Hardee's Pork Chop Biscuit

10610 Old Highway 21
Hillsboro, Mo

I know, I know,  I said I was going to stop reviewing fast food places.
This was all Angel's idea, blame her.
In our weekly county paper we received the usual pile of glossy printed ads. The one for Hardee's caught my true love's eye.
Pork chop. . . Mmmm, pork chop.
She mentioned it to me on Thursday evening, then again on Friday. So as soon as I was up on Saturday I slipped into some sort of pants and shirt and then slid my feet into my old, comfy Crocs.
I made the five or six mile drive to town, then nosed the VW into the drive thru lane. I had my order in my head. So when the metal box addressed me I yelled it out.
Two Grilled Pork Chop Biscuit with Egg and Cheese, two Mile High Bacon Egg and Cheese Biscuits, two medium Tater Rounds, and two medium coffees.
There was no one in front of me so I drove right up to the window. In only a couple of minutes the window opened and coffees were passed through. I returned the favor by letting the young lady hold my debit card for a moment. By the time she was done with it, someone handed her a steaming bag.
Boy, that was quick.
The drive home was uneventful.

Mile High Bacon Egg and Cheese

Angel had just come in from tending to some of the boarders (dogs, not humans) She seemed happy to see me and was very pleased that I'd brought her some coffee. She usually doesn't get around to making her coffee until she's rotated all the dogs out at least once.
"What's with  the other biscuits?" She asked about the two mile highs.
"Just in case." I replied.
We each took our fair share and sat back in our recliners. Not much was said.
My own impressions were fairy positive. This was not mushed and reformulated meat, this seemed to be an actual, thin sliced, boneless pork chop. The flavor and texture were both there.
Angel said hers was good as well, but with some reservations. "I'm not much of a biscuit person."
I immediately called the most vicious attorney I could find and insisted we immediately file for a divorce, without prejudice, with the demand to leave her penniless and lonely for the rest of her natural life. Not a biscuit person? If I'd known that all those years ago. . .
Bottom line, she liked the pork chop part of it because it tasted like a pork chop.  I thought it was a pretty good breakfast sandwich, because I am a biscuit person.
So yeah, we can recommend it. It was much better than that Bologna and Velveeta thing Hardees offered a few months back. . .
Bonus, this time I didn't get sick!

Fountain City Grille

302 N. Main
DeSoto, Mo
On the interwebs
Facebook

Joining us this week was Adam's friend, Anthony, whom I call 'Larry' for no particular reason. He stayed with us for a couple of weeks a few months ago. A nice, quiet young man, a lot like Adam that way. This time the stay will likely be longer. He's packed up his belongings and left Tennessee in his rear view mirror. He'll be looking for gainful employment here and once he and Adam save a little and have steady incomes, they plan to find a place of their own.
They get along well and aren't trouble makers, so it is no real inconvenience. We'll throw some chores at them, they've already moved some furniture around for us.
How this will affect future staffing at Eat and Critique HQ, we're not real sure.
I'd been able to find out some of the foods he does and doesn't like, so I picked a place that I knew he could find something he would eat. We're used to that, Adam is a pretty picky eater as well.
The Place:

It had moved since we last visited. There was some sort of difficulty between FCG and the old Arlington Inn where they used to be. They worked most of the first half of this year setting up new digs on Main Street, just a few blocks away.
I love Main Street. This town has done an admirable job of maintaining it. It still has several blocks of old style brick buildings, most of them occupied. The street itself is nestled between the railroad tracks and a steep hill with winding streets and many, many old houses and churches. Charming, is the best way to describe it. The town's nick name is 'The Fountain City' due to a large amount of the unique water dribblers spread out all around the neighborhoods, none of which I've ever actually seen.
In the Arlington, FCG had a strict black and white motif, one they brought with them to the new location. It took us a while to get there though. As we entered town we noticed that Main Street had been blocked off with orange cones. There were no signs indicating why they were doing this. We had to drive around on back streets and alleys to get to a parking spot within a few blocks. I assumed that a rail car had exploded and was spewing toxic gases and sparking epic explosions. No such luck though, all was quiet on the street.
I asked our server about it. She replied that there was some sort of breast awareness walk or run going on. I wish I'd known that earlier, I'm pretty breast-aware already, but breasts are something I like to support as often as possible, hands-on.*
We walked in and noticed the very attractive, yet comfortable black and white. They'd done a very, very good job of decorating. They even brought the poster-sized black and white photos of many of the city's fountains.
The tables and chairs were also simple, painted black. Only the oak stained wood floor did not carry the binary color scheme.
We were told to sit anywhere, it was early in the dinner service day, only a couple of other tables were occupied. Across the room from us was a bit of artwork depicting a tuxedo'd man playing a grand piano. I liked the jazzy theme.

