Patrick’s Restaurant and Sports Bar

(Formerly 'Pujols 5' and 'St. Louis Sports Hall of Fame Bar and Grill')

342 Westport Plaza

Maryland Heights
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Back in February, when Cardinals legend Albert Pujols announced he was picking up stakes and heading to California, this restaurant changed its name to ‘St. Louis Sports Hall of Fame Bar and Grill.’ A few weeks ago, the place changed its name again to 'Patrick’s', as it was known for many years prior to being called Pujols  5.

According to ‘The Sporting News’: “Pujols did not have an ownership stake in the restaurant but was paid for making appearances and allowing his name to be used.”

That’s fine, I was never a big fan of sports, any sports, except for women’s beach volleyball for some completely inexplicable reason.

But that’s beside the point.

This was a work thing. Traditionally when our team gets a new member, our lovely and wise boss, Larry (not his real name), pulls a few people from the team to take the n00b to lunch.

Naga joined us on Monday. Larry rounded up a small group, including yours truly, and we headed out.

The Team:

All names you may remember. Doug, of course, Larry, the boss,  and Swami, whose adorable young wife is from an actual city in India, not a ‘village’ as I’ve previously reported, (because I’m just a stupid, geographically illiterate American that presumes to know more about foreign places and cultures than he really does.)  Naga, the new guy (also from some village in India), and Keith, who you will recall from that same Thai Kitchen review where I insulted Swami’s wife. I meant no ill by calling her city a village, but if they want to call it a city, fine we'll call it a city, whatever. I'm no idiot though, I studied up on India a while back, it's situated between Ohio and Illinois, and is primarily rural, so forgive me for just assuming that most people from there lived in villages.

 We took two cars, Larry drove his shiny, polished and well-deserved Mercedes and took Swami, Naga and Keith. I jumped into the passenger side of Doug’s little tiny '88 Toyota, but only after he assured me that the exhaust was no longer leaking into the passenger compartment. Doug’s little car is easy to spot, it’s about the oldest one in the parking lot, formerly bright red, and it sports a slightly scary bumper sticker that reads: “Tried to fight stupid, ran out of ammo.”  He had the sticker custom-made. 

His Toyota reminded me a lot of the 1984 Mazda RX-7 I used to have when I lived in Maryland. It smelled of burnt oil, sat about an inch off the ground, ran a little dirty, and would neither shift nor shut down without complaint. The Mazda, much like Doug's car, wasn't very dependable, but it sure was uncomfortable.

The Place:

As I said, this place has been around for quite a while, mostly as Patrick’s but recently notable as Pujols 5. Inside the large place were racks and wall-loads of sports memorabilia, though I saw nothing from the world of women’s beach volleyball so it didn’t really hold my attention. Jerseys, helmets, bats and balls. . . yawn.

The interior was very big, but there were not a lot of people on this day. The waitress said it was because it was Monday, I just assumed it was because they didn't have any actual beach volleyball memorabilia.

We were escorted to a large table already set up for six. I sat myself in the corner, once again so I could scan the entire operation.

The place was bar-dark, the walls were lined with sports-related posters, paintings and paraphernalia. TV’s were bolted to the walls, and as this was during the Olympics, there were several sports being aired. I recall no music in the background, and the TV’s were muted, so other than the occasional cackling coming from our table it was pretty quiet. We sat in padded metal chairs that were not as uncomfortable as they looked. Each chair’s back had a stencil-style ‘5’ cut into the back, reminiscent of the Pujols days.

The Food:

There were several items on the menu that looked quite good. I decided to keep it simple. The only BLT they had also contained a slab of chicken, I knew better than to fall for that since chicken sandwiches are either a sinister part of the vast right wing conspiracy, or the last bastion of American values standing between us and the inevitable showdown at Armageddon. I didn't really want to pick a side in that silly fight and I was in no mood to make a strong political statement while sitting next to my boss. (sarcastic Chick-Fil-A reference.)

Somewhere along the line I decided a bacon-cheeseburger would be fine, since I couldn’t recall burgers being directly tied to any particular extremist cause. Our drinks were delivered and after three more returns by the waitress, we were finally all ready to order.

