Texas Roadhouse

806 Arnold Commons Drive
Arnold, MO
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I used to be a Texan. Seriously, legally and residentially, a Texan. For my entire military career of nine years, for tax purposes especially. Texas has no state income tax you see, so it was just practical. I was seventeen when I enlisted and my first two bases were San Antonio for Basic Training, then Wichita Falls for technical training and three more years thereafter for my first tour of duty. I bought my first car there, got married, rented my first apartments and my oldest son and only daughter were born there. So I was indeed, a legitimate Texan.
Though I never fully assimilated into the stereotypical lifestyle. The rowdiness and line dancing, the big hats, the brawling, spitting, truck driving, man’s man. I didn’t even care for the Dallas Cowboys or beer.
So a place called ‘Texas Roadhouse’ hardly had automatic appeal. But then again, there is virtually nothing about the chain of steakhouses that hails from the Lone Star state. The chain got its beginnings, as did I, in Kentucky and is still headquartered in Louisville ( Lew-uh-vul ). There are currently over 450 locations, including several overseas.
We’ve been trying to go there for several years. Each and every time though, the lines wrapping around the place scared us off. We don’t like lines. Not so much because of the wait as for the people. Too many random, unoccupied people loitering around impatiently gives off a certain uncomfortable energy that repels us. Though the lines did seem to indicate that it was a very popular choice.
The stars aligned this past weekend though. We had no other ideas and it was Superb Owl weekend. Our thinking was that people who watch that silly game tend to do so around parties in someone’s home. Big food spread, lots of beer, etc.
Adam agreed to join us. In case we misjudged the crowd, Angel suggested making sure our personal communication devices were fully charged to better deal with the possible long wait. She even swapped shifts with her assistant to provide coverage for the client dogs for an extended period, should it be required. We were finally going to do this.
The Place:
As it turned out, we had predicted correctly. The parking lot seemed lightly used compared to other times we’d tried. There was no line out the door. Adam was already there so we parked beside him and went in. At the entry we were assaulted by a blast of country music from overhead. Some generic, male country singer whining about some drunken transgression or another, perhaps my least favorite form of the genre.
At the counter there were several of the crew milling about, it was hard to pick one person out of the crowd to assist us in navigation. The music was still loud, which caused the more than half packed building to try to talk over it and each other. The walls were wood paneled and adorned with lots of stuff, neon lights, the antlered heads of several large animals, etc. On one wall, near where we were seated, was a large mural of an indigenous American all spiffed up and painted for battle. Adam sat directly beneath a large antlered head, we sat across from him, facing a six thousand inch, muted television that was showing the pre-game shows for the silly sports spectacle. Near us there were a couple of larger groupings, extended families perhaps. One group, the larger of them, had a couple of uncooperative preschoolers that needed to be yelled at frequently. This caused the tikes to shriek back in their own defense.
I noticed the floor was pretty much painted concrete and littered throughout with crushed peanut shells. Which surprised me since I thought I recalled some restaurant or another suffering severe liability issues of letting customers spread the shells all over the floor. The Roadhouse offers up a bucket of shelled peanuts on every table. The things are messy, I know, since I’m quite fond of the roasted beans myself and have been known to leave a mess with the shells.

The Food:
We also received a basket of yeasty rolls to nibble on while we perused the menu. We wanted steak, after all it is a steakhouse and Angel had seen some ads for steak and lobster, which sounded lovely to me too.
But of course, that was simply not on the menu. Apparently it was a limited time thing. So when the time came Angel and I went with steak and shrimp instead. Six ounce sirloin, medium rare. Adam, who occasionally has steak, decided instead on the country style option, beaten, battered, pan-fried, covered in gravy. For sides, Angel opted for a baked potato and Caesar salad, I for the potato and corn. Adam asked, clearly, for mashed potatoes and corn. The gentleman scribbled down our orders and scurried away. The sticky kids at the nearby group table shrieked again, one started running around the table. My eyes could not avoid occasionally looking up at the giant screen, though with no sound, the antics of the sports guys were unclear and uninteresting. The rolls and my iced tea were quite good though, not so much the cinnamon-butter delivered with them, it just seemed odd.
The place seemed hectic, the crew was running around all over the place, I somewhat expected a long wait. It turned out to not be so bad after all. Pretty soon the two Caesar salads showed up. . .  .
Yeah, two of them. The lady insisted that there were two for our table, though Adam and I both recalled not ordering one. She left it on the table anyhow. Adam took it with a shrug of the shoulders. In a moment or two our first server stopped by. We told him about the salad, thinking that someone wasn’t going to get the side they’d really ordered. He said something about maybe it being a mix-up in the kitchen then darted off. When he returned he told us, in sort of a victorious fashion, that yes indeed the kitchen had made a mistake, as if we really cared much who had bungled the order. We told him we just wanted to make sure that we’d actually get the sides we’d asked for.
I tasted the salad, it was okay, not as subtle as some Caesar’s I’ve had, but not bad.
The nearby table erupted again, this time the adults shrieking at the kids.
The meals arrived in pretty good time after that, the steaks and shrimp still sizzling. Our server kept

