The unlikely links between "the boss" and the debutantes

I had an assortment of chips on my shoulders in high school. (Admit it, so did you. It's a requisite part of teenage angst.) I was acutely aware that I was the poor, fat, socially awkward kid in the school full of rich, beautiful, socially adept young ladies. I felt the differences keenly and, as jealous people often do, set out to prove that what they were all about was unimportant, and I could differentiate myself in other ways.

I was particularly fortunate in that I sought my differentiation in academics and student journalism, productively channelling those negative feelings into the track record that would get me into Northwestern. You certainly wouldn't be reading this blog now if I'd gone for drugs, sex and rock and roll. (Though I might have had more to write about.) Later, I tried to differentiate with a fantastic social life, travel, career and living overseas. All elements that could help me dismiss the importance of being pixie cute, well financed by your father and sought after by boys from the St. Louis establishment.

As with so many legacies of high school, those chips sat on my shoulders for a LONG time. For many years I dreaded the high school gatherings that happened so frequently in cozy St. Louis society. No matter how successful or glamorous my life became, I always felt that I was looked down upon because I hadn't managed to become an adorable soccer mom with well groomed children and a prosperous husband. It took the passage of time and the accrual of maturity to realise that nobody was actually judging me. I was far more distressed about my single, childless state than were my classmates; I suppose it was just easier to get defensive about their perceived sleights than to be honest about my fears and perceived shortcomings.

All this introspective background is meant to give context to how remarkable a step it was for me to be out with the Villa girls (class of 82), and, indeed, for it to be one of the highlights of my visit home. Comfortable, having a great time and appreciating the sense of community between us. (Although a bit amused and embarrassed about what a "special treat" it was for most of the rest of them to be out in a noisy bar quaffing alcohol and having a good gossip. Their exotic evening out is my run of the mill existence.)

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by the easy rapport that now exists. After all, I spent ages 3 - 17 with many of these women. It shouldn't surprise me that the connections have lasted through the chips on the shoulder. While it's almost inconceivable that I'll ever move back to St. Louis, it's a real delight having such a solid base of friends there, particularly when I need support when dealing with family issues. It turns out that old friends, like fine wines, mature beautifully.

Of course it wasn't me against the whole high school world in 1982. I had my soul mates and fellow rebels, and it was with one of those that I took in the Bruce Springsteen concert a few nights later. This seemed particularly appropriate. Bruce was as close as a Villa girl got to music of rebellion. Punk was admittedly way too extreme for me, but associating with the hard driving rock and roll of the New Jersey working class seemed exotic and as far away from the world of St. Louis debutantes as one could get. And he sounded good.

I saw Springsteen in college. He was doing his "Tunnel of Love" tour. Good, but not extraordinary, probably because his somber, post-divorce mood was flavouring much of his musical choice. Those days are long gone. He has put many more albums behind him and seems to be in a resolutely cheery state of mind. At least if we judge on the composition of his musical sets for this concert, which were almost all drawn from his infectious, stand-up-and-dance-while-bellowing-along songbook. We rarely sat down through the remarkable, non-stop three hours he performed. In addition to the continual flow of songs we knew and loved, Bruce scattered some fantastic cover versions of other people's danceable tunes throughout. "And then she kissed me", "twist and shout" and "mountain of love" all deserve official Springsteen recordings.

Of course, as with so many people who've been around for a long time, there's something almost religious in the communality of the concert experience. Where else, these days, do you get thousands of people pouring their hearts out in jubilation, singing anthems as one? Hymn writers would be delighted, though none of them ever conceived of 20,000 happily howling "because tramps like us, baby we were born to run." I am quite sure that by the middle of the encore we had achieved time travel, because as we were "dancing in the dark" we were both 19 again, it was 1984 and the ghostly walls of a fraternity house were shimmering around me. Springsteen himself has surely discovered some time-defying magic, because he's just as sexy now as he was then, looking and performing like a 38-year-old instead of his actual 58.

Although I hung my, admittedly weak, rebel credentials on Bruce in the '80s, it was his concert that proved to me that I never really rebelled at all. My friend's husband, on hearing that I'd never owned a concert tee shirt, offered to go get me one. Much as I love Bruce, I refused. There are certain fashion lines I am just never going to cross. Clearly, once a Villa girl ... always a Villa girl.