Larry: Buffalo Chicken Salad

Naga: Blackened Swordfish

Swami: Buffalo Chicken Wrap

Doug: Bleu Burger

Keith: Mahi Mahi Sandwich

She also delivered a bowl of hot cheesy biscuits, which were passed around.

We sat and interrogated Naga, two kids, 11 and 3. Lives in St. Charles, been a road warrior for several years, glad to find a good job closer to home. His wife works in a bank. His kids are very happy to have him home more often, not sure if his wife is. He seemed to be a nice guy, talkative, funny, smart.

The guys started talking sports, so I drifted and made notes. Someone explained to Naga what I was doing and Swami started trying to tell me what I could and could not write about. For example, he told me specifically not to write about him eating his biscuit with a fork. I don’t know why, I thought it was simply adorable.

Keith sat across from me, carefully guarding his words. He’s a nice guy, perhaps not as handsome, interesting or witty as his brother Kevin, (whom I’ve never actually met, just heard about) but for a co-worker Keith is not completely intolerable.

The biscuit was good at first, the butter was not frozen, so it melted nicely. Somewhere along the line though the biscuit took on a doughy texture. Not the worst I’ve had by far, but not the best either.

Bacon Burger

The food finally arrived, all of it looked pretty. This place pays attention to plating, feeding the eyes first. Larry asked me to make sure to take a picture of his salad, it was indeed quite photogenic, the bright orange spice and the caramelized pecans. I also snapped a photo of my plate, then Naga asked if I’d like to take a picture of his. He didn't seem to be too concerned about the potential slanderous things I might say about him later. Keith remarked that Naga’s blackened fish didn't seem all that blackened. Naga would later concur with that assessment.

Buffalo Chicken Salad

Keith commented on his fries, that he really liked them. Swami said they were okay, but not as good as those at Penn Station. I had to look that up later. I recalled going to a Penn Station once , but didn’t recall the fries.

“The fries were made on site, fresh to order from real potatoes, skin intact. Dirty fries, awesome. They were well cooked, brown and crispy, the way a frozen fry just can’t be.” is what I’d actually said about them, confirming that Swami is more than just one of the world’s most handsome and capable DBA’s, he’s also a discerning diner.

Blackened Swordfish

I found Patrick’s fries to be thin, crispy and golden brown, but a little on the greasy side, though not as bad as some of the limp, tasteless ones I’ve found many other places.

My burger looked nice, the bun was not the cheap, pale grocery-store kind, there was a heft to the buns, good for containing a sloppy burger, but also a little rubbery and thick. The meat itself was virtually tasteless. The bacon was okay but nothing special. I only ate about half of the burger since it really wasn’t that great, and I decided it was better to leave it than to stuff myself into a coma with sub-excellent food. Across the plaza sits the Train Wreck, whose Cheddar burger is about the best burger I’ve ever had. I’d gladly go into a caloric coma for one of those, but not this one.
Larry and Swami, since they had basically the same thing, had similar comments about the buffalo chicken offerings, the slightly sweet pecans offset the spiciness of the chicken quite well. Doug mentioned  that his Bleu Burger had a bit too much barbecue sauce, but the bleu cheese was not overpowering. I don't know how fast he ate it, I wasn't watching that closely. And finally, Keith said his Mahi Mahi was not too fishy, I couldn't tell if that was a complaint or a compliment.
Summary:
 What' missing here is someone saying how great their meal was. No real complaints per se, just no home runs either. For the price, and this place is pricier than others in the area, you kind of expect something to be outstanding, or at least stand out.
The atmosphere of the place is well suited for sports fans and large groups, it would probably be a good place to hang out with a bunch of friends and watch a sporting even together, just not women's beach volleyball. That is a sport that is best watched in the privacy of your own home, preferably while your wife and kids are out shopping, training dogs, or whatever else you can find them to do. So for football, or soccer, or NASCAR, if driving around in circles is actually a sport, this would be a fine place, if the price isn't too high for you. It might even be okay for watching women's MMA, (Mixed Martial Arts) a sport my boss kept going on and on about, to an almost creepy degree. He yammered (handsomely and intelligently) on and on about an upcoming bout between 'Rowdy' Ronda Rousey and Sarah Kaufman. I tried really hard to fake interest, he is my boss, but I fear I failed to get the least bit charged up about it.
Anyway, there's nothing really wrong with Patrick's. There just wasn't a lot to get excited about. Between the two, Patrick's and it's very near neighbor, Train Wreck, I'll take the train next time.