trying to hand Angel the chicken fried steak, even after several voices of protest, which the server tended to talk over. Finally he got it right and I started disassembling my potato. Once cubed and smashed with the butter and sour cream, I cut into the steak. The done-ness was perfect. The aroma, intoxicating. The meat was very, very tender, almost buttery. The server had asked if I wanted steak sauce, I answered that question the way I always do: “Not if you did it right.” He smiled and agreed.
Here’s the thing about steak. You don’t need to be a master chef with intense knowledge of spices, herbs and other ingredients when it comes to steak. All you need for a perfect steak is the right amount of heat and to know when to stop cooking it. Add a pinch of salt and pepper and that’s it, perfection. The same can be said about grilled shrimp. A little butter and or lemon/garlic and once you get the heat and done-ness right, you’re done. There is simply no need to do anything else, at all.
Mostly because of the Malliard reaction.
Caution! Researched scientific information!
Louis-Camille Malliard was a French chemist who, in 1912, first released results of an exhaustive, yet delicious investigation into the browning of heated foods. When heat is applied to certain foods, a form of non-enzymatic browning takes place that occurs when the changes in amino acid structure reacts with a carbonyl group of sugars within that food item. Similar in many characteristics, though different at the chemical layer, from caramelization of sugar.
I don’t understand most of that either, but the bottom line is that applying heat to food actually changes not just the texture, but the taste of that food. Toast, for example, which is what I was researching when I came across this science stuff, does not taste like un-toasted bread. Not only a satisfying browning and crispy texture change, but a core taste change.

This applies to steak as well. Even though the inner part of a steak doesn’t change much, we are essentially wrapping it in a crunchy, well-tanned, maybe even scorched outer layer. That’s why it smells and tastes so good.
It is tempting to try to improve upon this, to put one’s personal stamp and flavor profile on steaks. We do this quite commonly with barbecued meats, sauces and rubs. However, steak just doesn’t need it. The same with shrimp/lobster. You don’t need to improve on its most basic and perfect taste.
But alas, Texas Roadhouse could not leave well enough alone. The shrimp didn’t really taste like shrimp, it was crowded out by whatever herbs and spices the joint dunked it in. The steak, cooked perfectly, tasted like it was savagely rubbed down with unnecessary flavor additives. It wasn’t awful, just completely unnecessary. Adam’s CFS had the exact same problem, too much superfluous seasoning.
Summary:
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a terrible meal, just a little less than it should be, a little less than it very easily could have been. After exiting, Angel added that next time she wanted a steak, we should just go back to the tried and true Ruby Tuesday’s in Festus. Or a dozen other places where the meat is better respected. The price, just over fifty bucks was fine, but no better than other places.
Adam summed it up very well later. "Went to the ol' Texas Roadhouse for dinner with the folks. Although I was feeling unimpressed with most of it as a whole, it was the Gather 'Round the Wait Staff and Get Everyone to Cheer for a Birthday that really sold me on never wanting to go there again."
The music, the noise, the stack of small service errors, just didn’t add up to expectations. I understand that some people and families like busy, active, even loud meals together, but that just isn’t us.
The nail on the head was that noisy table with the small kids. It turned out that this was the little girl’s sixth birthday meal. The staff pulled in a saddle mounted to a short saw horse, shoved the little girl on it, then gathered together and started clapping and chanting and cheering like it was a pep rally before a high school sporting event. This really snapped our tightly coiled, introverted brain springs.
Like I said, a lot of people seem to enjoy this level of raucousness, but it is just not for us.
We will not be standing in line for this in the future, there’s just no need.

