St. Louis Eats and Drinks

Polite Society

The name Polite Society might be a two-edged sword for the Lafayette Square restaurant.

Co-owner Brian Schmitz said he and partner Jonathan Schoen were just trying to convey an air of pleasant behavior, particularly thinking about service. Polite Society definitely isn’t one of those stiff places where murmured conversation and dainty wiping of the lips is de rigeur. But it indeed is very pleasant, and service on this visit was good, casual – and definitely polite. (There were on my visit a table of mostly women, all wearing Serious Hats from the era of Lafayette Square’s first heyday. I suspect they came from a function nearby earlier that evening. But they were more the knocking-back-glasses-of-merlot types.)

Three high-ceilinged rooms make up the restaurant. The first houses the bar, the second is the larger of the two dining rooms, and the third, with brick walls, slightly quieter. But that’s relative; all these hard surfaces – ceilings, floors, walls, even windows and bare-top tables – that look good in restaurants don’t absorb sound waves. Especially in buildings this old, it’s a challenge. Expect some noise. As well, they’re still fine-tuning the nighttime light levels, thus the photos I show.

Diners should also expect to spend some time poring over the menu, at least on the first visit. There are lots of alluring things on it, a blessing and a curse. Slightly confusing – but increasingly common these days – are the multiple categories for what one presumes might be first courses. Appetizers, as well as Bites & Snacks, Charcuterie & Cheese and Soup & Salad all bedevil the indecisive.

We weren’t sure if the spatzle was a side or a bite, but we went with that and the deviled eggs. The spatzle? Think of it as an improvement on macaroni and cheese, with lots of creamy sauce, the nuttiness of gruyere enhanced with a very light hit of nutmeg. It was a large serving that arrived as an appetizer. It clearly could have been a side dish shared by the table – had not the main courses been very generously served as well. The dumplings themselves were tender, not rubbery but not falling apart, the whole thing enthusiastically received by the table.

Our only complaint was in our own timing with the order in which we tasted those things. Purely by chance, my pals and I all took a bite, maybe two, of the spatzle before trying the eggs. The first bite of the egg was overwhelmed by the residual from the cheesy little dumplings, this despite some water and/or some wine. It was an inadvertent mistake, but one I’d suggest avoiding. Because these deviled eggs are fantastic – rather lemony but not sour, the trout roe atop them giving a little saltiness and the fried capers lending some texture. They were good enough that we were using forks to get the extra filling used to anchor the three egg halves to the plate before we let the server take it away.

While Polite Society is not a German restaurant, another German-influenced dish popped up on a menu, chicken schnitzel. White meat of chicken wasn’t pounded thin, but firmly pressed down a few times to give a boneless chunk clad in crispy crumbs, a nice variation that to an American palate was more or less fried chicken. (It would make a killer sandwich.) Keeping an eye on things was what the menu termed an Austrian potato salad, warm discs of potato in a nice vinaigrette, plus some green salad leaves lightly dressed in a balsamic dressing, closer to sweet to contrast with the tartness of the potatoes.

And speaking of potatoes, the Potato Queen declared in favor of a bistro steak with frites. As ordered, it was medium-rare, perhaps not the most tender steak served in St. Louis that night, but adequate. More interesting, however, was the sauce served on the side. Called a sauce Foyot, an obscure offering from the classical French repertoire, it’s basically a bearnaise sauce that has concentrated meat juices stirred in to give it a little more body and oomph. Nice enough on the meat, certainly, but close to blissful when used as a dip for the fries, which clearly were housemade. The green vegetable on the plate was Brussels sprouts, heavily roasted. Not burnt, but many of the outer leaves were dark and crisp, a newer and perfectly acceptable variation. The sprout becomes a very different vegetable when it caramelizes so heavily.

Pork osso bucco, an abbreviated pork shank, moist and tender from a winy braise, charmed. A handsome variety of wee tomatoes marinated to a pleasant sharpness were a fine accent to the rich meat, the whole thing sitting on a polenta with goat cheese and just a hint of rosemary. Also a contrast to the richness was grilled red treviso, a chicory relative that brought its mild bitterness and a different chew to the whole thing. It’s a rugged, hearty dish, fine for the cool nights that we’ve been having.

A biscuit crust crowned the individual peach-blueberry cobbler, but it was put in the shade by the chocolate pretzel bread pudding. Not only is the visual presentation far more arresting than the average, a long narrow dish with a nicely irregular stretch of the pudding studded occasionally with fresh raspberries, a vanilla sauce drizzled over it, and a piece of hazelnut toffee jauntily perched center stage. Lovely to look at and arresting to taste, it’s dark chocolate, not so sweet, with one bite soft and full of the chocolate custard, another crisper, a third with just same plain chocolate. It’s the best bread pudding I’ve had in a long time, and if they take it off the menu, let’s plan to picket.