Hooters

11835 Lackland Rd.
St. Louis (Maryland Heights) Mo.
www.hooters.com

This was a last minute get-together. Alex, the intern, polled the group and Keith, Doug and I agreed to tag along with him to this bastion of  almost pathetic male chauvinism. I’d been to a Hooters before, the one in downtown St. Louis. I’ve never been to the one in Springfield, Mo, the place where my lovely and precious daughter used to work.
Yeah, I’m so proud.
Actually I am. She knew what it was about, she knew exactly why she was there and why the customers were drawn to the place. She was more than adequately qualified, and she racked up huge, some would say enormous, tips.
That's tips, people, TIPS!
Let’s be realistic, let’s be honest. Patrons are not drawn to this place because of the fine cuisine.*

The Place:
Located at an intersection near my office complex, it is built large and rather rustic. Inside it is dark, but not too dark. Small spotlights line the exposed heavy wood rafters.
The whole place, ceiling to wall to floor all the way to include the booths and tables are heavy wood.. Along with the small spotlights are strings of faux Christmas lights, reminiscent of the big bulbed strings that were common back in the sixties, the ones that burned down a lot of houses. These were actually bigger, more plastic looking, probably not even dangerous.
We were seated at a high table in the back next to a shaded window. Alex and I were in the lead, Doug and Keith lagged a little. Alex and I sat against the window looking out onto the floor. I took this position for the same reason I always do, to get a full view of the goings-on for this report. Just ask my family, I always choose a seat with a view.
This arrangement meant that Keith and Doug’s view was of the shaded window, and if they squinted between the mesh, they could almost see out to the parking lot.
There were a dozen or so flat TV’s mounted and muted around the place, sports, since Hooters claims to be a sports bar. Nobody was watching them.
Scanning around I made an observation. The place, almost completely packed, was filled almost exclusively by men, middle aged men at that. There were a few women customers, though all of them with larger groups of men. I struggled to maintain my shock at this.
There were a few kids too, mostly accompanied by fatherly types. I found this interesting if not a little creepy. There’s lots of eateries around that are dying to fatten up our kids that use toys and cartoons to draw them in. I’m not exactly sure what the kid-draw was here.
We where handed menus and asked about drinks. Alex and I ordered tea, unsweetened, Doug ordered a soda, I don’t recall what Keith ordered.
Our waitress, whose name I will not mention, was wearing the same outfit as all the other waitresses, tight black micro-shorts and an equally taut black titular (bearing the title of the establishment) tank top. Hers didn’t fit too well, there were tanned and perky curvy parts leaking out from all the edges of the garments. I tried not to stare, but couldn’t actually come up with a rational reason not to.
I glanced over the menu as well, typical sports bar fare. Burgers, wings, sandwiches. No BLT though.
The Food:
I decided to order the same thing I used to order at the downtown location, the fish and chips. I wasn’t in the mood for a heavy, very heavy half-pound burger, I had work to do later and needed to stay non-comatose.
The waitress brought our drinks and placed them incorrectly around the table. We had to swap them with each other to get it right.This didn't seem to concern her much, she might just be new at this gig. She was, coincidentally, quite young and attractive, reminding me a bit of Debi Mazar (Space Truckers, Entourage) long, straight raven hair, bright blue/green eyes, lip and eye accentuating makeup. She didn’t chat a lot, but she did seem attentive to our orders. Doug chose the spicy chicken strips, Keith, a smothered chicken sandwich, and young Alex opted for the buffalo chicken sandwich. He also ordered a side of curly fries.
The sandwiches were priced at seven to ten dollars, and did not come with fries, they came with either baked beans or slaw. Alex’s fries order added nearly three dollars to his tab.