In the back was a long serving bar with stools. This was not a drinking bar, I'd observed on a preview of the menu that they only served four kinds of beer. So there were no colorful bottles of brandy, whiskey or Scotch on display. I didn't mind, I don't drink and dine. Above the bar were two TV's one loudly blasting a college football game, the other, a nearly muted 'Ghost Hunters' episode.
We settled in and pretty soon a red-headed spark plug named Jessica brought menus and a big, welcoming smile. She asked about drinks and since I'd previewed the menu, I ordered. "I'd like some of your fresh brewed Ice tea, un-sweet, please."  She laughed, Angel blushed. "She knows what I'm talking about." I scolded and pointed out that right there on the front of the menu, under 'Beverages', it clearly stated 'Fresh Brewed Tea.' A challenge, accepted. If you are going to say 'fresh brewed' you better mean it. I know ice tea.
When she came back Angel ordered the requisite appetizer, the regionally ubiquitous Toasted Ravioli. We asked Larry if he'd ever had it before, we were ready to teach him a thing or two about local cuisine. "Yes, I have." He answered, which pretty much shut down that conversation. He joined the family tradition of pulling out his own e-device, latching on to an open WiFi connection. I was doing research, they were just playing games, I think.
The Food:
Jessica took our order, with flair and aplomb. When Angel spat out her choice, Seafood Fettuccine,  I vented. "That's what I was going to order!"
Jessica jumped in. "We can handle more than one order of it, we're quite good." She quipped. To spite her I ordered the grilled pork chop. She seemed impressed.
"Did that impress you, the way I chose the pork chop?" I said.
"It's a good choice."  She answered. I could have let it go at that, but that's just what she wanted me to do.
"Oh, I see, pork chops are a good choice, could you point out the bad choices available?"
She only paused a second. "Everything here is very good." she replied, weaseling out of our debate.
"Good answer." I relented.
For a side I asked for the green beans. No potato, I didn't feel like bulking up. Both Angel and I added a house salad topped with another St. Louis traditional, Mayfair dressing.
This dressing was first created at the very upscale Mayfair Hotel in 1935. It contains, traditionally, anchovies, champagne, a whole egg and oil base with garlic, mustard or horseradish, celery, peppercorn and onion. It is thick, like Ranch or Thousand Island, just not as sweet. More like a 'Cream of Caesar' dressing.
She marched off and tended other tables, it was starting to fill up.

