tomatoes and the frozen butter, that’s really all the criticism we could muster.

“Yum, good as always!” Angel noted

“Good, I knew it would be, I’ve had it before.” Adam added.
And there you have it, about as good a review as it gets. No surprises, no mysteries, just a fine, well-prepared and satisfying meal.

At just over fifty dollars, this is certainly not the cheapest meal in Hillsboro, but it may be the best.

Bobby Munzert’s

Hillsboro, MO

http://www.bobbymunzerts.com/

A rare Sunday dinner. We usually go out on Saturday, but couldn’t because of my ride-along with the Sheriff’s department. Angel pimped homeless doggies at Petsmart on Sunday and got home just in time to feed our own flock, clean up and head out with us. It was her week to choose. She said she did not want to experiment, she was too hungry. She wanted to go somewhere close that she knew she could get a good meal. That should tell you something about Munzert’s.   

The Place:

It hadn’t changed much since our last visit. The door opened into the center, smoking section on the left, second-hand smoking on the right. The low October sun shined into the doorway lighting up the haze inside. We were immediately greeted and seated in a booth under a large black and white poster of Audrey Hepburn. There’s lots of pictures of famous dead people in the restaurant. The booth behind us was under one of Marylyn Monroe, who was famous for dying famously. I hear she was found naked, by that I mean without clothing, an apparent suicide. I’ve never been able to figure that out, why so many women, especially famous women, get naked to kill themselves. I think I’d rather be wearing something loose, warm and comfortable, but that’s just me, I don’t exactly have a million-dollar body. I wonder if Mama Cass was found nude? (Actually she did NOT gag on a sandwich, she suffered a heart attack, but still. . .)

Anyway, the place was, as I said, a bit smoky. It was also about half full. There were a couple of TV sets fired up, noisily blasting a baseball game throughout the joint. Some sort of playoff I was able to determine, though I was soon able to ignore it completely.

  Once we were seated the hostess told us that our waitress would be with us shortly, so we casually scanned the menu. The waitress brought us our drinks, tea, sweet tea and Coke/Pepsi, as before served in heavy, stemmed glasses. We decided on an appetizer, teriyaki wings, and placed our order. I decided to have a bacon cheeseburger, and German fries. Angel asked for the fried chicken special with mashed potatoes and green beans, the meal also came with a salad, Angel asked for the Caesar.  Adam opted for the bacon-ranch chicken sandwich and steak fries.  

The waitress was rather busy, busing, taking orders, delivering orders at all the tables in the room. She was the only waitress we saw in the area the whole time we were there.

I sat and stared at the thin rolling haze, illuminated by the sunlight, which also highlighted a thick area of dusty footprints in the entry. This was probably dust from the huge construction site across the road. There’s a very large shopping center going up, construction has been underway since spring. We know the town’s premier department store, Dollar General, is moving and expanding to the new center, we’re not sure what else is planned, though we are genuinely excited about a bigger Dollar General.

The Food:

The appetizer arrived, chicken wings, breaded, fried, then coated with dark, sweet caramelized teriyaki sauce. I don’t usually order wings, except at Hooters. Not that theirs are any good at all, they’re not, it’s just that they are served by young, scantily clad, flirtatious women with prominent breasts. How can you NOT like that?

These were not hot-wings though. Instead they were almost, but not quite sweet, the sauce had been cooked on and the effect was a marvelous crunch on the outside, and tender and moist meat on the inside. They were also quite messy, which, like at Hooter’s is part of the fun. I had two, Angel three, Adam two or three. This left a couple that we would eventually box up and take home.

Angel’s salad arrived, with a roll that she didn’t really want. Adam and I both turned it down as well since we were getting sandwiches. The roll went into the wing-basket. Angel’s salad was small, saucer sized, which for us is optimal. Enough to sate an urgent hunger, but not enough to fill anyone up.

