There was a do in a mansion in Huntleigh Estates. High school classmate. Sprawling place in verdant grounds, tastefully decorated in the most traditional of styles. Bustling staff of caterers circulating hors d'oeuvres from a kitchen the size of our entire ground floor. Well-maintained middle aged folks (it was a 50th birthday party) still wearing the same Lilly Pulizer print sundresses, Brooks Brothers madras plaid bermudas, needlepoint belts and monogrammed accessories they wore in high school. The Englishman was both horrified and fascinated by St. Louis fashion. Everyone clustered around an outdoor bar complete with embedded flat screen TV and proper beer taps next to an outdoor sitting room and stone fireplace. It was pretty much my high school scene, but we were partying on the main floor rather than being limited to the basement.
Another party at my "second parents" in Chesterfield, in whose basement I practically lived. Now we were setting out elegant table decor under a tent beside a perennial garden worthy of an English manor, establishing the bar and supervising the caterers for a 50th wedding anniversary party. Not quite so palatial, but still elegant and sophisticated enough to debunk any myth of backwards good-old-boys from the hinterlands. Though we certainly had a taste of the real Midwest when a hail storm blew through our sunny day and wiped out both the bar and the table settings minutes before the guests arrived. Thanks to our English weather resilience, a crack team of helpers and American tumble driers, we had the tent re-set before the food was out.
On the restaurant scene, our second upscale dining outing (after the extraordinary Niche) was Vin de Set. I'd been here on a business dinner a few years before and was mightily impressed by the French-inspired food and terrific wine list served on a wide roof garden with clear views of the St. Louis arch. My plan: A chance to see the big St. Louis fireworks display without having to deal with the crowds. On this front, we succeeded. And while not quite as impressive as sitting in the park beneath the arch and seeing the rockets' red (and blue, and green, and yellow) glare reflect off its steel surface, watching from a distance with a glass of wine in your hand and no risk of getting crushed on the way back to the car was a fine evolution.
The restaurant, however, didn't impress me as much as last time. No drastic complaints, but nothing to dazzle. Most of us had steak and those all came out to the levels ordered. Shared appetisers of sea scallops on polenta were good, but extremely expensive; what they call a large scallop in the Midwest is a lot smaller that the similarly defined back in England. Steak tartare was interesting, served as a make-your-own plate with capers, red onions, sauce, etc. piled separately for you to combine with the beef; the dice on the meat was a bit too hearty both for delicacy of taste and ability to eat neatly. We ended with a shared cheese plate (good-sized slices and a nice variety of accompaniments) and a chocolate souffle roulade. Not sure where the souffle was on this; it was a good but completely average roulade only a step or two above a packaged, store-bought version.
The real problem was with the service. The waitress didn't seem to know much about what she was serving and was very forgetful. She'd drift off for long periods. At one point we grabbed another waiter to order wine and, when she learned of this, was visibly irritated with us. She got a bit more cheerful at the end ... when we came close to tipping time ... but this certainly wasn't the service I expect in American restaurants, where they're now expecting you to tip 18% to 20%. (We gave her an old-fashioned 15. In England, she'd be lucky to get 10.)
Performing far better than its last encounter was Schneithorst's. For several generations a German restaurant decked out like a Bavarian woodcarver's shop, they modernised about a decade ago by tearing down the old place, giving half of the space over to a strip mall and rebuilding as a casual beer cellar and cafe with an open-air beer garden on the rafters above. The story of Piers' last visit, when Piers irritated an already-grumpy waitress by insisting on his beer in an un-iced glass. It has become one of his favourite why-Americans-can't-do-beer-properly stories. A cheerful waiter named Zak and the fact that they only use plastic cups in the beer garden saved the day. The Englishman could now concentrate on the fact that Schneithorst's actually has a very respectable beer menu, and the plastic cups brought it out at the right temperature. Young Zak even scrambled downstairs to get one brew not stocked upstairs, and threw it in for free because of the inconvenience. And the food was good, too.But we couldn't stay away from Americana for too long. Three of our most enjoyable comfort food experiences were within walking distance of our local digs in downtown Kirkwood. The Kirkwood Custard Station is almost as good as Ted Drewes, but without the drive and the crowds. And with the benefit of a little stroll around the historic station and its gardens while you eat your ice cream. A chat with the train spotters reveals one of the odder similarities between America and Britain. Who could have imagined such an odd habit could exist on both sides of the pond?
McArthur's Bakery produces sweet treats in the finest St. Louis tradition. Far too sweet for The Englishman, but the cherry danish ("But those aren't Danish!", pointed out the also Half-Dane) were enough to make me very happy.
St. Louis can do upscale elegance, and affordable comfort food. Shame we've yet to find a place that does both. The quest continues...
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