No lunch – yet – but they’re doing brunch on Saturday and Sunday, including a hash dish made with some of that pork osso bucco. Sounds good to me.

 

Polite Society

1293 Park Ave

314-325-2553

politesocietystl.com

Dinner nightly, Brunch Sat.-Sun

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Difficult

Smoking: No

Entrees: $15-$36

Agnes Wilcox

I first met Agnes Wilcox as one of the coterie of friends that were one of my husband’s inadvertent wedding gifts to me. She, too, was married to a theatre critic, Bob Wilcox, but in addition was running The New Theatre Company, which she’d founded. This meant, theoretically, that she was someone about whom I was to remain neutral.

As anyone who knew her will attest, that proved to be impossible. Agnes shimmered. Yes, she was physically attractive, but that wasn’t the thing – energy radiated from her, and enthusiasm as well. She wasn’t one of those hyperactive types – at least not when she was off duty, which is where I knew her – but she was interested in pretty much everything, not just theatre.

It’s not fair to say she collected interesting people. That makes it sound like deliberate, curated choices. People from many backgrounds, not just the arts, were drawn to her, and, more significantly, gathered in by her. The people at their house came from all over the globe and represented all sorts of occupations. One of her great skills was that she was an asker of superb questions, no matter the age of the person on the receiving end. And she would listen carefully and grasp the answer, allowing the other person to expound at any length needed. Only occasionally was a tactful diversion ever needed. This made her a fine hostess, and an exceptionally good friend.

Memories of everything from running into her at a resale shop – the source, she said, of much of her elegantly boho wardrobe – to hearing her guffaw at a ribald story told in her kitchen as we broke the set after a party run through my brain.

Dear God, what a hole she leaves.

 

Uncle Vanya: Valiantly Accepting Next Year's Agony

“White nights” refers to the long, lingering twilights occur at far northern (and southern, of course) latitudes such as Russia. A gathering of people having tea just before dusk is happening several times currently in town. It’d be a good idea to join them.

Rebels and Misfits’ Immersive Theatre Project is giving us an utterly charming take on Chekhov with Uncle Vanya: Valiantly Accepting Next Year’s Agony. Staged in a private home in Ladue that’s now occupied by the Serebryakovs and their guests and staff – a lovely dacha far from the nearest town – it manages to make Chekhov downright lighthearted at times.

Both through Kelly Hummert’s direction and the excellent casting, it seems not unreasonable to believe we’re at that dacha, not a handsome mid-20th century home. Retired literature professor Serebryakov (Peter Mayer), who had been widowed, and his much younger and very beautiful second wife Yelena (Sophia Brown) have come to live there. It’s a largish property that also houses his daughter from the earlier marriage Sonia (Francesca Ferrari), the mother-in-law from that marriage (Suzanne Greenwald), and his late wife’s brother, Ivan, known as Vanya (Andrew Michael Neiman). Dr. Astrov (Jim Butz) is a frequent visitor, and there’s the nanny for the multiple generations (Donna Weinsting) and Waffles, a fellow who lives on the land (Kent Coffel).

Don’t worry about keeping the Russian names straight in your head. You’re not going to get these characters mixed up. And for all the characters that seem frequently to complain of boredom, things move smoothly, and, thanks to the setting, it’s easy to believe that we’re just invisible sprites watching this family work their way through love and lust and ennui.

It is indeed a cast crackling with energy that sparks at both the expected times and the unexpected. Jim Butz’ monologue in the kitchen is marvelous and his interaction with a beeping appliance is fully, hysterically, in character. I suspect the malfunctioning appliance is a one-time phenomenon, but there’s enough improv chops in this crowd that there’s more where this came from. Brown’s steaminess is well-controlled but easily identified, helped along by Christina Sittser’s costumes, including Brown’s slituptohere dresses, making for easy striding and flouncing. Mayer’s aging professor, a man who wants the help to address him as “Your Excellency”, grouses and grumbles and glares as we try to discover if he’s really the great man, or if he’s just fooling everyone including himself.

Neiman’s Vanya comes to us as a fascinating guy, not quite verging on being a ne’er do well, but having more-or-less contentedly been spinning his wheels these past decades despite his apparent intellect. Ferrari’s Sonia, aside from her one obvious passion, is a woman of mystery, a quiet facade almost completely covering competence and energy. Weinsting’s nanny has a good time running the tea party and tossing in the occasional pointed remark.