Service was not quick, due primarily to the one-person floor staff being so busy running from table to table. But even with that the wait was not extreme, the main event soon arrived.

Bacon Cheeseburger with German fries

Bobby’s burgers are great. He uses Grade A Angus beef. Angus is a breed of cattle, not a specific body part, so please, no childish jokes about the word ‘Angus’. The Angus breed was created in Scotland in the early 1800’s and remains highly favored because it is naturally polled (which means hornless. Horny cattle can easily and stupidly, savagely injure each other, which is not profitable, so less-horny cattle are more desirable to many ranchers.) They are either solid black or red (the cattle, not the ranchers), with the black being preferred in the U.S.. I don’t know exactly why American’s prefer the black, that seems historically contradictory, but the only other option was red, and history doesn’t exactly show an American affinity for that flesh-tone either.

All I know is this, Angus is mighty tasty. Bobby’s Angus seems leaner than most places that prefer an 80/20 lean/fat ratio. But the meat was thick, tasty, tender and perfectly cooked. I piled onions, lettuce, pickles and tomato on mine. No ketchup or mustard, it just didn’t need any. The German fries are a new favorite of mine. 1/8 inch thin slices of actual potatoes, pan fried to crispness alongside a pile of onions. When served the chopped onion is almost cremated, caramelized and smoky. The potatoes are perfectly crunchy on the outside . . .

Angel’s chicken was cut just like that I had at Kim’s a few weeks back. Four pieces, leg, thigh, breast and head….. Just kidding! It was a leg, thigh, breast and wing. Lightly breaded, very, very hot. Among us, there was not a thing we didn’t love. Angel was absolutely correct in her prediction, Munzert’s always serves good food.

Summary:

The bill came to thirty seven dollars, less than I had expected. In fact it was a pretty good price for so much food. So much food that none of us finished. All three of us requested a box. I had half a burger left and a third of my German fries, Angel still had a large, untouched breast (I was going to put something really funny here, but decided against it.) and half a thigh. Adam was about halfway through his sandwich and fries as well, though he only boxed the sandwich, something about thick steak fries going limp when microwaved. The waitress had offered dessert, which we once again had to turn down.

Other than the light staffing, I have nothing at all negative at all to say about the meal. It was all properly prepared, tasty, and generous. The waitress was friendly and professional, no mistakes.

There’s a reason Angel chose this place when she wanted a certain excellent meal, Munzert’s delivers.

Kim's Cafe

DeSoto, Mo

In celebration of TWO YEARS of Eat and Critique (nearly 100 posts!) , Please stick around for a  special guest-post at the end of this review!

Facebook, the ever-changing social media tool that everyone loves to use and complain about, delivered an upsetting message to my ‘wall’

“Kim posted on your Wall:

"Hello to my favorite critic! Just wanted to let you know that I have put the cafe up for sale. Hope to see you and your family one more time before it sells."

I haven’t learned the reason for Kim’s selling the place, but I certainly am aware of the millions of reasons that any sane person would want to get out of the business.

A while back I read Anthony Bourdain’s book “Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly” and while the book was about upscale Big City restaurants rather than diners in DeSoto Mo., the pains and pitfalls of running an eatery are pretty much universal. That a single-owner or family-owned restaurant can survive very long anywhere is pretty remarkable. Customers are incredibly fickle, food prices surge, hours are always long, and profit margins are threadbare. Fast food franchises often offer cheaper meals, though not as fresh and varied, but especially in value-demanding times and places the bottom line reigns supreme.

I do know that Kim works incredibly long hours on her feet, in a hot and quite dangerous environment, hot stoves, knives, raw meat, cramped spaces.

A restaurant/café/diner is about the last place I would want to invest in or operate, though I love them and greatly respect and admire those that manage to make a go of it.

As it turned out, Adam and I were going to be alone this weekend and when left alone to put our heads together are lousy at making decisions. Angel is our family's rudder, though she would never admit to it. What we didn’t want to do was to try some new place without her, so a repeat was called for. Kim’s announcement made the choice obvious.