While we waited, Alex and I scanned the floor, there were a dozen or more of the youthful, curvy ladies in the too-taut uniforms bustling about.
Alex talked more than the rest of us, he’s better at it than we are. He’s young and doesn’t really have that many more stories to share, he just has more willingness to share them. He spoke a bit about his brother/uncle/cousin, I don’t recall which, as I wasn’t paying as close attention as I appeared to be, a terribly bad habit of mine. Anyway this relative of his works in refineries around the world, tough, manly, dangerous work. Recently he was in Zanzibar. “It’s and Island off Tanzania I think.” He said. Keith shrugged his shoulders, either he didn’t know if it was or not or he wasn’t paying that much attention either.
“Zanzibar?” I inserted. “That’s where Freddie Mercury was born!”
“Really?” Keith asked.
“Who?” naively added Alex.”
“Lead singer for ‘Queen’”  Keith informed him. Alex didn’t really respond.
It would be rude of me to have all this vital and important knowledge bottled up in my brain and not share it with others from time to time. It’s really not very often that the opportunity arises on some of this stuff I carry around.
The food arrived, except for Alex’s, we politely waited until his finally came. This was okay since I could hear the sizzle of my fish and feel the intense heat of the dish rising off of it. The thing about breaded fried fish is that it’s like the Hot-Pocket of seafood. It holds that heat for quite a while. A smart person such as myself will crack open a couple of filets and let them cool a bit before committing one's tender, sensitive but ruggedly handsome mouth to them.
I had to peel open the container of tarter sauce anyhow.
His sandwich finally arrived, and a few seconds later Doug’s paltry and otherwise barren plateful of spicy wings disappeared. I didn’t even see him pick one up, I did hear a sort of liquidy buzzing noise though, like a hundred thousand beetles dismantling a field mouse. Doug eats fast, I think I’ve mentioned that before.
I was immediately unimpressed. The curly fries, the ‘chips’ on my plate were not at all crisp, and seasoned only with salt. The four fish filets, though still moist on the inside, were a bit greasy. The slaw was completely bland, no color, no zing, just cabbage with a little generic mayo.
I was unimpressed, but not disappointed. I’ll explain later.
The waitress stopped by once or twice. “How does everything look?” She asked. I’m sure she was talking about the food, not her cleavage, but the honest answering of that question was a bit awkward. At least it was for the other guys, I was on the job, a true professional, undistracted by the, by the, umm… where was I?
This might surprise you but the food, by consensus was overall, unremarkable and in some cases disappointing. Nobody in the group said anything close to “This is the best darned thing I’ve ever eaten!”
Mostly it was a tentative “Good” from Alex, who later added that he’d been gypped on the sauce, not nearly the vampire-killing garlic coating that had been advertised.
“Not as good as expected” and “Not as good as Train Wreck.” Keith piped in. I knew what he meant. Train Wreck is a place about five minutes away in Westport Plaza that makes a hell of a good burger, for about the same inflated price.
Doug’s “It was okay, not too dry, but I’ll wait for about a half hour to see how it settles to be sure.” Doug not only eats fast, he also likes to talk about his digestive system. It’s kind of charming.
Summary:
I said earlier that I wasn’t impressed, but I also wasn’t disappointed. This is simply a result of my low expectations for the food at this place. I’ve never found anything at Hooters worth getting worked up about, at least on the plates. It’s too pricy, my modest meal put me out nearly fifteen bucks, the other guys' maybe a little less since Doug and Keith opted out of ordering the fries that Hooters is unjustifiably so proud of.
None of the food was awful, I’ve had awful meals before. But the food here is just not really all that good. As I said, just across Page Avenue from this place is the Train Wreck, using the same ingredients, for the same price range, and their sandwiches are quite memorable. Hooters just doesn’t seem to even try. Of  course, as even as my son Adam knew and pointed out, “Nobody goes to Hooters for the food.”