Jilly's

1630 Gravois Rd.
High Ridge, Mo.
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It was nearing the end of the four days off from work for the New Year holiday. We're not partiers, so we had no plans for celebration other than snack-type munchies, veggies, dips, chips, those 'Little Smokies' in barbecue sauce... some of us didn't even manage to make it to midnight. At that magic time I was watching TV, I don't recall what, maybe Mythbusters, probably Mythbusters, I saw a lot of that over the four days. They were running and end to end series marathon.
The weather was mostly chilly and cloudy, I took advantage of the lack of goings-on and dark, dreary weather to luxuriate in a glorious languor.
I insisted that Angel should pick us a place to go to on Saturday. I can be a jackass like that at times, especially if I'm wallowing in a long period of downtime and too lazy to think about, or plan things much.
She surprised me when after a couple of hours she came back with "Jilly's."
"You mean the Salt Palace?" I responded.
That's what jumped to mind immediately when she said it. The two times we've reviewed the place, we came away feeling salt-licked.
If we were going to do this right, we'd have to keep our minds open, besides, we hadn't been there in nearly five years.
The Place:
High Ridge is actually quite a distance from our compound outside Hillsboro. There's no good way to bet there.Choice 'A' is barely-shouldered, narrow and curvy/hilly Highway BB, over to Highway 30, then half the county north.
Choice 'B' is more drivable, 21 to M then up 30, for not nearly as far. To get there we took Choice B. It seemed to take forever. The restaurant sits on a hill amongst and behind other shops, so you have to look for the signs. It was all lit up this post holiday time, the patio and gazebo held tasteful, not wasteful simple white lights.Overhead the blue neon sign read "illy's". Which by definition means the sign wasn't filled with neon, which is orange, more likely mercury gas.
The place can hold a lot of people, so it didn't concern us too much to see that the lot was about 2/3 full. We just marched in like we owned the place. The main dining area has booths along the perimeter. The center of the space is lower than the perimeter, sort of a ballroom configuration. In the center area there was a group of forty or so besuited middle aged people that appeared to all be part of a single group. A reception of some kind. They were already being served their main courses.
We were shown to a booth in the back, pretty much the same booth we've gotten twice before.

The decor is classy. By that I mean classic. Dark wood paneled walls, 60's style booths and tables, the artwork depicting martini's and Manhattans in cocktail glasses. Almost like you wouldn't be surprised to see a half sloshed Don Draper sitting at one of them with his hand sliding up some buxom blonde's skirt.
Overhead, old style blues rang out, one of my favorite restaurant music types.
Yeah, a steakhouse/blues club/cocktail bar. A bit of odd fusion, but certainly unique. Nothing Diner/Drive-in/Dive about it.
The Food:
I pretty much knew I'd be getting steak. I hadn't had one in quite a while. So I scanned the menu as the server asked about drinks (tea, tea, Pepsi). I heard Angel ask for an appetizer, cannelloni bites. They are prepared similar to the regionally ubiquitous toasted ravioli, by that I mean breaded and deep fried.
I struggled with the steak selections, I was looking for a small steak. I wanted a baked potato as well, no need to waste a big, pricey slab of meat that I wouldn't be able to finish. The only small one (6 oz.) they had was a Petite Flat Iron. I didn't know what that was, but it was a steak and it was the right size. So after our drinks arrived I asked for it, the potato and green beans.
Angel asked for 'The Ribs' with Spinach Salad and Baked Potato. Adam a Grilled Chicken Club Sandwich with House Chips.
Pretty soon the cannelloni arrived, twelve of them, more than you get as an appetizer in other places, with a tiny ramekin of marinara dipping sauce sprinkled with Parmesan cheese.
I dipped a cannelloni into the sauce too soon, it was blistering hot. I let half of it rest and cool before trying it again.
We agreed that we liked cannelloni better than ravioli, more meaty filling, less noodle. The treats and the sauce were pretty darn good. The cannelloni was crunchy, meaty, savory. The sauce was not too sweet, but maybe a little too much Parm.
There, I said it, without really saying it. Parmesan cheese comes across a bit salty. I was on my guard looking for too salty tastes, the very thing we'd dinged Jilly's about in the past. There are several things besides salt itself that can come across salty, Parm is among them.
I had reviewed the previous write-ups before we went out. I recalled the saltiness  so I tried, deliberately to avoid things that might be victims of a heavy hand. Notice no one asked for mashed potatoes? A baked potato is safer, They aren't seasoned on the inside. The mashed potatoes was definitely something I'd pegged before as being over-'seasoned'.
Angel's Spinach Salad showed up pretty soon. A fresh, healthy looking thing, all green and crispy. She'd asked for the house 'Mayfair' dressing on it. I wouldn't have. Mayfair is also a St. Louis creation, anchovies, oil, egg, champagne, garlic, mustard. . .  see where i'm going here? Considering the venue and our past experiences, I would have chosen a sweeter dressing to cut back on the salty potential of everything else.
But I didn't get a salad. Sure enough, Angel didn't really care for the dressing.