I replied back to the FB comment indicating that Adam and I would be there on Saturday. She answered back: “Sounds great. All u can eat fried chicken on saturdays.”

That made it especially easy, I’d never tried her fried chicken.

The Place:

Main street, DeSoto, next to a recently closed bank, in a strip mall that is only about half occupied. I was driving my newer little car as Angel had taken the family truckster to Iowa to attend an annual seminar for E-collar dog trainers. She’d left us with only four rather sedate dogs, all ours, to tend to. Adam had them walked and fed by the time I got up from my mandatory nap and was ready to go. “I get to ride in your new car!” he exclaimed.

“Whoop-dee-doo” I replied, underwhelmed. Not that there’s anything specifically wrong with the little Chevy, it did a fine job of getting me to and from work in its first week of ownership. It’s just not an impressive vehicle. When people at work ask me what I got, the reaction after I tell them is generally; “Oh.”

The unimpressive car at Kim's

It has a four cylinder engine that I am still trying to get used to. It sounds different, and of course has less raw horsepower than my past few vehicles, all which sported six cylinders. As we left the driveway and took on the back roads that lead to highway 21, it seemed as though the little machine was begging, pleading its way up the rolling hills.

On 21 the road flattened out. Unlike the slave-to-indigenous-terrain farm roads, the steeper hills on 21 had been professionally flattened out, crushed, blasted away. There are still hills but the road was cut to scrape them down to longer, less severe obstacles. On this road, as well as I-270, where I spend the vast majority of my driving time, the little car doesn’t even break a sweat, cruising along quietly and easily. The car was picked out for precisely this type of mileage, not to sate my inherent, flash-and-roar machismo.

We turned into the lot, parked right in front of the door, got out, groaned, then got back into the car. A sign on Kim’s door announced that their card reader was inoperable, cash only. I don’t carry much cash, ten or twenty dollars is about the most a mugger would ever get out of me. I have been assimilated by the plastic-Borg and live off my ATM card. The closed bank in the parking lot used to be my own bank which would have been convenient. As it was though we had to drive a half mile further to the town’s one remaining branch. I could have used the machine at another brand of bank but there’s always a fee involved and I’m a renowned cheapskate.

We got the cash and returned. We were the only customers.

We sat at our usual booth and were greeted by a young and charming blonde lady. She offered menus and asked about drinks. Adam looked at me and grinned. I mildly panicked. There’s a hand written sign on the tea dispenser that reads “Fresh brewed tea.” Kim and I have gone back and forth on this very issue before as I have regularly reported that her tea was woefully bland or at best, unremarkable. I’d even avoided ordering it the last couple of visits so as to not find fault with it. But on this day I’d already had a soda (or ‘pop’ for you unsophisticated southerners) earlier in the day and was still sugared up and bloated from it. I took a chance, threw caution and better judgment to the wind and went with the tea. “Ooooo.” Remarked Adam. The little blonde looked confused. “Can I get lemon with that?” I asked. “Sure.” She answered. I mentally crossed my fingers.

The menu was familiar with a couple of exceptions, a few options were crossed out, most notably the ribs, which Angel had once thoroughly enjoyed.

She brought the drinks, Adam had chosen Pepsi. The tea looked different, it was surprisingly clear and bright. I dunked the sizable lemon slice and took a sip. Remarkably it wasn’t at all bad. (still a little weak though, sorry Kim)

The Food:

My mind was already made up. “The all-you-can-eat chicken, please.” I announced. “Okay, but that’ll take about twenty-five minutes.” She answered.

“Twenty-five minutes?” I barked rudely.

“We make it fresh to order, we don’t cook it ahead of time to dry out under a heat lamp.” She explained. Color me impressed. Take that KFC!