Raise a cold Bud in memory of St. Louis' lost corporate headquarters

When the American press in general, and Barak Obama in particular, bemoaned the loss of Anheuser Busch ownership to Belgian InBev, European newspapers rang with accusations of protectionism. This is, of course, a common theme. The European media finds it difficult to believe that any American could be a well-educated internationalist who understands and plays competently on the global stage. I consider myself to be one such American, but I was in deep mourning the day of the takeover announcement. I grieved not because evil foreigners were buying our brewery, but because St. Louis was losing yet another corporate HQ. Another puncture in the civic economy would see more jobs draining away, leaving the Gateway to the West with more glorious history, more empty buildings and fewer of the top level corporate jobs that fuel a vibrant economy.

Admittedly, St. Louis was already on the downturn at my birth. Most historians say the slide began more than 100 years years ago when short-sighted river ferry owners blocked construction of a bridge over the Mississippi here, forcing the project upriver to a backwater in Iowa. Allowing another backwater called Chicago to become the midwestern hub for the new railways. Despite that spectacular piece of short sightedness, St. Louis was still a respectable corporate hub in my youth. Anheuser Busch shared the stage with TWA, who made St. Louis' airport a gateway to the world. Both McDonnell Douglas and General Dynamics ran their operations from here. Pet Foods fed people and Ralston Purina fed the nation's pets and farm animals. There was Mallinckrodt chemicals, Southwestern Bell Corp and a formidable group of local banks. All are gone, most acquired by out of town firms and downscaled to regional offices with fewer jobs and far less prestige. And of course there was the Globe Democrat; not a global enterprise but a venerable paper whose death as I graduated from journalism school had a direct impact on the shrinking job market that would eventually be a factor in my move away.

Against these gloomy musings, I decided a tour of the Anheuser Busch brewery in its final days of independent glory was essential. As expected, the tour is a demonstration of AB's mastery of marketing and public relations. Let's hope InBev recognises a good thing and leaves them to get on with it.

These days the entire brewery complex is behind gates and you have to take the tour to see anything. (In the old days, you could wander around on your own and pop into the Clydesdale stable with a sugar cube or two for the gentle giants.) A new visitor centre at the top of the hill holds a bright, enticing museum and a huge gift shop. Tours leave from there and take a meandering one mile route, all downhill, to show visitors the brewing process, the horses and the architecture. I've toured a (perhaps alarmingly) large number of breweries, distilleries and vineyards, but never a complex with architecture like this.

There's the turn of the century Clydesdale stables with their stained glass and chandelier from the French pavilion at the 1904 World's Fair. (The matching one is in the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas.) The brewhouse is a festival of wrought iron, custom painted tiles and more amazing chandeliers, these festooned with delicate brass hops. And then there's my favourite element, the larger-than-human foxes in German costume sitting on the corners of the bottling plant hoisting a beer. This is a remarkably beautiful set of buildings, all the more amazing given their prosaic purpose.

The tour is up to any lofty expectation. It's well scripted and well delivered by the cheerful and competent staff without falter. The pace is perfect, the jokes well placed, the facts delivered with colourful commentary. After finishing up at the bottom of the hill, a bus disguised as an old-fashioned trolley car returns you to the visitor centre where you get to sample two beers of your choice. No dinky sample cups here, but full glasses of anything across the product range. (Not much of a beer drinker, I was particularly partial to the new Michelob cranberry and raspberry beer, which tastes like the best of the fruit beers I've sampled in Belgium.) And it's all for free. Is it any wonder that the city loves its brewery, and that Midwesterners drink more beer per capita than any other region of America? Let's hope InBev's touch is as light as a low carb beer.

On another trip down a corporate memory lane later in the week, I ended up at the James S. McDonnell planetarium at the St. Louis Science Center. This was the location for a meeting with the X Prize, a non-for-profit organisation with deep aerospace roots that's a key partner in my company's marketing. We were treated to a private tour by the director, and I found myself on familiar territory. McDonnell Douglas was my first proper job, and I loved the place. As you'd expect from the naming, much of the glorious corporate history is reflected here, and I had a great time looking back at St. Louis' aerospace roots as well as my own professional ones. I was also mightily impressed by how much the museum has developed from the humble institution of my childhood. It's clearly one of the top museums in the country these days, and if I'd had a small boy in tow I'd have returned for multiple hours of exploration.

The growth of the Science Center sparked a bit of optimism in my civic gloom. Despite the departure of the big HQs, this museum has managed to grow into a top ranked institution. Curious to see what headquarters where still around to fund such things, a bit of research reminded me that AG Edwards, Edward Jones, Express Scripts, Charter Communications and Build-A-Bear all run national operations from here. It's not the old days, but it's respectable.