We dug into the ravioli, which was served the same time as a basket of soft, pale rolls. I saved mine for the entree round.
Toasted Ravioli can go either way. At many bars they take a bag of frozen rav's and bread and fry them then serve  them up with some canned pasta sauce, or at least that's the impression you get. A few places go out of their way to make sure they are fresh, cooked right and served with a tasty house-made sauce. I'd say these little demons were the latter. Everyone, including Larry, agreed. As far as toasted ravioli goes, these were pretty good. They were gone pretty quickly. Our salads were served about the same time. Small, simple, but very pretty.
Greens, a couple of small croutons, a couple of purple onion rings topped with a thick, creamy sauce. Underneath the dressingI found some diced tomato and some cheese shreds.
I had to cut up some of the greens and the onions, but it was small, so not a big problem. It was all fresh. We could instantly tell that this dressing was made with anchovies. A good job of it though, not too fishy, just distinct. There was a little too much dressing for the modest amount of salad. The last few bites were mostly dressing, the thick stuff was rather clingy. The taste was excellent, just a bit too much of it.The entrees arrived after just a while. Very, very pretty plates.I won't rate 'plating' as important as taste, but it certainly has a role. I notice it when it is done well.
My pork chop presentation impressed me. A glaze-y dark brown sauce had been drizzled over the chop and extended to an artsy pattern on the plate. The green beans were still firm, just starting to soften up. The chop was about a half inch thick, thicker than those you find at a common grocery store. A problem with pork is that it has to be cooked through. That means it can easily be very dry. The thickness would help, but only if it wasn't overcooked. It's almost impossible to make a thin chop that isn't dry as a retread, but that's what they invented gravy for.
The sauce I knew to be balsamic based, also risky. Too much balsamic can be very vinegary. This was not, it had been sweetened up a bit and some had caramelized onto the pork. The chop was perfectly cooked, not at all dry. It cut easily and tasted marvelous. I don't eat pork chops often in restaurants, but this was about the best I'd had anywhere. I ate the whole thing. All of the beans too, perfect.
Angel's pasta dish was described as containing shrimp, which was obvious, crab and lobster bits, less obvious. It came with two big slabs of toasted, buttery bread, which made my roll seem. . . pale in comparison. I'm not sure I get serving bread with pasta dishes though. Pasta is flour and water, so is bread. That's a lot of starch, a lot of delicious starch on one plate. I dipped my roll into the sauce, it too was sea-foody, probably made with a shrimp stock, very tasty. Though she finished it completely, Angel said it was starting to get a little salty near the end.
Adam had ordered grilled chicken and garlic mashed potatoes. He too , ate it all. He mentioned that it was good, but a little shallow in the depth department, a sauce of some kind would have been nice. As you can see in the photo, it does look a bit Spartan. He added that the chicken was  well seasoned, but maybe with a little more salt than he likes.
Larry was well spoken about his order, a bacon cheeseburger made to his specifications, without anything other than bacon, cheese and burger, no veggies please.

He was quite happy with the burger. It was thin, smashed with a spatula and had dark edges. He said it was well seasoned and he really liked the crispy edges. I noticed he didn't finish his fries though. He seemed reluctant to explain why. "They were a little over-salted." he said, almost embarrassed to say it.
While we were finishing up, I watched as a sharply dressed, middle aged couple casually set up microphones, cords, instrument stands and bongos. . . yes, bongos, the tall ones. I asked Jessica about this. "Sugar Moon" She replied, which I took as a compliment. Then she explained
that they were a jazz duet that went by that name.
It was a quarter until six P.M. as I signed the check, the posted start time for the show. We had to get back to the dogs though, so, somewhat disappointingly, we left before they even started warming up.

Summary:
The criticisms I have pointed out are barely significant. It's like scolding your A+ kid for the 99% on their test paper instead of 100%. The 'saltiness' and the 'too much dressing' observations were not egregious errors, more of a personal preference thing. Long time fans will recognize that I often complain about saltiness and I've pointed out on many occasions that I may be overly sensitive about the mineral. I just don't use much salt myself. I've known many people who enjoy a higher level of the stuff. My old friend 'Wings' (his real last name was one of those Germanic tongue twisters, common in this area.) used to sit down to a plate of salty french fries and shake another half pound of table salt on them before he even tasted one. Lot's wife contained less salt than the amount he sprinkled on his food each meal. So it very well could just be us.
Jessica was a pleasure to have serve us. Witty, personable, pretty quick with the refills and not at all bothersome. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Everything we had was served exactly as ordered and sure enough, the tea, both the original pour and the refills were fresh brewed, dark and tasty.
On the way out we were greeted by Chef Tremayne. A proud and friendly man dressed in crisp kitchen whites. We complimented him on his food and the restaurant itself, he beamed. This man works hard and cares about the restaurant and the food. I could tell that from the confidence on his face and the tight grip of his handshake. The bill came in at a very reasonable sixty seven bucks, that's for four full meals and an appetizer. I tipped Jessica a bit more than is my usual, she certainly earned it.
I can see going back fairly regularly, the food is simple but very well made, the service is friendly and efficient and maybe next time there won't be a football game on and maybe we can stay for some live music.