I assumed Adam was going to get the same thing, he didn’t. He’s always throwing me a curveball. He instead ordered the chicken strips. I conceded to the default sides, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans and a biscuit. His was ordered with fries (crinkly) and macaroni and cheese, it also came with toast.

I looked at my watch, he pulled out his phone gadget. I marked the time, he started browsing or playing a game or whatever it is that young men do with their fancy mobile telephones these days. A thought occurred to me while his face was buried in the tiny screen. I got up, went to the car and retrieved my book, a real book, not one of those fake electronic books. (I own an E-book but I’m having trouble adjusting to it. I’m definitely perched on the brink of fogey-ism.)

We sat quietly, not talking, engaged and immersed into our individual amusements. I was briefly taken from the pleasant DeSoto diner to the ugly desert in the Middle East, following young, arrogant and thuggish Brits from ‘the Regiment’ into the dangerous and clandestine infiltration of a remote WMD factory. The time passed quickly, the lads had barely started amassing a decent day’s body count when our food arrived. We dropped our devices and absorbed the sizzling aroma.

All-you-can-eat.

‘All you can eat’ would be more appropriately called “More than a normal guy could possibly eat in one sitting.” A drumstick, thigh, an enormous breast and a wing, expertly lightly breaded and golden brown filled the plate, nudging out the small bowl of gravy-laden mashed potatoes and the bowl of slow cooked green beans. I estimated about twenty pounds of food, expanding to thirty if I actually ate it all. I realized that my desires and eyes were much bigger than my handsome tummy. Just looking at it made me feel full.

I pulled the skin off the thick end of the drumstick. Steam poured out of the fried-flour casement. My fingers seared quickly and I dropped it back on the plate. Adam giggled. “Hot?” he joked. “The lava flow from Mount Pinatubo was hot, this is an entirely new level of temperature extreme!” I answered, dunking my oily, reddened fingers into the icy tea. He laughed because I was in severe pain. I was exaggerating only a little though, I should have paid more heed to the sizzle.

I used my fork to break open the drumstick and the thigh in several places to cool. I let the wing and enormous breast continue to bask in their own internal infernos. I buttered (margarine-d) my thick biscuit and took a tour of the sides. The gravy was thick, white and deliciously infested with chunks of real pork sausage. The potatoes were thick and piled high. The green beans had obviously been simmered low and slow alongside some pork fat, just like grandma used to lovingly clog our young arteries with. I enjoyed thoroughly, but cautiously. There was a lot of chicken to plow through.

Chicken Strips

Adam’s strips were similarly perfectly cooked and he tore into them with the gusto of a young man having a tasty, casual meal. The strips were breaded and fried in the same manner as my chicken, actual chicken slabs, not reprocessed bits, pieces, odds and ends.  Our drinks were dutifully refreshed, I made it sloppily through the leg and thigh, clawing my way up the luscious chicken one limb at a time, enjoying every finger-sucking, moist and tender bite, every crunch of golden brown skin. I skipped over the enormous breast, it was too enormous. It was the kind of enormous breast that can completely intimidate a short, timid, middle aged man with modest appetites and full awareness of his own limitations. This breast was about the size of a catcher's mitt, definitely more than a handful, certainly larger than I'd ever had laid out before me. Perhaps it just appeared enormous, cut or deliberately dressed to visually entice. Flustered and intimidated, I eventually skipped ahead and disassembled the wing instead. I was filling up fast.

“Would you like us to start making you some more?” asked the blonde. I had forgotten that I could have all I could eat, she wasn’t aware that I was already well-past that point. “No thanks, this’ll be just about enough.” I kindly understated, barely suppressing a heavy, lumpy belch. I could barely imagine any standard human being able to take on more than one serving of this large, but tasty feast. Adam was no help, he’d surrendered in his battle with an entire strip remaining. We sat back for a moment groaning and swelling.