This is a production with great zip, beautifully conceived and executed. The location and specifics are on the website – see the section titled Rules of Engagement. Because of the size of the venue, tickets will be limited, and it sounds like they can’t be bought at the door, or, in this case, the driveway. Wear flat shoes; you’ll be walking on a lawn for a bit.

 

Uncle Vanya: Valiantly Accepting Next Year’s Agony

through September 3

Rebels and Misfits

theimmersivetheatreproject.com/

On the Road: Potatoes in New York City

It’s no secret that I’m pretty crabby on the subject of morning potatoes. The last place I expected to find platonic antemeridianal spuds was New York City. But there they were, smiling and waving at me from a plate across the street from the Whitney Museum, in an eatery with the unlikely name of Bubby’s. (This is also at the southern end of the Highline elevated park.)

Styled home fries on the menu, they’re slices of panfried potatoes of varying thickness, some fried to dark crispness. They’re laced, indeed, loaded with enough onions, also cooked to varying degrees of doneness but all lending their sweet savor to things. They’re seasoned with just a wee bit of heat, scarcely noticeable until the mouth is empty.

Bubby’s is not a diner, although they serve three meals a day. And it’s not cheap – an omelet with local goat cheese and a fresh New Jersey corn-and-tomato salsa was $22. But frankly, the omelet was superfluous with those babes. All the potatoes really needed was a couple of over-easy eggs – which the kitchen is willing to do. And breakfast is served until 4 p.m. (Take that, dratted hangover!)

Bubby’s is also proud of their pie; I had a nice slice of cherry, or “sour cherry”. (Surely even in New York, they’re not making cherry pie with the dark sweet cherries?) It clearly wasn’t fresh from the oven, but warmed a bit and served with a buttery-thick scoop of whipped cream. They also have a counter in the back serving ice cream from Ample Hills Creamery in Brooklyn, including “ooey gooey butter cake” ice cream. Inquiries about th etiology of that have gone unanswered by the creamery thus far.

The location means the competition is Danny Meyer’s Untitled across the street in the museum. But Danny’s not doing breakfast. I’m sure he’d like these potatoes.

Bubby’s also has a second restaurant, at 120 Hudson Street in Tribeca.

 

Bubby’s

73 Gansevoort St., New York City

212-206-6200

www.bubbys.com

Breakfast, lunch and dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Breakfast Entrees: $15-$24

Suburban Baltimore: Conrad's Crabs

Folks don’t dress up for seafood in Baltimore.

There, as in New Orleans, it’s an ordinary part of everyday life, not something that calls for nice shoes and something a step up from a t-shirt. Sure, there are fancier spots, but there are also neighborhood hangouts and restaurants folks say their parents took them to when they were kids. Conrad’s Seafood Restaurant, in Perry Hall, one of Baltimore’s northern suburbs, feels like that sort of place. (Baltimore, like St. Louis, is a city not in a county – although, strangely, there are no incorporated municipalities in it.) They’ve only been open since 2003, though, when Tony Conrad, a commercial waterman, decided to open his own spot. Now there’s his seafood market, which also serves food, and this restaurant.

Our clan ended up here to celebrate the biggest and the last of a series of three graduations over the spring and summer. As the matriarch, I was under considerable pressure to lead them to a spot that worked on multiple levels, including for my two vegetarians. But it was Baltimore. Surely we had to have seafood at least one night! The careful choice of Conrad’s turned out to be a hit.

 

The feel is deeply casual, with a busy bar, a couple of dining rooms, a rooftop dining area and sinks in the dining room for post-prandial cleanup. An order of steamed crabs is preceded by a large sheet of heavy brown kraft paper that’s laid over the table, the easier to clean things up with. For good measure, there’s now an in-house bakery that serves desserts a step beyond what you might expect in such a place.

Things kicked off with a couple of baskets of popcorn seasoned with what turned out to be the house version of crab seasoning, similar to Old Bay brand, but with less celery seed. The crab neophyte and the vegetarians agreed with the Old Hands that this was a tasty start.

The rather Greekish Conrad salad wore feta bits mixed with tomato, cucumber, red onion, kalamata olives and greens; its dressing used white balsamico, producing a mildly sweet note to go with a little oregano. Housemade Caesar dressing was deeply savory, the croutons were crisp but not tooth-breaking, and the romaine lettuce chilly and crisp, a fine version of the classic.

Crab wontons? Yes, indeed, obviously made by hand, absolutely delicious because they were very crabby, with the proper dipping sauce of soy and some black vinegar, although the sauce was superfluous. Littleneck clams on the halfshell didn’t fare so well, simply because they had been carelessly opened with bits of shell in more than half of them.