* I am aware that lots of people are walking and running to raise awareness of and money for, breast cancer. I too have immediate family members that have had or will have breast and other cancers. I am not making light of the cause, I'm just here to entertain, while I still can.

Cerulean Springs Market and Restaurant

21 Main Street

Cerulean Ky.

Cerulean Springs is the old name for this small, very small village in west Kentucky. It is the second largest town in Trigg County, which is still quite small.

Cerulean, by definition a soft shade of blue, had a mineral spring once, back at the earliest years of the twentieth century. Above the smelly, heavy pool of mineral rich ground water a hotel of regional notoriety was constructed. During the decade or so long heyday, which roughly coincided with the bigger, better known spas in Battle Creek Michigan, among others, people flocked to such healing springs for relief from every ailment imaginable.

Mom and Dad's house.

Though such pools and streams were not uncommon geologically, Cerulean Springs boasted an asset that even the county seat of Cadiz itself could not. Cerulean was on a major rail line.

This put it in reach, long before automobiles, buses and airlines, for thousands of people per year. They could spend relaxing and refreshing days alongside the pool, beneath large shady trees, in a quiet, remote part of a quiet and remote state.

My parents bought a house in Cerulean in the seventies. I lived there with them for my last two years of high school. The old Victorian giant was originally built by the town's doctor, by all measure the finest house in town. It was built just a few hundred yards away from the hotel, in the same era.

Since the time of the fires that burned down the various iterations of the resort hotel, Cerulean has long settled into a shadow of it's vaunted past. In my lifetime the town was mainly known for burning down, several old buildings at a time. I recall being at a basketball game in Cadiz once and hearing an announcement over the PA system. "Attention everyone, can I have your attention please. Cerulean is on fire. . ."

The railroad is gone now as well; the tracks were pulled up sometime in the 80's.

No major or even minor road goes through town, Cerulean is a spur of a place, no need to go through it at all unless it is your actual destination. There are several better ways to get to and from anywhere else.

There is a post office and a store, though the store is only erratically open and only ever carried very little of anything a person actually might need. It doesn't even sell gas. In fact, there are no gas stations for probably ten miles in any direction.

There's a couple of churches, attended mostly by an aging membership of long-time locals.

Down the road about a mile or two an Amish community has taken over and rejuvenated several family farms.

On a Saturday night, you can, as I did this past weekend, sit on the front porch for an hour or two and count on one hand the cars going by. By eight o'clock or so the whole community is settled in for the night. Since there is no nearby city, there are plenty of stars to see, and the only noises are the occasional barking and baying of dogs and the squawking of wildlife in the distance.

Most of the population of the area are one of two demographics, middle to lower middle income families and then the less financially successful families whose houses tend to be in one state of decline or another.This is not a wealthy area. There are many retirees, mostly from farm and farm-related endeavors.

Serious crime is all but non-existent, though throughout its history it has not completely escaped trouble.

Mostly the population is older, more or less at peace with the world, just wanting to live  quietly and distantly.
Adam and I were in Cerulean to celebrate my father's eighty sixth birthday. My sister was also there and from time to time my younger, but bigger brother, Jeff would drop in. He lives in Cerulean, about a block away from the folks. 

The Place:

A while back, a year or so, a new restaurant opened just three houses down from my parents' house.

Hardly a fancy place, it is a simple, rectangular metal building, which makes it stand out against the nearly ancient homes around it.

Adam and I walked the distance while my spoiled and pretentious sister Kathy drove dad and mom. Dad's not able to get around much anymore, though he has good intentions to do better.

We arrived well before they did, dad doesn't move very quickly.

We went in together and found a couple of tables abutted in a configuration that fit us all,

Cerulean Springs Market and Restaurant

The building's interior was dimly lit and completely open. The poured concrete floor was textured and unpainted; the walls were rough pine panels, not even stained or painted. Every thing else was shiny, corrugated steel on fresh, unfinished yellow pine, the ceiling, the counter fronts and the partition between the 'market' and the dining area.