Summary:

There was absolutely nothing bad or wanting about this meal. Kim’s crew can sure cook the standards. The chicken was about as good as any fried chicken I’ve had in this life, much better than that served by the much-celebrated Hodak's in St. Louis (Where chicken lovers come to roost!). Home-style, tender, juicy, crunchy. Not heavily seasoned, they let the chicken itself do the talking. (Of course I am aware that chickens don't really talk, especially those that are dead and have been chopped up and deep-fried. I'm speaking metaphorically.) The bill came to twenty seven dollars and change, only that high because they wisely hedge their bets for any ‘all-you-can-eat’ offering.

I’m truly sorry that Kim’s selling the place. I can’t imagine it will be any better under new ownership. Kim cares, Kim cares a lot. Her food is always good, she stresses over the details and always maintains high quality at a low price. I will miss her. She’s a sweet, hard-working and pleasant person, a patient and generous hostess and an awesome cook, with the most enormous breasts I’ve ever seen.

Here's to you Kim, may love, fortune and joy follow you down whatever path you take!

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Guest Post!

A tangent from a larger blog post by my dear friend, Annette. See the entire story at her blog site:  http://annettecrey.wordpress.com

A Licking Meal

Eaten by Annette Rey

On a rainy day inside a building made of pine over 100 years old, I ate an unusual meal. Licking, a rural town in Texas County, Missouri, held their 'Licking Mill Festival' on Saturday, September 17, 2011. The event was not your run-of-the-mill (so to speak) festival.

It offered unique entertainment to the area and other refreshingly different offerings. Instead of the usual and boring hamburger or hot dog fare, I was treated to a bowl of ham and beans; sweet, warm, juicy and cooked to perfection. Inserted into the bowl were as many long, darkest green, crispest green onions I wanted and I have ever eaten – picked fresh that day from the vendor’s gardens! The meal came with a square of corn bread – no, not Jiffy Mix (I know that is the favorite of some people). This bread was probably made without sugar as it slightly resembled corn pone, but was not hard. It was tender, crumbled a bit and was whitish in color. Included with the meal was a “dessert” – a choice of an individually wrapped Twinkie or a Hostess Cupcake (I chose the chocolate) and the drink – coffee or hot chocolate – again, I chose the chocolate.

The meal was filling, tasty – loved those onions. It was enjoyable, too, because it was a nice surprise – like I said, not the average offering of hamburger/hot dog.

And now the best part – all of that, drink, dessert and all, cost me a meager $4.00.

Despite the rain, it was a great day! Visit Licking for some of their future events and experience something new in a pleasant, unassuming small town. 

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Country Café

2561 U.S. 67
Festus, MO
This place came recommended from a couple of different people. I like these people, so I won’t mention their names here. One of them, I’ll call her Ann, said this was her husband’s favorite place, but added that it could be because it is a favorite among ROMEO’s. She explained this to mean ‘Retired Old Men Eating Out’. I looked up the place, it did not have a web site but there was a map. This was good since it is not actually in Festus, but several miles south, a direction I don’t travel often. I took note of the hours of operation. It is only open for dinner (till 8 PM) on Fridays and Saturdays, otherwise it closes at 3 PM. It’s a breakfast-lunch place primarily.
The Journey:
As we left Angel asked me if I knew where it was, I said yes, and repeated the address. She then asked me several questions about whether it was north or south of this or that, which I did not know, so I just repeated the address. “Have you ever been there?” she asked in apparent and inexplicable frustration. “I’ve been by it, I’m sure.” I answered, but it did not seem to relax her mood any. “But you don’t know where it is?” she repeated, I, once again gave her the address. She sighed and got in the car.
She then uncoiled the power cord from around ‘mommy’s little helper’.
Since she drives around a lot and has dog duties all over the area, a couple years ago we got her a GPS device for the car. I don’t have one since I don’t go to many new places, and I still prefer the old fashioned way, printing out directions from Mapquest.
She had Adam program in the address as she headed out, I couldn’t even find the ‘on’ button. He programmed in the name of the café, and it knew exactly where to go. She clipped it into the Tom-Tom bracket on her dash and gave it a look. “Oh, Okay, I’ve got it.” She said. I stared at the display. It showed a car, ours I assumed, traveling down a road. It indicated we had 2.5 miles to go before a turn. A curve appeared ahead on the display, and sure enough I looked out the windshield and there was a curve. New roads popped up on the display just about the time we passed the intersections in real life. I was glad to not have one of these as my focus was on the device, not the road ahead. Eventually a thin, gravely voice said to turn left in one-half mile. Had I been driving, and focusing on the display, I would have plowed us into a concrete barrier. The countdown to the turn was off by about thirty feet. This didn’t seem to bother Angel though, she relied on reality, not technology, she’s such a girl that way. I was conjuring up a hefty lawsuit, she’s looking out the window.
Tom-Tom got us there without incident, though it didn’t seem to know how to get us into the parking lot. Once again Angel figured it out by herself, by looking out the windshield. “How come it only shows our car?” I asked, staring at the display. Adam sighed, Angel ignored me.