The cannelloni disappeared, the salad made it about halfway, the 'rib towel' arrived. A mango and peach disposable wipe in a plastic tube. I guessed that Angel and her ribs were about to get messy. I don't care for ribs myself, a little too fatty, too much of a hassle, too messy. Angel's a big fan though, of beef ribs anyhow. The menu didn't say which animal the ribs came from. Could have been a horse for all we knew. She had assumed beef. . . Guess what?
The third person to wait on us this far delivered the main courses. Hefty, nicely plated offerings. Angel's pile of meat and bones looked as though it weighed twenty pounds or so.

Ribs

My strategically ordered 'petite' steak was smaller than the potato. Adam's sandwich and chips filled his plate.
We dug in. My steak cut like butter. The potato was piping hot and soft inside, it took the sour cream and butter perfectly. Yeah, I pretty much turned it into mashed potatoes, but I controlled the seasoning. A little pepper was all it took.
The green beans were firm and surrounded by a generous portion of cooked onions. I like onions, a lot.

Petite Flat Iron Steak

The steak was topped with a dollop of 'Cabernet Butter' Something Jilly's puts on most of their steaks. It didn't coat the whole thing though, so I was a bit confused when I bit in too a piece from the edge. It tasted. . . off. It didn't really taste much like steak. The texture was perfect, the done-ness, spot on, but the taste was weird. That's the best I can describe it. It just didn't taste like my taste buds were wanting it to taste. It wasn't awful, but it really was off-putting. I didn't finish it, or my beans for that matter. . . there was a taste to them from the onions, or some seasoning that just didn't motivate me to finish them. My tummy was happy though, potato.
Angel piped in somewhere that the ribs were not what she was expecting, they had a taste and texture that didn't match her expectations either. She said it might be from the wrong animal, but we had no way of knowing without asking.
There was also a lot of meat there. She had to get a box to take about half of it home. The ribs had been served with two ramekins of sauce, one was decidedly barbecue, the other was up for debate. Both Angel and Adam tried it, but they couldn't agree. Angel's final word was that it might be a form of Buffalo sauce, but in the end it didn't really matter because it went unused.
Adam's response about his sandwich was a fairly tepid 'pretty good'. Of course being a chicken sandwich, there's not a lot to either screw up or make sparkle. The bacon helped, the tomato and lettuce discarded, so it was basically just a grilled chicken breast, some bacon, some mild provolone and chilpotle sauce.
Summary:
I know you're dying to know, the tea was . . . blah. Not bitter really, but definitely on the south side of fresh.
Though I can't say that the main complaint this time was saltiness, we'd effectively dodged that bullet, but the consensus was that though not really bad, it was a bit disappointing in that nothing really stood out as being really all that good. With my steak, it could have been the cut, but I don't think that would have made so much of a difference. The ribs were not falling off the bone tender, but that's not always a bad thing. It was the taste and texture, and the lack of knowing what animal it came from that will keep Angel from ordering it again. Discussions later concluded that there just wasn't any real pull for the place, nothing that would motivate us to drive that far to take visitors to.
It seems to be busy and successful though, so maybe we're just ordering the wrong things. I'd love to hear from someone that found something there that they find really good.
As I mentioned, we were served by no less than three different people. All of them were nice enough, friendly and professional, but at the end of the meal I wasn't clear who I would be tipping.
So, bottom line, it was okay, but it might be another four and a half years before it occurs to me to try it again.