So whether it's in memory of the past or in hopes of the future, seems like there's plenty of reason to hoist an icy cold Anheuser Busch product of your choice. Like your correspondent, AB's brains may end up living in another country, but part of its heart will always be in its birthplace. That's real globalisation.

St. Louis delivers a double surprise: A benign August and a classy winery

Thanks to the magic of digital communications, I'm working from St. Louis for six weeks while helping my Mom with some health issues. No one with any knowledge of this city, and certainly no one who spent her formative years here, would choose to visit St. Louis in August unless compelled by circumstances beyond her control. It is usually a hellish steam bath of heat, high humidity, relentless sun and little breeze.

It lived up to expectations the first few days. Fully acclimatised to England, I struggled to walk the dogs around the block. The air seemed almost too thick to breathe, the temperature draining. I stayed beneath the shelter of the trees, seeking any shade I could find. The view of forest out the back of my childhood home remains lush and green, but it was too hot to sit on the deck. Sticky and uncomfortable, even at night, when the mosquitos and flies attacking your exposed skin and the crickets and locusts sending there unnerving chorus from the trees are the only things that seem to have enough energy to move.

And then, thank God, rain. Serious rain of the type I've only ever seen in the midwest. Continuous, unrelenting streams lashing down for hours with the pressure of a garden hose on full bore. Lightening flashing and thunder rumbling continuously, all night long. Nature in all her fury rolling through the great plains, rivers and valleys of the heartland, consolidating all that nasty humidity into nourishment for the cornfields below.

And then: magic. In a once-in-my-lifetime event, the humidity hasn't come back. It's sunny and pleasant. High 60s and low 70s at night, low to mid-80s during the day. Which means you can actually enjoy what a lovely place this is, rather than cowering in dark, air-conditioned rooms waiting for the heat to break in late September.

I've been taking advantage of this miracle by getting outside a lot once I finish my workday. (Which is quite an early day to get maximum cross-over with the UK.) I'm taking lots of long walks around the sprawling subdivision in which my parents became the seventh homeowners 35 years ago; now there are hundreds of homes all aging nicely along streets shaded by mature oaks. I have my quick, one-mile and three-mile routes down, none of which seems to have the slightest impact on the energy levels of my mother's new cavalier King Charles puppy, Datchet. (My own beloved Darcy has never had this kind of oomph.)

Pleasant evenings meant we could enjoy one of the areas many free outdoor concerts in municipal parks. We headed to our local option, Chesterfield's Faust Park, for a rousing evening with a band called "Cornet Chop Suey" whose full brass section delivered a toe-tapping range of old fashioned jazz and big band music rich with the traditions of New Orleans, Memphis and St. Louis. A perfect night, except for the accidental run-in between my blackberry and a leaking picnic hamper. The water won. But that's another story.

The weekend before, we'd taken advantage of the weather to head to the wine country. Wine country, you ask? Yes indeed. In the early 20th century, Missouri was the top wine producer in the United States. (And was dominating beer production as well, of course. A veritable wellspring of alcohol.) The Missouri river valley had been settled in the mid-1800s by Germans fleeing political conflict at home, attracted by descriptions that promised conditions much like their native ones. With the Moselle fresh in my mind I can only violently agree with that original observation. Missouri wines in the German tradition flourished, we developed our own grape varieties (Norton and Chardonel) and all was well with the world. Then some spoil sports in Washington tried to regulate the nation's morality with the failed experiment of prohibition, and killed off an entire industry as a consequence.

The Missouri wine industry was mostly dormant until the recent past when American tastes started turning back to wine and some agricultural entrepreneurs thought they'd try to revive old traditions. There is now a wide variety of vineyards along the Missouri, some of them producing respectable and award winning stuff. (Following their German heritage, the whites have always been pretty good, the reds more challenging to produce.) But the vineyard visiting experience has never been a particularly elegant one. More Grinzing, Austria, than Napa, California, Missouri Valley vineyards have typically been picturesque spots where residents of St. Louis and Kansas City decamp with large picnic hampers to get wasted on multiple bottles of cheap plonk while the poor designated driver appreciates the view. It's been about wine guzzling, not wine tasting.

Spotting a hole in the market, a group of local investors has entered with Chandler Hill. My first impression? I can't believe I'm in Missouri. The architecture, ethos and atmosphere is all pure Californian. Only the view (which is, I believe, much better) is pure Missouri. There's a substantial tasting bar which can probably accommodate up to 40 people at a time, staffed with people who clearly know what they're doing and could provide a good description of what you were getting.