The Place:
A small strip mall, sharing the building with a gun store, across the busy highway from a large mobile home sales lot. The parking lot was half full though inside did not look overly busy. The door displayed a sign proudly and brightly proclaiming “We wash our lemons!” I was relieved. That kind of detail indicated a high level of concern for health and hygiene. That or maybe it was the result of a lawsuit or code violation. As we entered we were all immediately struck by the fact that except for one pre-teen child, we were about the youngest people in the place. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, just an observation. Another sign told us to seat ourselves, which we did, directly across from the cash register. Cheap black tables and chairs stood on cream-colored ceramic tiles. The walls were painted an olive green which shifted to a Dijon-mustard brownish yellow near the compact fluorescent lights. All the lights in the place were CFL’s, every one of them. I’d not seen that before. My chair faced the glass cabinet full of tall meringue’d pies. Behind the register arose a sweet, sickly stink, scented candles. A shelf held thirty or forty sealed in mason jars and according to a small hand-calligraphed sign, available for purchase. For a mere sixteen dollars and fifty cents, you too can make your own house smell like a Mayberry-RFD brothel.
A middle aged man in jeans and sneakers arrived with menus and took our drink order. Angel and Adam messed with me, Adam ordered a sweet tea and Angel a Diet Coke. I had to scratch out my forecast from my little notebook.
The Food:
We scanned the menus, typical country diner fare with a little shrimp thrown in for a cosmopolitan twist. Somewhere on the net I’d read someone’s comment “Best Fried Chicken in Jefferson County!” A claim like that demands testing. I was happy to hear that Angel wanted the chicken, I wasn’t really in the mood. As we waited the gentleman brought out our drinks and a basket of warm, puffy rolls. Also in the basket were rock-hard frozen condiment tubs of ‘butter’ and a slightly larger tub of what looked like apple butter. Nice touch.
I ordered the roast beef with brown gravy, green beans and coleslaw. After the past couple of weeks' experiences with slaw I wanted to see if everyone had forgotten how to make it. Angel asked for the fried half-chicken. Adam asked what that meant, I explained to him that it was a half of a chicken, either the front or the back, though a choice is seldom offered. Angel swiftly corrected me, once again sucking all the fun out of the room. She added corn and mashed potatoes to her order. I was glad since I wanted mashed potatoes as well, but when I said it, it came out ‘green beans’. Adam asked for the chicken BLT, without the T, and fries.
The wait for the food was quite long. The place was busy and getting busier, and our server seemed to be stretched pretty thin. Food was moving around, but there were just a lot of people.
We were well into our second basket of rolls and a second drink refill before the food arrived. It looked just like it should. The chicken looked crispy and golden brown, the thin slices of roast beef peeked out from under the steamy brown gravy. Adam’s looked exactly like a sandwich.
I almost gagged with my first bite of slaw, not from what I’d just put in my mouth, but from the memory of that nasty blue cheese slaw at Ruby T’s a few weeks back. I chewed it up, recovering, and realized I’d forgotten to actually taste it. So I took a second bite and lo and behold, I could barely tell I had anything in my mouth. It looked crisp and creamy, fresh, but there was only the slightest hint of a taste at all. At least it wasn’t disgusting.