The Young Carnivore had his first encounter with steamed crabs. Next time he and I will split a bigger order of larger crabs, but these were an encouraging introduction, the house seasoning sprinkled generously over them rendering things spicy but not palate-numbing, the shellfish carefully cooked. Wooden mallets are the instrument of choice; I admit on these little guys I missed having a pick to winkle out bits from the carapace.

And then, sweet heaven, there were the crab cakes. This is the reason people who know get so fussy about crab cakes. Large lumps, barely held together, not a huge amount of seasoning, just molecule after molecule of delicate, briny flavor, rich and satisfying. The menu says it’s a 5-ounce crabcake, and I think that’s accurate. To touch these with tartar sauce or cocktail sauce would be desecration. Maybe if you lived next door and could eat them every day, it might be okay. Otherwise….

Cioppino, the fish stew from the Left Coast showcased a lovely seared fillet of rockfish, plus mussels, more clams, shrimp and plenty of calimari. The seafood broth was a dark bronze and slightly thick, a change from the usual, a little peppery and clearly seriously full of seafood juices. In any other place, it would have been a star; here, it took a back seat to the crab dishes. Our vegetarians fell all over themselves with the pasta primavera, fettucini with things like broccolini, spinach, peas and several cloves of sweet roasted garlic, all lightly hit with pesto, a very different version of the dish.

The french fries are house-cut, piping hot; it was difficult to find time to eat the equally skinny roasted asparagus that our consciences made us order, too. Jambalaya is available as a side, a Creole version since it includes tomatoes. Moist as a risotto, the holy trinity of Louisiana cooking, onion, bell peppers and celery, giving lots of flavor, it probably should have been an entree.

In a move vaguely reminiscent of dessert time at Pastaria, the Young Vegetarian and I went trooping off to the bakery case near the front of the house to inspect our options. Someone is doing some serious pastry work there. I’d hoped for a version of the multi-layered Smith Island cakes, but since this isn’t a place that caters to curious tourists, I suppose it would be coals to Newcastle. What we did find was more than worthwhile, ranging from the traditional to contemporary.

Closest to the usual was a large chocolate eclair, very proper with its chocolate glaze and vanilla custard filling, the choux pastry damp and chewy from living in a refrigerator case for a while. That’s an accepted deviation from the norm. In fact, the chewy factor is part of the charm of an eclair. Very tender indeed was the coconut custard cake, its narrow vertical slab having crunchy sugar sides, the top showered with coconut shreds. “Tastes like the Zinger of your dreams,” remarked someone.

The king of the course, though was titled merely “Lemoncello”, although if there was any of the increasingly popular Italian liqueur in the dessert, it wasn’t noticeable. No loss, though; there was plenty of serious lemon flavor in the layers of cake, lemon mousse and a shiny lemon layer thickened with gelatin on top. Lovely textures and still moist despite having been assembled an unknown amount of time previously, it beguiled.

This is just the sort of place that ought to have reliable help, the sort that stays on the job for years, both in the front and the back of the house. Our server certainly filled that bill despite her youth, answering newbie questions and able to go into deep detail on certain dishes, keeping things moving although it was a busy weekend night.

If you’re considering a visit, remember, this is a menu with plenty of options for non-seafood eaters, rather than just that obligatory pasta dish. (Fajitas? Rack of lamb?) We did make reservations, and were glad we did; people were waiting when we arrived. For a party of six, as we were, it’s foolhardy not to unless you’re eating at a very odd hour. There’s valet parking. Belair Road is a commercial street but it’s surrounded by neighborhoods and the parking lots are smaller than the capacity of the restaurant.

Next time: Both kinds of crab soup. More crabs, more crabcake, and possibly the softshell crab Cuban sandwich. More fries and that lemoncello!

 

Conrad’s Seafood Restaurant

9654 Belair Rd., Perry Hall MD

410-529-FISH

conradscrabs.com/perryhall

Lunch and dinner daily, Sunday brunch

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Entrees: $15-$29 and crabs at market price (just ask)

On the Road: ATL, Hartsfield-Jackson Airport (and two other suggestions)

Can we agree that most airport food is pretty unsatisfying? Accordingly, when good stuff pops up, it’s worth noting. I have a few standards I always suggest – but with the reminder that part of the trick is being in the right terminal. It’s no good to hope for Danny Meyer’ Shake Shack at JFK if you’re in Terminal 1, 2 or 3,and you have only an hour between planes. It’s in Terminal 4 – two of them, in fact – but you’d have to go through security to get to a Shackburger. Not a pretty sight.