(A note to Europeans: unlike our wineries, where tastings are free and you try a few things you like before buying at least one courtesy bottle if the stuff was decent, American tastings are more formal and charge. You pay a fee for a certain number of tastes, then your host takes you through a range. This does at least free you from the guilt of buying wines you don't much like out of a desire to be polite.)

The cathedral-like space of the tasting room has plenty of space for tables, and one end is dominated by a limestone fireplace and chimney, fronted by big couches, that should make for a cozy space in the winter or for private tastings. French doors lead out to a massive deck, elegantly furnished in all-weather wicker couches, coffee tables and tables, with plenty of umbrellas and a wide veranda to provide cover from the sun. The hillside of vines stretches away and down to a lake and the 19th-century house of Joseph Chandler, a freed slave who'd travelled North and settled here on land next to more famous neighbours: Daniel Boone's family. The longer view takes in the whole Missouri River valley, all the way to the white limestone bluffs on the far side, shining starkly out from the otherwise unremitting carpet of green.

Despite only being open for three weeks, the place was packed. The magnificent weather had to help. The target market seemed to be turning up; the crowd looked older, less rowdy and more affluent than the typical denizens of some of the more established wineries. The food also looked good, although we'd just had lunch so didn't sample. The one missing element at this point is the local wine.

The vineyards are too young to produce anything good enough to ferment. Although their are plans afoot to make balsamic vinegar and cooking sauces with this autumn's crop. The owners are going the wholesale route to produce a range of Missouri wines they can label their own. They're drinkable, but to my (admittedly jaded) European palette, nothing particularly special. Surprisingly for anything bearing a Missouri label, the reds were better than the whites. We bought a couple of bottles of their Old Bridge Chambourcin, which improved considerably when matched, once home, with barbequed pork steaks. My pick was their top of the price range Savage Norton Dry. Undeniably good, but at $24.99 a bottle you can get far tastier foreign options for a better price. Chandler Hill has some work to do here. But the obvious investments in infrastructure and staff give me confidence they'll eventually produce something as impressive as their business plan.

Meanwhile, time, sun and vines will just have to be left to do their work. Humans may have some issues with Missouri's summer weather, but the grapes love it.

Familiarity breeds a bit of affection as I return to New York City

Regular readers of this blog will know that I'm not crazy about New York City. But I have to admit, the more I visit, the more I enjoy it. While I'm still not going to place it on my Top 10 list, I will admit: New York and I are starting to get along.

This was a business trip with a sightseeing weekend tacked on the end, and Mom brought along for a treat. We indulged in all the New York tourism standards: theatre, Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, Fifth Avenue, mile-high sandwiches. Everything, really, except shopping. (I have a month stretching ahead in St. Louis. Why buy anything in pricey NYC?)

The highlight had to be the unexpected treat of getting into one of the hottest shows in town, South Pacific. (Deep thanks go to a colleague at my advertising agency with fine connections in the entertainment industry.) This revival has received rave reviews and is one of the toughest tickets in New York to get; they're sold out 'til October. It's also one of the few New York musicals not playing in London, and I wanted to see something I couldn't get at home.

Of course, it would be hard to do South Pacific badly. It has to be one of the finest musicals of all time, with a soundtrack that delivers one romatic standard after another. I would imagine most people (at least most with a decent range of songs from the classic age of American songwriting on their iPod) can sing along with the majority of the show without even thinking about it. Of course, don't try that here. The cast delivers a range of voices that deserve to be appreciated for every note. Great sets, sensitive direction, fantastic acting. I hope this one does come to London; it's a guaranteed hit on either side of the Atlantic.

We opted for a combined ticket with City Sights NY for our sightseeing transportation. $64 per person got us tickets good for 72 hours that included four different bus tours and the boat out to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis island. We didn't use half of the potential, but it was still a good deal. Live guides provide commentary, giving me lots of new insight into the city. I particularly enjoyed the uptown tour, which took you up and down the two sides of Central Park (pointing out where the rich and famous live) and zig-zagging through Harlem, which is a vibrant and rather genteel community not at all deserving of its rough reputation. The downtown tour took me past more familiar sights, and established a list in my head of places to which I'd like to return.