The beef was thinly sliced and a bit tough. The gravy was okay, but not remarkable. The green beans were not like canned green beans at all. I say that to try to put a positive spin on it. The texture was okay, maybe a little limp, but there was virtually no taste whatsoever. Typically cooked with bacon or bacon fat, green beans by themselves, unseasoned and unsalted taste like, well like they have no taste at all. I asked Angel to confirm. She took a bite and screwed up her face. “There’s no taste!”
I then uttered a phrase that no one in my precious family, including myself, the grand patriarch, could remember ever coming out of my mouth. “Please pass the salt.” Angel did, Adam stared. I panicked. (Why is there a ‘k’ in ‘panicked?’*) I don’t add salt to food at the table, ever. I realized I had no idea how much to apply to the beans. I started with a little, it didn’t seem to make much difference. I tried more, still not much better. Then I just pushed them aside, I’d wanted mashed potatoes anyhow.
Angel offered up some chicken, the crispy bits were indeed crispy. I analyzed the taste and determined that the batter was strictly flour and water, maybe milk, but other than that, not extremely flavorful. She added that the potatoes were also somewhat tasteless.
A pattern was developing. The food was plentiful, cooked to proper doneness, but otherwise bland and lifeless. Really bland. We discussed this and compared that information with the fact that this place was jumpin’ with patrons. They were talking, laughing and chowing down like this was their first meal in a week. All the other patrons, all the elderly patrons were enjoying themselves thoroughly. This place had been highly recommended by two different people. Two different people that happen to be in their 70’s. Oh.
Disclaimer:
I’ve been struggling with this bit. I have lots of friends that are very senior to my not-so-young age. There are generational differences, there are stereotypes, that I simply cannot avoid mentioning. Some people, especially those, it seems to me, that are twenty or more years older than myself, seem to like food that is what some of us young-uns might consider flat, bland and tasteless. There’s nothing wrong with that. Some of these seasoned citizens lived through that depression thing, and rationed during whatever war that it was when they rationed things. (I think the North won.) So maybe spices and condiments like pepper and salt were simply foreign to them, or at least an unnecessary luxury. I don’t know, it’s just a difference in culture, generation, region and/or taste. It’s not a bad thing. They did raise the rest of us though, and a dammed fine job they did. They built factories, schools, and highways and invented the wheel, and beer. We owe them a great debt of gratitude. The fact that generationally we prefer different flavors means nothing bad toward them, or us. It just is what it is. It doesn’t explain that thing about eating dinner at four P.M. and being in bed before sunset, but that’s for another day. (Caves and wigwams didn’t have those new-fangled electric lights)
Summary:
It’s a fine place, very popular, and highly praised. I cannot say anything bad about it except that we really didn’t care for the food that much. It wasn’t bad, foul or nasty, it just lacked depth, soul and flavor. The price was good, our tab came in at under thirty two dollars, and there was a lot of food, so much so that neither angel nor I managed to finish our meals. (Yeah, there was too much food, that was the problem.)
If you like your food a bit on the tame side and the nursing home cafeteria isn’t open, then by all means try this place. You might figure out that I’m really just a pretentious, picky blowhard of a young whippersnapper that should just get off your lawn and mind his own P’s and Q’s.
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* Panicked. The spell checker flagged my attempt at leaving out the ‘k’. I didn’t think it was necessary. I tried past-tensing ‘picnic’ next, to prove a point. It also gets a ‘k’. What’s up with this stupid language anyhow?