The market consisted of little more than a couple of glass fronted coolers full of pop, and a few shelves along one wall with candy, cigarettes and prepackaged pastries.

Though the county finally went wet a couple of years back, the availability of beer, wine and whiskey has not arrived in Cerulean yet. As with gasoline, if you want booze you have to drive a dozen miles to get your fix.

There were a few people there leisurely sipping coffee and enjoying some pie. The openness and the raw material construction created echoes for every sound. One doesn't have to shout in this place, like the small town itself everyone around is aware of you.

The Food:

We were presented menus and asked about drinks. Mom, dad and Kathy asked for water, Adam for sweet tea, and myself, unsweetened tea. Mom helped dad figure out what to order, it was steak night and the waitress had rattled off a litany of available steaks, and ended the spiel with what also fits in the steak family in this hog-rich area, pork chops.

Mom, Kathy and dad finally settled for the chops, a plate that came with Texas toast, a baked potato, and a salad.

Kathy refused all dressing choices, as did mom. For dad she asked for some dressing on the side. I assumed mom declined dressing because of some dietary requirement, she had serious surgery recently, I wasn’t sure about Kathy’s decision though.

I decided to go a little lighter, a BLT and the onion rings which Kathy told me were quite good. Adam picked the chicken strip plate with fries.

Pretty soon the three salads were delivered in bowls. Nothing fancy, iceberg lettuce, cucumber slices and a wedge of tomato. The waitress said that since the bowls were a bit crowded that they could bring out plates for anyone that wanted one. Mom and dad accepted the offer. I asked if I could have my BLT in a bowl instead of a plate to test the limits of their willingness to accommodate. Unfortunately the waitress had already left the table.

Kathy pulled the lemon wedge off the edge of her large tumbler of water and squeezed it over her salad.

"That's it?" Adam asked her. "No dressing, just a squeeze of lemon?"

She looked at us like we were annoying inferiors that had just entered the room.

"I don't like dressing, any dressing, the very sight and smell of it sickens me."

This was among the first of many peculiar culinary declarations, delivered with the surety and confidence of superiority that could only be described as pontificating.

"I don't put sour cream on my baked potato or anything else!" She later decreed, as if sour cream was offal or innards, fit only for meager peasants.

Kathy is considered by many people as a sweet, pleasant person. I know better. I lived under her tyrannical reign when I was a small child. She can be cold, cruel and vicious. She has a very high sense of self importance and issues orders and edicts to those around her as though they were mere livestock who should consider themselves fortunate that she has allowed them to escape the cruel industrial slaughter for one more day.

I was polite though, no need to make a scene in front of the parents, they’d just take her side anyhow, that’s partially how she got that way in the first place.

I insisted timidly that she at least pass the pepper shaker over her salad so it wouldn't look so much like raw lawn rakings.

She plucked the cucumbers out and passed them around to mom and Adam.

"I like the smell of cucumbers, but not the taste." She said, as if that were a perfectly normal and natural position.

The plates arrived at roughly the same time. Their pork chops looked quite good. Juicy, char marks, still sizzling. The baked potatoes were foil wrapped. The Texas toast was only slightly thicker than store bought sliced white bread. I am accustomed to much thicker bread when it comes under the moniker ‘Texas toast’. This qualified more as Oklahoma toast maybe, same, exact same makeup, just not as big.

They busied themselves carving the large slabs of pork. I forked a chunk off Kathy's plate and tasted it. I was quite impressed, it was smoky and juicy. It's very easy to overcook a chop, they're thin and they dry out very quickly. This place had figured it out though, it was beautifully cooked, tender and juicy.

My little sandwich was dwarfed by the thick onion rings. The BlT (notice the lower case 'L', there wasn't very much lettuce.) was constructed on plain white bread with a few, maybe four slices of bacon. It was excellent quality bacon though, cooked crisp but not burnt.

A BLT can be easily over-thought. Many places around St. Louis brag about how much bacon they can put between two slices of bread. In my mind that's like bragging about how many gallons of paint you have on your fancy sports car. It's not really about the quantity at all, it's about the quality. Ten extra gallons of red paint on a Camaro doesn't make it redder or sportier than a much thinner, quality driven amount. A little bacon goes a long way, you simply don't need a lot.