The Farmer's Kitchen

4660 Yeager Rd.
Hillsboro, Mo.
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Angel was out of town, her and Deede went to Fort Wayne for a dog training seminar of some kind.
Adam and I struggled with a choice. By default we would go to Gordon's Stoplight Drive in in Festus, where we usually go when she's out of town. But neither of us was pumped for that. So we struggled, up to the  moment we walked out the door.
I'd had breakfast at Farmer's Kitchen, I've even remarked that this place made the best waffles, ever. But I'd never been there for a grownup meal.
It made sense for us since Adam and I couldn't even decide what kind of food we were in the mood for. At least FK had a variety of offerings. I wanted catfish, one of their reputed specialties. I also knew they pulled a smoker up to the front on weekends and cranked out some quality barbecue.
So we piled into Das Coche Negro, (my black VW Jetta, German engineered, but built in Mexico) and made the seven minute drive. The weather had been pretty mild for a July, except for this day, it was balmy, sticky, humid and hot.
We chatted on the way, his day at work was 'fine'. I gathered.
The Place:

It's been open for less than a year by the current owners, Karen and Rick Lindwedel. It's located on the road to the Post Office, Just north of Queens Market.  Those are legitimate Hillsboro directions, if you need more than that, then get your fancy self one of those highfalutin GPS machines.
They cleaned the place up and decorated it in the style of a farmer's man cave. Framed feed sacks, antique wood tools, hand carved cows, etc.
There was only one other couple there when we walked in, (it turned out they weren't a couple at all in the Biblical sense, just a man and a woman that happened to be there at the same time.) We were early since we didn't have to wait for Angel.
I led us to an empty table off to the side, near the door. A lady behind the counter saw us, but was talking on the phone. We waited.

She brought us menus pretty soon though and asked about drinks. Tea and Pepsi.
The menus were simple, colorful, laminated, single sheets. There were fewer offerings than I expected. I located catfish, and barbecue. I also made note of the chalkboard by the counter that touted the day's specials. Still plenty to choose from. When she returned with Adam's drink, she apologized, saying that  they were almost done brewing a fresh batch of tea, my drink would be a few minutes "If you don't mind waiting." She said. Mind? Me mind waiting for a fresh batch of tea? It was obvious at this point that she did not know me. Or maybe she did.
The Food:
I asked Adam if he was ready, he said sure. So I asked about the catfish. "Oh, sorry, we're out, we had an unexpected run on it last night and haven't restocked." She did offer a couple of fish alternatives, Tilapia, and another white fish I'd never heard of, but I told her they were a bit too un-fishy, I liked catfish precisely because it had actual taste. So I asked her about the barbecue.
"Oh, we didn't smoke today." came her apologetic answer. Oh well.
"I'll just have the sirloin and shrimp special then." I was a little disappointed, but how disappointed are you really if your fall-back option is a sirloin steak with shrimp? I had to choose two sides. I went for the baked potato and grudgingly, green beans.
Adam asked for the Chicken Fried steak, fries and corn, off the cob please.
I was concerned about the green beans. In 'country' restaurants, you usually end up with overcooked, flat, either tasteless or too salty, mush.
We waited. The non couple split up and went their separate ways. I learned later that the man was actually Rick, the co-owner. We were being served by Karen.
We waited long enough for me to get sick of the music. The cheap, plastic boom box by the door was tuned to J-98 (The Boot) out of Farmington, a town that makes Hillsboro seem like Gotham City. It was whiny, nasally country music. Lots of steel guitars, lots of drunk guys regaling about their lost loves and pickup trucks, arrrrgggghh...
But, it is 'Farmer's Kitchen', alas.