__________________

* The ladies here are all adults, they choose to work there, they all get it. I refuse to believe that there is any actual manipulation of them going on. If anything, those being 'used' are the men, the customers. Pandering to the lowest, most basic, almost reptilian brain function of a male creature to yank money out of his pocket is a proven and successful business model. To deny the attraction of a red blooded male towards a youthful, healthy, nicely proportioned woman is to ignorantly deny reality and millions of years of evolution. (or thousands of years of divine creation, I'll not bait that particular discussion here)
I like looking at pretty women just like I looking at expensive, flashy sports and luxury cars. Because I admire the art, the craftsmanship, the care, the beauty and the sleek lines in no way means I want to be responsible for one. They're finicky, expensive, break down at the drop of a hat, cost a fortune to keep in shape, and complain, complain, complain. . .   Young women are nice to look at, but they are also filled with a mountain of volatile and emotional 'challenges'.  

The guys I was with on this trip, except maybe for Alex, are mature and responsible husbands and fathers. I've seen them smile with pride and joy when they talk to or about their wives and kids. Sure they, like me, will take notice, admire the curves and lines, crack wise perhaps, but it is beyond my comprehension that they would ever take it any further than that. These guys don't want any part of the high priced and constant maintenance involved, they are quite content, happy in fact, with the aging, faded, rust-cratered, frequently-overheating yet comfortable and practical mini vans they have at home.
Hold it, we are still talking about cars right? 

Hot Shots

12664 Dorsett Rd.
Maryland Heights, MO
http://www.hotshotsnet.com/

Doug and Rob, posing.

Once again, a last minute invite to go out for lunch with Rob and Doug. A beautiful, unseasonably warm, March day. Rob drove again, Doug sat in the front seat and I in the back. I am not quite as altitude-privileged as Doug or Rob, so for me it’s not about who sits up front with whom, it’s merely a matter of physics and anatomy. I fit better in back seats than grotesquely tall (over 5’10”) people. It doesn’t bother me; I’m still waiting for my promised growth spurt, some guys are just late bloomers. Once that finally happens, all bets are off.

I’d not heard of Hot Shots, but learned quickly that it was one of the many sports bars in the area, within a metaphorical stone’s throw of Maryland Yards.

It sits in an upscale strip mall, blending in quietly with its retail neighbors. Another thing Rob and Doug have become accustomed to is the delay for me to take a picture of the storefront, this time they even pseudo-posed at the door.

The Place:

As soon as we opened the door we were met with a sonic storm. This wasn’t background music, it was well into the foreground. It was turned up happy-hour loud which I found distracting, especially since the music selection wobbled between twangy country and what I believe the kids today refer to as hippity-hop. I’m not a big fan of most music, these two genres in particular, I was not impressed.

The place was only sparsely populated with fellow cubicle drones, and we were told to find our own seating. The main floor around the bar was equipped by tall tables and stools, and each tall table sported a condiment rack as well as an ashtray. I didn’t actually need to see the ashtrays to know it was a smoking-allowed place, the ambience, the aroma had already given that away.

The walls were lined primarily with large, bright, flashing flat screen TV’s all showing sporting events and channels. On the largest screen, as well as a few of those on the sides, a Hockey game was starting up, the local Blues playing against the Chicago Blackhawks. Every time I looked up at the screen, it seemed yet another fist fight had broken out. Why they pretend to be about ice skating and sportsmanship I can’t imagine. Why not just dress up in bright, stupidly-fitting clothes and swing big sticks at each other and be done with it.

We’d already started the sports talk in the car. “So should we get the sports out of the way now or wait until we get there?” Doug had asked. I was ready this time.

“As a matter of fact I’m sort of into this March Madness thing, have you heard about it?” I asked the front seat.

They both looked a bit startled, so I explained.

“My grandmother, my mother, and my sister all graduated from Murray State, in fact my beloved, yet dreadfully homely sister recently retired from there as the Registrar.”

They seemed impressed.

“And my older brother attended Western Kentucky.” Whose team I knew to be wild-carding their way into the tournament.

“And of course I’ve got all kinds of ties to U.K., My saintly mother even listens to their games on the radio. In Kentucky, where there are only one or two huge schools, and several smaller ones, it’s not unusual for a person to root for two or more at a time. You can be a fan of Murray and U.K., or Louisville and Western, it’s not seen as a contradiction there.” I was making this part up, I never attended college in Kentucky myself. “So I even filled out one of those bracket-y things I saw on Yahoo, picked U.K to take it all.”

That was the extent of my contribution to the sports talk, as I’d hoped, they didn’t pop follow-up questions regarding scores, players, stats or team mascots.

The menu was a simple two sided affair the typical sports-bar offerings. Burgers, sandwiches, pizza, etc. They obviously served alcoholic drinks as well, squeezed between the TV’s were a plethora of beer banners and neon signs, mostly touting Budweiser products. The bar looked well stocked as did the petite bartender. I couldn’t see any further down on her than her neck, though the taller Doug pointed out that she was wearing a tight tube top.

The servers were all wearing referee-like black and white striped shirts and black spandex short-short-short-shorts, all clothing three sizes too small.

It’s a sports bar thing. I could go on for pages about the sociology, psychology, and anthropology of scantily clad, fetching waitresses at sports bars, but I won’t. Suffice it to say if I were to open an eatery next door, tuned to the  Lifetime Channel on big TV’s, played gospel music on zithers and accordions in the background and clad the wait-staff in Amish midwife apparel, who do you think would go out of business first? I don’t try to rationalize or defend the business model, it’s cheap and tawdry, and it works$$.

The Food:

I asked what on the menu was good, my two pals shrugged their shoulders. They mentioned the Royale, a big sloppy burger that included a fried egg and bacon. Though that sounded really good, I could almost hear the Lipitor pills begging for mercy from their bottle.

Doug ordered one anyhow, along with a side of horseradish. Oddly enough, though the actual origin of the name 'horseradish' is unknown, one thing that is known about that particular root is that it is poisonous to horses.

Rob went with the ‘Upper Deck’, a turkey club sandwich with a little bacon. Both the boys asked for the Hot Shots house chips.

I’d had a burger recently and a beef sandwich the day before at a Panera-catered meeting. So I decided to pretend to be concerned about my red-meat intake and ordered 'The Fisherman', a beer-battered cod filet topped with cheese and served with lettuce, tomato and tartar sauce, and a side of traditional fries. Not that a battered, deep fried cod filet is that much healthier than a burger, it just sounds like it. Rob and I cheaply asked for nothing more than water, Doug asked for tea.

They continued sports talk, I glanced around the joint. I noticed an upper deck, a loft area with regular tables and chairs that was unoccupied. The place was bigger than it seemed from the outside, more beer banners and neon. I’d heard the place gets pretty packed during its happy hours, but for a Wednesday lunch, not bad at all.

The food arrived rather quickly, nothing splashy or fancy, just baskets of lunch. My filet was brown and crispy, the fish well cooked, moist and flaky. The fries were okay, nothing special. Rob handed me one of his chips, eager to know how they would fare in my review. They were actually pretty good, though it did seem to be a bit soft in the middle.

Our waters got refreshed, Doug wolfed down his horseradish-laden Royale in near record time, as expected. He was panting and red-faced, a state he seems to enjoy. Rob and I didn’t even try to compete, there’s simply no point.

When polled, they seemed quite content with their meals, as was I. I told them that in places where fish was not a main item that it’s easy to screw it up. Breaded fish filets, usually frozen, don’t fry up like burgers or fries. They have to be nursed through the process to avoid cold spots or over-doneness. They did just fine here.

Summary:

Not bad, not bad at all. I finished my sandwich, left some fries, the other guys cleaned up. The service, aside from being scantily clad was efficient and professional. The bill for all three of us came in at just over twenty four dollars, well below the ten dollar lunch barrier. I picked up the tab since somebody else did the last time, the boys thanked me like it was a big deal. For all their other flaws, and there are quite a few, Doug and Rod are genuinely nice guys. That is unless you bring up politics, then Doug goes all zealously scorched-earth.

I can’t speak for Hot Shots at prime-time, but for a working day lunch it was pretty good, except for the ashtray smell and the too-loud music. Given those two things I’d prefer Maryland Yards just across the street.