One choice spot that’s before security is Dooky Chase’s in the Louis Armstrong International Airport in New Orleans, in the West Terminal. That fine fried chicken keeps its flavor for your onboard meal, too.

If you’re flying Southwest through Atlanta, which means you’re on Concourse C, there’s definitely a choice worth nothing. Pay no attention to the Chick-Fil-A. Next to it is a branch of the legendary Varsity. I was moving too fast to check the chili dogs for which they’re known but I succumbed to an order of onion rings after I spied a long rod of single rings being dipped in batter. Lovely, light beer-batter type of ring, worth one’s while for sure. But, like most o-rings, eat ‘em while they’re hot.

Note also that while the menu board lists only meals – two sandwiches and fries, for instance – I saw several people ordering just one burger and dog.

They’re apparently also on Concourse F.

 

The Varsity

Concourses C and F

Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport

Atlanta

and other locations in and around Georgia

Breakfast, lunch and dinner

thevarsity.com

9 to 5 The Musical

What fun it is to go to a show about which you’re hesitant – and come out grinning from ear to ear. Stages St. Louis’ current show is 9 to 5 The Musical, and for those of us who delighted in the movie, it was holding-our-breath time to see what surgery had been done.

Hooray, it’s as much fun as its parent.

If you missed the film, here’s the story – three women are working in an office in the late Seventies. Technically, they’re all secretaries, but Violet (Corrine Melancon) is a supervisor, and Judy ((Laura E. Taylor) a new hire. The third, Doralee (Summerisa Bell Stephens), is private secretary to Franklin Hart (Joe Cassidy) the big boss. Hart is dazzlingly offensive in everything from language (both condescending and moderately obscene) to grabs and leers and peering up skirts. Comeuppance is bound to happen. The use of the word “bound” is not by chance.

Dolly Parton wrote the title song and played Doralee in the film, then wrote the entire score for the musical. It sounds like her, with lyrics that are very relatable. Stephens does indeed channel Parton, and that’s not at all a complaint. The role was written for Parton, and Stephens’ delivery and the lines as written nail things perfectly – when she’s asked whether her breasts are real, her response is, “They’re as real as the hair on my head!” Hart, the lech, has told people at the office that she’s his mistress, but she’s not, and doesn’t know what he’s said.

Violet had Hart pass her over for promotions many times. She’s fed up. Melancon takes the role and makes it her own, a strong-but-struggling single mom flailing at her boss. She’s much closer to Allison Janney, who originated the role on Broadway, than to Lily Tomlin, who did the movie. Judy, the rookie whose husband has just left her for his 19-year-old secretary, has a fantasy scene, “The Dance of Death”, and Taylor particularly shines in the sudden change from hesitant to siren. The trio carry off the banter and physical comedy with considerable flair.

Cassidy’s Hart is a toxic waste zone, nothing to recommend him, not even style. He takes his liberties as though it were a birthright, so calm about much of it that it becomes even more believable than if more scenery-chewing were involved. Spooky – and realistic.

The women in the office are delightful. An almost unrecognizable Kari Ely is Roz Keith, a spy for Hart who explains her adoration for him in “Heart to Hart” . Regulars will recognize Zoe Vonder Haar as Margaret, the office lush, another high-spirited participant in the fun. And Steve Isom, as Judy’s wandering husband, dons the awful fashions of the era to great effect. I only wonder that they didn’t garb him in a full Cleveland, but Brad Musgrove’s costumes do very well indeed.

Michael Hamilton the theatre’s artistic director, led this production and did the staging. Dana Lewis’ choreography emphasizes the amusing and incongruous sight of guys in business suits dancing. It’s a simple-seeming set from James Wolk but gets a little more complex when it comes to comeuppance for Hart.

This is an absolute delight, with a story that comes roaring through and a cast that does it full justice. And, I might add, fairly timely, even now.

 

9 to 5 The Musical

through August 20

Stages St. Louis

The Robert G. Reim Theatre

Kirkwood Civic Center

111 S. Geyer Rd., Kirkwood

314-821-2407

www.stagesstlouis.org

Newsies the Musical

The 21^st century did not invent “fake news”. (As the widow, mother, mother-in-law, and stepmother of journalists, and in the interest of full disclosure, I will say the phrase makes my skin crawl.) It was going on in the United States even before the 20^th century. Late in the 1890’s newspaper wars, particularly in New York City, practiced what came to be known as yellow journalism. The origin of the phrase is arguable, but in general it referred to sensationalizing stories or slanting them, sometimes quite precipitously, to gain readership and/or to push an agenda. To be fair, the papers also carried stories that were accurate and free of bias, but it was the front page that drove circulation in the competition between William Randolph Hearst’s New York Journal and Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World.