Then the food arrived. Alongside a juicy, thick looking sirloin and a split open and tender baked potato, were a couple of thick slices of grilled toast. Grilled, beautifully browned and buttered on one side only.
The shrimp basket held a lot of breaded and fried sea creatures, a lot of them. My carb alarm went off just looking at the meal. Bread, breaded shrimp, a fat baked potato. I'd have to eat strategically, no way would I be able to eat all that filler. Concentrate on the steak, nibble on the rest.

Adam's CF Steak looked traditional, just like it is supposed to look. They gave him a choice of gravy, white or brown, he went old school. The corn looked traditional as well, I do not know whether it was fresh off the cob or canned. The fries looked like they could use another minute in the deep fryer, but other than that it looked just fine.
I noticed that something was missing though. Karen was asking how it looked, if we needed anything else, steak sauce, etc.
"The green beans?" I asked. I almost didn't, country style green beans are at best a mediocre item, but I did pay for them.
Karen sighed in disgust with herself. ""I can't believe I forgot your green beans." She said, sincerely upset with her error. I wanted to tell her to never mind since it wasn't that big of a deal for me, but I let it go.
She trotted off and we set in. I buttered and creamed the tater, then sliced an edge off the steak. Perfectly cooked to order. Pink, tender and moist. The taste was exceptional. The char and pepper on the steak was exactly correct. The taste was euphoric, orgasmic, it melted on my tongue. Nothing else in the world mattered at that moment.
I had been worried. There was a big banner at the counter touting "Jefferson County Cattlemen, Best Beef in the state." That to me, looked like a challenge. If you're going to make a claim like that in big, bold letters, you better deliver.
And they did. This was as fine a cut of meat, precisely cooked, as I've had anywhere. The potato was also precise, tender, not burnt, excellent consistency.  The shrimp, well the shrimp was breaded and deep fried. that's the easiest way to overcook shrimp. It was fine, but I actually prefer grilled or steamed shrimp, the breading is too much of a distraction. As far as breaded shrimp goes though, no worse or much better than anywhere else.
Karen brought the beans. I was shocked, amazed, confused.
These were not the flat, dull, mushy beans I was expecting. these were sauteed. Bright green, shiny with oil and littered with bits of onion and garlic. Someone's not quite the quaint, country style cook I'd thought. These were fresh (I think) and still had tooth to them. The garlic, onion and oil gave them the look and taste like you find at more cosmopolitan restaurants. I actually wanted to eat them. Bravo Farmer's Kitchen!
Adam went through his plate pretty quickly, I was still dawdling, agog over the beans and the luscious steak. As planned, I only had one of the toast slices, it was quite excellent prepared that way, about half the shrimp, 90% of the steak, and 1/3, or less, of the potato. I liked it all, but starches bloat me up almost immediately. I got all I wanted, all I could hold, no complaints.
Adam couldn't work up a highly positive adjective to summarize his meal, but he did explain it. "It's chicken fried steak and corn." He said. I understood. It's a mild, almost bland plate at its best.
Summary:
Karen took very good care of us. Near the end of the meal the evening shift showed up and a delightful and friendly, beshorted young lady took care of busing our plates and bowls. Another couple, elderly, had wandered in, they were being taken care of quite well too.
Adam and I headed up to the counter, the young lady met us. This is when I confirmed that our earlier server had been Karen.
As if she knew we were talking about her, she stepped out from the kitchen. I told her the food was quite good. She mentioned that Rick, her husband, was a farmer. "I'm sorry." I told her, then added "That explains why you have to work." She laughed. Farmers in this area are not your ten-thousand acre industrial farms, they are mostly small, traditional, family farms, 120-500 acres. They require a lot of work, for little profit.
Jefferson County was never an agricultural powerhouse. People mostly settled the are because of the mining. Lots of metals, lots of mines.
I did not introduce myself as a food critic, no need making her worry unnecessarily about what I already decided was going to be a pretty good review.
The price was more than reasonable, twenty one bucks and pocket change. You read that right. A mighty good steak, heaps of shrimp, fresh tea, country fried steak, a big baked potato, a generous portion of fries, and some outstanding veggies, for twenty one dollars. Of course, there were only two meals rather than our usual three. I guess we could get by cheaper on this mission just by leaving out Angel. I'll suggest that to her when she gets back.
I was a little disappointed I didn't get catfish, or barbecue, but a small business just can't have everything on hand all the time, a lot would go to waste if they did. Besides, the steak was exceptional.
We've got a real jewel here. I knew they put out pretty good breakfast fare, but they've proven themselves equally competent on the more challenging meals. I will go back, mainly to try the catfish and probably for that occasional Saturday morning coffee and waffle.