It wasn't a very big sandwich but it was quite a good sandwich. The onion rings were indeed good and searing hot. The first bite burned my lips and sprayed lava-hot juices. I let the rest cool down a bit.

Mom, Kathy and dad struggled with their chops, not with the eating of them but with the carving. Mom and dad are in their eighties and are not as physically strong as they once were, Kathy is just a delicate, fragile weakling since she’s never had to actually do anything. Dad was determined though, he finished his chop completely.

 In the distance I saw a hand drawn sign. Much of it was illegible from that far away, but one thing stood out: Chess Pie. (It’s a southern thing.) I wanted it.

Mom and Kathy told about how they always shared a slice of coconut cream pie, I was thrilled with that, since that meant I could safely ask for the Chess.  Chess pie, for those not familiar with it, is a custard pie, not very much unlike what is known in the St. Louis area as Gooey Butter Cake . Eggs, sugar, eggs, eggs, sugar and eggs. It’s dense and very rich.

I asked for coffee with mine. Dad did not get any pie since he has to tightly monitor his sugary input.

The coffee was dark and fresh, the pie insanely sweet and custard-y. Adam tried a little piece and didn’t seem to care for it and went back to his chocolate cream pie. He’s never really been in close touch with his southern ancestral heritage.

We sat back for a few minutes, glowing in the satisfaction and comfort of a good meal.

Summary:

Cerulean Springs Market and Restaurant is the most expensive eatery in town. It is at the same time, the cheapest, it's the only game in town.  Mom showed me the ticket, but it hadn’t been summed up yet and though I can normally do simple math in my head I was at the time quite jittery from the pie and coffee double-jolt. Looking at the menu though, the entrees were all under ten bucks, the sandwiches five or less, even the ‘Larry Dale Special’ (a hamburger with a fried hotdog on top) was not unreasonable. Mom grumbled a bit about it being expensive but she doesn’t get out into the real world very often.

The food we had was all pretty good and in my opinion reasonably priced. The wait staff was dutiful, attentive and accommodating. Mom said that occasionally she and dad will call in their order ahead of time and it will be ready to set on the table by the time they get there.

Since mom and dad don’t get around very well, and cooking has always been a ‘chore’ for mom, this is quite a bonus. It’s about three hundred feet short of a food delivery service.
The place is primarily for the locals.The menu is fairly sparse and they appear to serve certain things only on certain days,  Friday fish, etc. That's pretty  smart if you ask me. A restaurant's perishable inventory must be managed carefully. A small place like this in a small town like Cerulean is a very risky endeavor, anything that can be done to mitigate waste is a must.
On most days though you'll find burgers, hot sandwiches, cold cut sandwiches even a fried bologna sandwich (only $2.00!) that will live up to your appetite and tastes and fill you up just fine. I doubt that CSM&R will ever be featured in a fancy food magazine, or on TV, or be the gastronomic destination of choice for Western Kentucky, but it is fine at what it is, a small, inexpensive local eatery that lives up to and in some cases exceeds the needs and expectations of the local population.
If you do happen to dine there,  please try the Larry Dale Special and let me know how it is. I'm dying to know.


* My brother Jeff made breakfast and lunch on Sunday. Ridiculously fluffy and tasty pancakes in the morning and ham, potato casserole, green beans and the best homemade rolls I've ever had for the midday meal.
This was followed up with a 'Dina Cake', named for his lovely, tall and powerful wife. Basically a made-from-scratch chocolate cake baked in a bundt cake pan, then topped with a rich and thick cream cheese frosting. When served there is no hole in the middle of the cake. Dina fills the entire bundt-hole with even more frosting, a lot of frosting. Don't give me that look, you know you want some.
As we headed back to 'civilization', we stopped at a convenience store to fill up the gas tank. I went inside for drinks and a small snack for the tedious four hour drive.
Back in the car I twisted the cap off of my RC Cola and poured in a handful of the salted peanuts.
"What are you doing?" Adam asked.
"You wouldn't understand." Is all I said.