That latter name sound familiar? Yes, the World was the second paper bought by Pulitzer. His first was the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, two newspapers he combined under one banner. Pulitzer is a pivotal character in the final show of the Muny’s 99^th season, Newsies the Musical.

Newspapers in New York in those days were mostly hawked by newsboys, known as newsies. They bought each “pape”, as they apparently called them, from the paper itself, at half the price they charged and then re-sold them. A hot headline drove sales, of course. Pulitzer, declaiming about profits, decided to raise the price he charged the newsies. Other papers followed, leading to a two-week strike, which the young workers won.

That’s the story line in Newsies, which introduces us to Jack Kelly (Jay Armstrong Johnson) and his pal Crutchie (Daniel Quadrino). Kelly’s the guy who comes up with the idea of the strike and fires up his band of adolescents, perhaps a little too old to be called ragamuffins, but certainly poor kids supporting themselves and living on the streets or helping support their families. They decide to form a union, helped by a new arrival, Davey (Spencer Davis Milford) and his little brother Les (Gabriel Cytron). The new guys’ father also worked for Pulitzer’s World but was let go after he was injured at work. As the idea begins to gather steam, a reporter – a woman! - appears, asking questions. Katherine Plumber (Tessa Grady) wants to move on from the society pages to serious news, and thinks this story could give her traction.

There’s plenty of interaction with Pulitzer (Davis Gaines) himself, plus his henchmen, as well as a successful Bowery theater owner, Medda Larkin (Ta’Rea Campbell), who sympathizes with the kids, and Medda’s friend, the governor of the state of New York, Theodore Roosevelt (Thad Turner Wilson) – whose election the Pulitzer paper had opposed. (Roosevelt, for those unfamiliar with his pre-presidential background, was quite a reformer.)

This is a Disney show, created after the slow-growing success of the movie of the same name, although changed and with some alteration of the score. Still, it’s a good bet that this is going to have a happy ending, and sure enough, that’s what we get, along with some laughs, and what may be the most athletic choreography of the Muny year from Chris Bailey, who also directed the production.

Johnson and Grady have terrific chemistry once the spark is finally lit, fun after their initial verbal fencing. Good work from Quadrino as the sidekick and Campbell who has a great number called “That’s Rich”. The rookie in the crowd, young Gabriel Cytron, carries things off flawlessly – he’s a charmer in the role. Gaines’ Pulitzer foregoes the Hungarian accent and feels very Wall Street.

Michael Schweikardt’s set is spare, befitting the poverty and slightly dusty newspaper dock where much of this takes place. But the video design of Greg Emetaz is rather splendid, lots of old photographs and paper-turning to reveal yet more. This is Bailey’s directorial debut. I am sure we’ll see a lot more from him.

Interestingly, by the mid-20^th century, the Pulitzer family was very union-friendly and the Post-Dispatch’s union employees felt valued and were well taken care of. The sale to Lee Enterprises changed all that, but those kids who went on strike left a mark that lived on after them. At least for a while.

Very family-friendly and good fun.

 

Newsies the Musical

through August 13

The Muny

Forest Park

www.muny.org

Is He Dead?

Is He Dead? could well be described as a melodrama of manners. St. Louis Shakespeare has brought in director Ed Coffield, a guy possessed of a fine hand with comedy, to handle this Mark Twain story, found only a few years ago and turned into a play by David Ives. Let me tell you, it’s pretty darned funny.

The artist Jean-Francois Millet, or, more accurately, Twain’s idea of him seen fifty years or so later, is at the center of the play. He’s young, struggling, and like all his friends, in debt to a scoundrel art dealer/loan shark. His pals persuade him to manufacture his death and pose as his widowed sister.

It’s a delightful cast, obviously carefully chosen for their fine dentition, as chewing the scenery is called for right and left. There’s nothing wrong with that; we’re not talking Arthur Miller or Eugene O’Neill here. Zac McMillan (above, left) is both Millet and Daisy, his “sister”. McMillan is fun to watch, especially in drag, and his posse keep up their ends of the bargain by running interference for him. They’re Chicago, Jack Zanger, with an unexplained Southern accent, O’Shaughnessy from Jacob Cange, and Dutchy, John Fisher, whose Germanic accent occasionally slipped into Irish early on, but whose body language and singing voice in one short scene, more than made up for things.