Texas Taters n’ More

144 7th Street
Hillsboro, MO.

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On Wednesday night I attended  my first meeting of  the Campaign Committee for the Hillsboro District Branch of the Jefferson County Library.  I became interested in this effort as a result of a newspaper article in the Leader, the Jefferson County weekly paper that said that the committee had successfully petitioned the County Council to include the initiative on the November ballot.

Okay, enough of the soapbox, (see more about it below) but it is actually integral to this review.

At the meeting, I was quaintly and grass-root-ly putting stickers on piles of pamphlets. The lady next to me, also there for the first time, started chatting with me. Normally I am averse to this sort of social interaction, but she seemed relatively harmless, and I knew I could get up and walk away at any time.

Renee, as I came to know her, while also sticking stickers on piles of pamphlets, told me a little about herself and more later in the formal introductions and mentioned she was going to start book readings for kids at this new Hillsboro restaurant, Texas Taters N’ More. She was offering to accept donations and contribute them to the Library committee.

I was fascinated, beside myself with glee. There was a new restaurant in Hillsboro that I was not aware of. So the hook was in. I knew from that instant that it would be the target of my next review.

The Place:

The place used to be Rich’s Frozen Custard, a joint I reviewed a year or so back. Restaurants are fickle businesses; it’s unfortunate, but not at all unusual to have one open for only a year or so, or less.

The building sports an auto parts store underneath. It’s a bit off the road and the new, modest signage is a little hard to see from Main Street.

Entering the doors I was instantly reminded of my Rich’s experience. A wide room, perhaps fifty feet or more square, and a high open ceiling. The walls were now painted blue which worked well with the bright, white, polished tile floors. On the walls were signs and kitschy objet d’ Texas.

There were several sparsely located tables and booths, the booth tables had been topped with buckaroo and ten gallon hat printed laminated coverings. The cavernous interior echoed, which I had remarked on back in Rich’s time, and can’t quite ignore now. It cuts down on any possibility of intimacy or private conversation, but if you like big, open, family style atmosphere this is just fine. Short of dropping a ceiling and installing partitions and such, I don’t see another remedy for this. This was once a hardware store if I recall correctly.

But that is of only minor concern compared to the service, the food and the overall quality of the experience.

The Food:

The menu on the wall made it clear, if the name of the place didn’t already give it away. They serve baked potatoes. I knew this ahead of time though since I tend to spend tens of minutes, more or less, usually much less, painstakingly researching every place we plan to review.

Adam and I scanned the menu, both pre-planned 'chuckwagon combos' as well as a ‘build your own’ list of toppings. A hand printed fluorescent marker board indicated that the special was  the chicken-fried steak and gravy potato.

I knew that if Angel were with us that this would be her choice.

Did I mention that Angel wasn’t there?

Buckaroo tablecloth

She’d abandoned us on Friday, something about a granddaughter’s birthday party in Springfield or something trivial like that. She was due back Saturday evening, or so she had said. I’m never quite convinced  that when she leaves us all alone like that if she will actually ever return, so I treat every one of her road trips like it’s permanent. I’m sure that’s just the way she’d want it.

So Adam and I, lonely and abandoned, stared almost helplessly at the menu. No guidance or suggestions from Angel, who is usually good for just that sort of thing, if nothing else. But she was gone now, perhaps never to return.

I saw one combo listed that stood out as a potato as I’d make for myself, the 'All American'. Cheddar cheese, sour cream, chives and bacon. Adam succumbed to the temptation of the chicken fried steak and gravy. One of the two attending ladies, the owners as it turned out, greeted us. “The potatoes are over a pound each before we even start, I hope you brought an appetite.”