The pinnacle of the sightseeing, however, was the cruise out to Liberty and Ellis Islands. I'd been to Liberty Island and the Statue of Liberty as a kid. (Back when you could climb to the crown; a different age.) Mom had never been. So it was great fun to explore together. Lady Liberty is at her most impressive when you're standing directly beneath her. These days, in a harbour surrounded by skyscrapers, massive cruise ships and tankers, she doesn't seem that big from a distance. But get next to her and you realise what a monumental feat her construction is, and how beautiful she is as a work of art. We skipped going into the base, which contains a museum and requires advance reservations. But if you had more time, I'm sure it would be worth it.

More important to us was moving on to Ellis Island. If you don't have a personal connection to this place, it would just be mildly interesting. But for my mother and me, as for millions of Americans, it was an emotional journey back to the place where part of our family's American story started. My grandfather arrived here as a young boy in 1906. Was he frightened? Excited? Overwhelmed? Questions I wish I would have asked him when he was still around, but which the child-me never considered. The managers of the museum do a great job of trying to answer those questions for us, with exhibits that track the immigrants' experiences and their impact on America's growth. It's sobering to realise that this place had been abandoned, fallen into complete ruin and was almost torn down. What a tragedy that would have been for American history. As part of the fundraising to get the building restored, organisers built a wall featuring names of hundreds of thousands of immigrants who'd passed through the island and whose families later donated funds in their memory. We found my grandfather amongst a substantial list of Ferraras. All along the wall, visitors were stroking names. Some smiling, some laughing, some crying. All, no doubt, thinking about those brave adventurers who made our lives and our country such an impressive place.

Back on Manhattan, the visit was dominated by the quest for the perfect deli sandwich and slice of cheesecake, with a cold can of diet Dr. Brown's cream soda to wash it down.

Don't panic, Ferrara's View isn't sliding downmarket on you. Of course New York is filled with elegant dining opportunities to match those of any world capital. Out with colleagues, I enjoyed several magnificent and potent cocktails called "Parker"s in the sophisticated lounge of the Algonquin hotel before heading off to dinner at DB's Bistro Moderne. No, you cretins, it's not some "Sex in the City" libation named after Sarah Jessica Parker. This fine twist on the martini honours Dorothy Parker, the rapier-witted author who formed part of the circle of writers who hung out here and made the place famous in the early 20th century. No doubt they pack enough of a punch to deliver on one of Parker's more famous quotes: "after three, I'm under the table, after four, I'm under my host." But we moved on to dinner before there was any danger of that.

DB's is a more casual offering from famous New York chef Daniel Boulud, providing fine French food in a buzzy, modern setting in midtown. It is perhaps most famous as being the place that started the Manhattan gourmet burger wars, introducing what at the time was the world's most expensive hamburger. One of my colleagues tried this concoction: a ground mix of sirloin, fois gras and short ribs topped with truffles. I went for a more traditional grilled haddock option, preceeded by some beautifully prepared artichoke soup, which thrilled with its simple presentation of that vegetable's unique taste.

Both excellent culinary experiences. But, short of touching the ghosts of the Algonquin Round Table and hoping some of their literary magic rubs off on me, all things I can match quite easily in London. What I can't get ... anywhere outside of New York, really ... is a pastrami on rye with hot mustard and a giant pickle, piled 10 inches high and delivered by a big guy with an accent straight out of central casting.

We conducted a compare-and-contrast exercise at two famous delis: Katz and the Carnegie. Katz' is downtown on Houston and is the pick of most of the tour guides. The atmosphere is fantastic; a big, casual dining room gives everyone the chance to watch the production along the long deli counter. We opted for a classic Rueben here, and got that satisfying taste sensation of corned beef, Russian dressing, gooey cheese and sauerkraut. One of Katz's claim to fame is that their meats are hand cut. You get thick wedges of meat rather than the wafer-thin shavings of most other delis. I suppose it depends on your taste, but this did not seem an advantage to me. It made the sandwich almost impossible to eat, as the meat was too tough to sever with your teeth, and emphasised the fattiness of the corned beef.

Ergo, the prize must go to the Carnegie Deli. More expensive (inevitable due to its mid-town location near Carnegie Hall) and less atmospheric (you're wedged in at shared tables with other diners into a space that's cramped and rather dark), I thought both their sandwiches and their cheesecake had the edge on Katz. A warning to the uninitiated: at either place, it's best to split a sandwich or plan to take half home. My half of a $21 sandwich ... plus $3 sharing fee ... at Carnegie (turkey, corned beef and swiss on rye) was then split in half again, providing generous amounts for both lunch and a dinner snack on the plane home that night.

Plenty of places around America try to copy the experience, but there's nothing quite like the proper New York deli. Whether Katz', Carnegie, or places yet to be discovered ... long may they be dishing up the nosh.