Ben Ritchie (above, right) gives us Bastien Andre, a classic villain, complete with curled moustache, swirling cape and fabulous eyebrows. (Extra points to sound designer for the great entrance theme for him.) Molly McCaskill is Millet’s girlfriend and Natalie Walker her sister with a thing for Chicago-the-Southerner, roles they seem to delight in; their father M. Leroux is Timothy Callahan, whose health improved remarkably when his debts were paid. Nicole Angeli and Jennifer Quinn carry their considerably less ladylike personae with high spirits and a notable amount of makeup and quaffing.

The guy with the most hats to wear, though, is Joe Cella, whose chapeaus included a crown. Between buttleing, reporting, reigning and a few other gerunds, he must have had a fine time, managing to outline all his characters with particularly bold strokes.

No moral uplift, no social message, a certain amount of slamming doors and off-color jokes. Just what we need this summer, I say. It’s almost illegally fun.

 

Is He Dead?

Through August 13

St. Louis Shakespeare

The Ivory Theatre

7620 Michigan Ave

http://www.stlshakespeare.org/

Ragtime The Musical

Could someone please figure out how to hook up Stray Dog Theatre’s new production of Ragtime The Musical to an energy cell? They’re generating enough voltage to keep the lights burning all over south St. Louis with this show.

The musical, based on E. L. Doctorow’s best-selling novel of the same name (and a strong recommendation for that, if you haven’t read it), takes place in the early years of the 20^th Century, spinning together the lives of three disparate families. Throw in Harry Houdini, Evelyn Nesbit, Emma Goldman, Booker T. Washington and that new kind of music known as ragtime, and what have you got?

What you have is like a nuclear reaction, carefully controlled but with immense power. Director Justin Been handles the largest cast in SDT’s history, 26 people, with precision and strength. The blocking alone – think about moving that many people around on the small stage at Tower Grove Abbey – must have kept him up nights. But it works. In fact, it thrills.

An affluent white family lives in the New York suburb of New Rochelle. Father (Phil Leveling) makes patriotic things like fireworks and bunting. Mother (Kay Love) raises The Little Boy (Joe Webb), Mother’s Younger Brother (Jon Bee) lives with them and is the fireworks creator. Mother finds a baby on their doorstep, abandoned, and when the police are called, the cops discover the mother (Evan Addams) hiding in a shed on the property. She’s a young African-American woman who is at first almost mute. The baby’s father is Coalhouse Walker, Jr. (Omega Jones), a pianist who works in Harlem. At the same time, arriving at Ellis Island are the widower Tateh (Jeffrey M. Wright) and The Little Girl, his daughter (Avery Smith).

Someone behind me was puzzled that there wasn’t a story synopsis in the program. It’s not that the story is complicated; it’s just very involved to weave all these people together. The weaving makes a deeply complex pattern, not difficult to figure out but engrossing. More importantly, it’s relevant in a very contemporary way, talking about society and justice and opportunity, the sort of thing that theatre can do so well.

I admit that because I saw this show about two weeks after it opened on Broadway with Audra McDonald and Brian Stokes Mitchell and a shining authentic Model T Ford onstage, I’m probably fussy about things. But Omega Jones’ Coalhouse Walker is incredible. His acting, his singing, makes this a major performance. Evan Addams’ Sarah, the mother of his childhas a marvelous voice, and pairs it to good effect working with Jones. Kay Love, as Mother, is strong, self-controlled, only her face and hands occasionally signaling her nearly supressed emotions. Her son, Joe Webb, is a delight, not cutesy, but a calm and mostly self-possessed young gentleman.

Tateh, the Yiddish name for “father”, is perhaps the most endearing adult in the play, who warmth and charm Wright evinces in both dialogue and song. Laura Kyro plays Emma Goldman, showing off the proper motherly firebrand Goldman should be. Evelyn Nesbit, here a precursor of the modern-day boopsie, is Angela Bubash, having lots of fun with things.

More kudos? Of course. The set, far more complex than it looks upon entering the theater, is from scenic designer David Blake, who provides lots of levels and passages for the considerable movement. And movement there is, onstage and off-, with even more action than usual in the aisles of the theater, plus Mike Hodges’ choreography. Eileen Engel’s costumes, particularly for the character of Mother, are notable. It’s a fine score from Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens, overseen by music director Jennifer Buchheit.

This is not a perfect show – there are a few vocal glitches, and occasionally the sound needed some fine tuning. But Terrence McNally’s script, while not pretending to be historically accurate, reminds us that all Americans, whether newly arrived and full of hope and fear, or those who aren’t of majority groups or even WASPS, belong here and have much to contribute. It’s a rousing, satisfying evening – or afternoon. In fact, it may be the best thing Stray Dog has ever produced. Sales seem good – here’s hoping they will extend the run. (And if this is your first time, be aware parking spots go early and it’s open seating.)