All American

It made sense, this was a Texas themed joint, and Texas claims to do everything bigger, it’s a Freudian compensation thing I’m pretty sure, so naturally the potatoes would be ridiculously large. I took this into mathematical consideration. When you see a burger billed as a quarter pound or half pound burger, that is pre-cooked weight. As burgers and steaks are cooked the rendering off of the 20% or so of fat content drops that weight a dramatic amount. Not so with a fat-free potato, the post-cooked weight is pretty close to the pre-cooked weight. In other words, a one pound potato, with added toppings is pretty close if not more than a pound of food.

We ordered, adding a take-out potato for Angel, should she defy the odds and expectations and actually return home. Our drinks, tea for me, Coke for Adam and  a Diet Coke for Angel’s, or whomever’s, takeout. The lady attendant, the co-potato-chef, mentioned that the place would also deliver lunch orders.

CF Steak and gravy

Adam and I wandered around the place, we were at  the time the only customers. It was early though, around five p.m. and also this was a brand new place having opened only a week before. Word of mouth had not quite kicked in yet. PLUS the Jefferson County fair was in full swing and the temptations of funnel cake and bizarre and mysterious fried things on a stick probably were sucking away some potential patronage.

We situated ourselves in a booth/table in the middle. It was only a few minutes before the food arrived. Red plastic baskets lined with bright blue and white gingham paper held the massive spuds. The presentation was excellent. Bright crisp green chives, scoops of bright white sour cream and thick brown crispy chunks of bacon, and a generous handful of shredded cheddar. Adam’s gravy-coated tuber held golden chunks of breaded steak popping through. The plating/presentation was above and beyond what I expected.

The drinks were served in Styrofoam cups, the plastic tableware was a little feeble, but adequate. I’m not a big fan of plastic or Styrofoam, but as this is a local startup, I have to give them a little slack. It’s not like I would be dismantling a sirloin.

Adam and I chopped and stirred around the massive tater, mixing the toppings generously. The first bites, as well as the last were warm and greatly satisfying.

Potatoes are not a very fussy food. It’s pretty basic. Cook it right and it’s a hit. The toppings, chosen to personal preference, only need to be fresh and generous. TTn'M got it all right, the texture of the taters was spot on, not dried out, not starchy or under-cooked.

Neither Adam or I were able to finish completely.

“I’m full, but not in a bad way.” He told me. The look on his face told me he'd really enjoyed it. 

I knew what he meant. Calorically speaking a loaded potato might not be any less deadly than a burger, but without the animal fat and the frying oils a baked potato simply doesn’t feel as greasy and sinful as a burger and fries. I too was full, in a good way.

Summary:

The price was equivalent to a burger joint, three meals and drinks for twenty two dollars and change. The preparation was spot-on, these ladies know how to cook a big spud. The toppings seemed fresh and crisp, the service was beyond personable, and the wait time was minimal. This is a fresh new start-up in our little town, so it needs support to help it thrive. I encourage all those in the area, including folks that might only be passing through on the way back to St. Louis from Old Mines** looking for new places to check out, to give this new place a shot. They do a good job and provide a refreshing  alternative to the greasy fast food joints in town. Angel was surprisingly home by the time we got there, much earlier than the 'never' that I'd expected. She'd done it right though, stopping at the Canton Inn in Springfield on the way back. I expect that by the time you read this I will have packed on a couple or twelve extra pounds.

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* Hillsboro is the seat of the sixth most populous county in Missouri. The residents of Hillsboro do not have free access to any library in the county, nor is there a library branch in the town. I’ve always thought this was odd, at best, and absurd, to be perfectly honest. So I decided to help out as much as able to get this silly situation rectified. Certainly Hillsboro is not a huge metropolis, but the people there surely deserve the same access to a library as every other place I’ve ever lived in my life.  Though it involves a property tax increase, a very modest one, a public library is among the basic services, like a school, a post office, sidewalks and water treatment plants that every small town usually demands. Even the right-wing utopian model of rural America, Mayberry, had a tax-funded public library.

** Passing through.  This is a cheap, gratuitous reach-out to Alanna Kellogg, the lady behind the St. Louis Food Blog group, a network for those of us who write blogs about food and eating establishments in the St. Louis area. Alanna recently recognized my brilliance and dazzling contributions to the St. Louis gastronomic community and accepted this little blog into the group. There’s a link at the upper right hand corner of this page.