 

Ragtime The Musical

through August 19, 2017

Stray Dog Theatre

Tower Grove Abbey

2336 Tennessee

314-865-1005

www.straydogtheatre.org

Goody Goody Diner.

The first time I went to Goody Goody Diner must have been - oh, well, never mind, I guess I am that old. But the cops from Mobile Reserve, a bunch of guys very serious indeed about law enforcement, hung out there. (The unit was absorbed into the SWAT team years ago.) Three years ago, the Connelly family, who had owned it from the start in 1948, sold it. 

It's an amazing place. National politicians stop here on campaign tours. Jane and Michael Stern voice their appreciation in their Roadfood books and website. And the menu is long, especially in the breakfast section. Now there's Sly, the de facto maitre d', as an added attraction. 

So what's happened since the sale? For one thing, they're now open on Sundays. For more, I wrote more about it here for the St. Louis Magazine's Dining blog.

'ZZA

Even more than fried chicken, there are probably never enough pizza places in St. Louis. One of the newest is ‘ZZA Pizza + Salad, the new baby of the Pi Pizzeria family. Located northeast of Washington University at the corner of Skinker and Pershing, it’s a long, well-windowed room with very spare, modern décor. (That means it’s noisy, but surely no one expects a quiet restaurant that close to a university.)

The menu is simple, just what the name implies. All pizzas and all salads are $9, and the salads are lunch entree size. Orders are taken at the back of the restaurant, drinks chosen from a cooler case or self-serve iced tea or soft drinks (cane sugar-sweetened from Blue Sky). The food’s brought to the table.

About half the salads are vegetarian; the rest have chicken breast or there’s an option for a poke bowl with ahi tuna. Avo goddess brought good fresh greens, including romaine, plus avocado, of course, and jicama, grape tomatoes, crumbled tortilla chips and a few shreds of jalapeno. The creamy goddess dressing wasn’t as green as its namesake, and lacked the tarragon often associated with it, but did quite well overall. The ‘ZZA’lafel salad brought small pieces of kale with romaine, cucumber chunks, the occasional sliver of red onion and crumble of feta, and a dollop of hummus. A couple of rather dry felafel were broken in half and studded the top, the yogurt-mint dressing not enough to redeem the dryness.

Pizzas , like the room, are long and narrow. This is a St. Louis-thin crust, stretched out carefully, and not soggy on the bottom. The edges blister and char slightly, anathema to some but in the Italian tradition quite acceptable. The Marg, as ‘ZZA calls their margherita pizza – always a good place to start pizza exploration, just like vanilla ice cream is the first step in ice cream evaluation – sports fresh mozzarella rounds, and fresh basil leaves, a drizzle of olive oil and, interestingly, a sprinkle of coarse salt flakes. It’s very primal, the way a margherita should be. The only surprise to me was that the tomato sauce was as sweet as it was. The salt was random, so not every bite had it, showing what salt can do. And the added little crunch of the flakes was fun, too.

Lots of vegetables, of course, on the Garden City pizza, so many they almost completely hide the tomato sauce. Smoked gouda joins the mozzarella (shredded, not the fresh stuff), and there are slices of those tiny Dutch sweet peppers, yellow grape tomatoes, a few scallion slices and some crimini mushrooms. Surprisingly tasty, even to a meat-lover.

Several pizza restaurants in Washington State swear that Thai pizza is their best seller. So maybe it isn’t just a fad perpetrated on us by California Pizza Kitchen. ‘ZZA calls theirs Thai Dye. The chunks of chicken breast are large, the peanut sauce is nicely spicy, there’s cilantro, garlic bits and sesame seeds strewn over it, along with more of the little Dutch peppers. This stuff could be addictive, especially for the diner who really isn’t into more traditional forms of pizza.

Lots of boxes for transferring leftovers, which is nice, near where your dishes and other discards go. They also do carryout orders – literally. They’ll carry them out to your car if you preorder and phone them when you’re outside. Parking is on the street or on a lot to the east of the building, which is lined with parking meters – which demand to be fed 24/7 per the signs on the lot. I suspect this isn’t municipal, but Washington University, who owns the building. Put the money in the meters. It’s quite a scavenger hunt to pay a parking ticket to the WashU campus police. Save it; I’m not telling you how I know.

 

‘ZZA Pizza + Salads

282 N. Skinker Blvd

314-696-8585

https://www.zza-pizza.com/

Lunch and dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes