Everest Cafe

Wednesday evening we wandered up and down Manchester Ave. in an area of St. Louis known as “The Grove” seeking the Everest Cafe and Bar. The sun was in our eyes westbound so it was hard to read the signs on storefronts. This five block long area is in the midst of redevelopment. Most storefronts are still vacant but here and there a business, office, nice restaurant or bar has sprung up. I had foolishly neglected to write down the address.

I was attracted by the claim the Everest Cafe serves “quality authentic Nepalese, Indian & Koren cuisine.” More curious is the following teaser from the restaurant web site, http://everestcafeandbar.com/index.html:

“Now open Sundays! Come and enjoy our fresh heart healthy nutritious lunch buffet and receive free screenings for blood pressure, cholesterol, and blood sugar levels conducted by our Executive Chef/Owner, Dr. Devi States, MSW, MPH, DHSc.”

I found it difficult to believe that the owner would actually conduct health screenings during the Sunday lunch buffet, but who knows? It was equally difficult to believe the chef/owner would hold a doctorate in public health and two other advanced degrees. Their web site offers this thumbnail history:

“Our Chef/Owner, Devi Gurung States grew up in an economically depressed and deprived area of Nepal (Manang, Tilche Village). After both his parents became deceased, he moved to Kathmandu for a dream of better life. In Kathmandu, Devi became homeless, because he was too young and could not find a job. After spending several months in the street of Kathmandu, he finally found a job at the KC restaurant.

Devi’s dream of owning a restaurant started at the age of sixteen while working at the KC restaurant as a dishwasher and bus boy. He met his dear father, Dr. James H. States, M.D., at the KC restaurant, who brought him to the United States following his successful ascent of Mt. Everest in 1983.”

Now that really got my attention.

We turned the car around having completed a traverse of the relevant area of Manchester Ave. without success. Heading east now, the setting sun at our backs, we were about to abandon the search when we spotted the discrete sign and fluttering prayer flags on a building right across the street from the Atomic Cowboy Bar. Bingo.

We were warmly welcomed by a smiling asian woman I correctly assumed to be Connie States, wife of the chef/owner. The restaurant consists of two rooms, a bar in the front room. Prayer flags hang around the door and surround all walls. Tanka paintings, photos of the Dali Lama and various Buddhas are everywhere. The windows even have beaded curtains with the image of the Buddha. Near where we sat in the second room was a small buddhist alter topped with a drawing of the Dali Lama over an image of Llasa backed by a rainbow.

The restaurant was modestly busy for a week night. One table seemed to be young Indian men. Another near us had an older professional caucasian couple with a young man who looked Tibetan. After a few minutes Dr. Devi himself took our order. He suggested we try two Nepalese dishes. I ordered a complete meal of chicken cooked in authentic Nepal-style sauce called Tarkari Ra Saag, lentil soup, vegetables and very spicy pickled vegetables with lotus root called mango achars. Merry ordered Everest Sizzling Shrimp Tarkari.

The food took a while to arrive. I assume this was because each dish was being prepared individually. The atmosphere was so peaceful we really didn't mind the wait. I noticed white silk scarfs draped over the alter and a Tanka. I asked Connie States whether these were the traditional scarves received from the Dali Lama and she said they were. Seventeen years ago her husband served as guide and driver for the Dali Lama when he visited Tibetan refugees in St. Louis. She thought he got them then.

The food arrived. Mine was a single large round silver dish with small vegetable items including soup, pickles, chick peas, spiced spinach and the chicken around a central mound of basmanti rice. Merry's dish turned out to be quite a few spiced shrimp grilled with onions, bell peppers, lemons and tomatoes served on sizzling hot plate with a side of daal (lentil) soup. Every bite was delicious. The spices are similar to northern Indian food, but subtly different.

Everything is reasonably priced. Our two full dinners with drinks totaled a little over $30; quite a bargain.

We exchanged a traditional Himalayan bow with Dr. Devi States as we left. He showed us a picture of himself getting a white scarf from the Dali Lama. We told him a little about our hearing the Dali Lama speak in Ithaca, NY last year. We promised to come back.

In an attempt to learn a bit more about Devi States I did a internet search for James States, his adoptive father, physician and world-class mountain climber. It appears he still has a practice in adolescent medicine in Washington state. I also found he was a star swimmer for Bucknell University, graduating three years before me. I didn't meet him there. Small world, though.

Monte Bello

On Valentine's Day we had dinner at a very nice Persian restaurant. Our young waiter was a St. Louis native so we questioned him about his favorite restaurants. For “St. Louis style” thin crust pizza he recommended Monte Bello Pizzeria. We had already tried thin crust pizza at Imo's, a ubiquitous family-owned franchise, but had not cared for it. He encouraged us to try it again. He assured us this place makes the real thing. It has existed for as long as anyone can remember. His parents first took him there. He told us an old couple operate it in the basement of their house. He couldn't remember the address but described the location. Intrigued, we resolved to try it.

I used Google to locate the address and telephone number. That's all I could find. They have no web site. They do no advertising. They don't deliver. Merry called and spoke to a woman who told her they are not open Monday night, except for take-out. We decided to wait until we could eat there.

On Wednesday we took I-55 south, crossed River de Pere which defines the south boundary of the city and took the next exit. Weber road runs toward the Mississippi through an old working class neighborhood. Modest houses sit close together mixed with old warehouses and factories. We found the address a few blocks down. There is no parking, no sign or anything else to indicate this is a restaurant. The front of the house, perhaps what was once a front porch, is entirely covered with aluminum siding so all you can see is a door with the house number and a neon “OPEN” sign. The door leads immediately down cellar steps. At the bottom of the stairs another door has a cracked window pane mended with scotch tape. A hand lettered sign warns they do not accept credit or debit cards. We check our wallets. $28.00 OK, that's probably enough for pizza.

Inside it's pretty dark. There are about fifteen tables covered with red and white checked tablecloths. There's no one there. One wall is covered by a very old fresco, divided by arches to appear as a view across the Tuscan hills. A concrete floor, once painted grey, is now worn to its original surface. As we hesitate at the door a woman emerges from the kitchen in the back and invites us to sit anywhere. We order a large sausage pizza, a Coke and an ice tea.

She brings our drinks. She's obviously the owner. She sits at the next table. While we wait for the pizza, she talks. The restaurant story comes out. She and her husband and a partner bought the restaurant as a going concern in 1961. Things didn't work out well with the partner so they sold it to him and opened a barbeque place for awhile. Soon he was in trouble for failing to pay sales tax and convinced them to buy it back. They have operated it ever since, forty eight years, six days a week with Monday off, but still making pizza for take-out and prepping food for the week ahead.

She's worried about the economy. Her regular customers come in once a week at the same time every week. They are now feeding the grand children of their original customers. When they call for take out she claims to usually recognize their voice. Recently business is off a bit. Could we believe Oprah told people to stop going out to eat for a month? What if Anheuser Busch laid people off, what would happen to business then? One customer is trying to sell her a new car but her 2001 only has 60,000 miles on it. She doesn't need a new car.

She's a small woman. Every joint of her hands is swollen with rheumatoid arthritis. Her eyes are sunken but bright. One thin eyebrow rims an eye socket the other shoots upward in an arc. She speaks with the soft, half-southern accent I've come to identify as native to this place.

Through the open doorway into the kitchen I can see her husband patiently throwing then stretching the pizza dough, smoothing it onto a baking pan. He shuffles about slowly, getting the ingredients together. He never leaves the kitchen.

I mention how we found her. She wants to know the waiter's name. I mention I found the address on the internet. This leads to a long discussion of her son's distinguished carrier as a forensic computer analyst for a local police department. He's done well. She is pleased to tell us he bought a big old house in Clayton, the upscale suburb where he works, that used to belong to the Imo family – the people who founded the largest pizza chain in the metro area.

The pizza arrives on a battered rectangular cookie sheet. It's of indeterminate shape, cut into three inch squares. The crust is thin and crisp, a freshly baked cracker, really. The sauce is homemade with just the right amount of onions and provolone cheese, a hallmark of St. Louis pizza. The sausage is heavenly and unlike any I'd had before, mild with a nice mixture of spices. I inquire about the sausage. She makes it from scratch each week using a recipe they got from the former owner 48 years ago. The pizza disappears quickly. She gives us a copy of the menu and urges us to come back soon. Another couple comes in as we finish and she moves off to help them.

The bill is about $15. We emerge from the cellar and re-enter the 21^st century.

IronBarley

When we moved to St. Louis we decided to experiment in living without television or daily newspapers. The basic idea was to cut down on the barrage of advertising that assaults our brains. News, weather, Jon Stewart, Rachel Maddow, all the essentials, are on line. Six months in, I mostly enjoy the result but I admit some key information slips by. For example, we recently got an email from our friends in Syracuse, Jim and Allison, who asked whether we had been to a St. Louis restaurant called IronBarley they had seen on the Food Channel. We had not only not been there, we had never heard of it.

We trust the food instincts of our good friends with whom we had dined many times. It was just too cool that they told us about a restaurant in our own backyard. We decided to go at the first chance.

Last Tuesday was a stressful day for me. An unexpected icing event glazed our front steps. I bumped down all four on my butt at 4 am when taking Joli out for her morning constitutional. Court also had it's challenges and I was sitting none too comfortably. I needed a break. First, I used my Christmas gift certificate from Merry to get a massage – that helped. Then we went to IronBarley.

IronBarley is located not far from where we live in South St. Louis, but it's in a neighborhood not known for restaurants. It looks like a common neighborhood tavern. We opened a cheesy aluminum storm door and found ourselves standing in a crowded bar right next to a guy with a huge grin in an oversized top hat decorated with rhinestones, playing the guitar and singing “Down on the Bayou” to the accompaniment of his friends on tuba and accordion. We were sold at that moment.

We moved to the adjoining room where a waiter seated us. The music was actually pretty mellow and the musicians very talented. The dining room is paneled in rough sawn boards. The wall sconces are iron frying pans with light bulbs. Paper menus are in a basket on the table with the silverware wrapped in paper napkins. The menu is an eclectic mix. Specials are listed on a chalk board. Our waitress informed us that Tuesday was “steam cake” night and even though they don't usually have live music on Monday and Tuesday, the band was there to kick off Mardi Gras. The dinner specials were heavy on cajun food: gumbo, shrimp etouffee, jambalaya and so on but also included non-cajun items.

We started out with some very tasty local beer while we decided – a smoked porter with a taste too complex to describe adequately – smooth, hoppy, with a strong hickory smoke aftertaste. A different person, who did not seem to be on the restaurant staff, brought us pieces of steam cake before we had even ordered. It is a dense yellow cake with a glaze of hard icing topped with sugar sprinkles. Umm – eat dessert first.

After much deliberation we ordered a large “wedge” salad with blue cheese and Jack Daniels dressing to share. I got the gumbo and german pancakes. Merry was brave and ordered the “Double Dog” with chili, cheese and onions.

While waiting for the food we enjoyed the music and looked around. Many of the other patrons looked like they lived in the neighborhood. Young to middle aged working people just kicking back and having a fun meal. Merry pointed out a foursome at a table near us that didn't fit the general MO of the place. Could that really be the Coen brothers (the filmmakers of Fargo and No Country for Old Men)? We checked them out closely. I'm convinced it was them.

The waitress brought our salad. It turned out to be nothing very special. We asked her about the Food Channel show, and, yes, she was there when that was filmed about a year ago. She mentioned that the Travel Channel was there in the last week and the week before that local TV news had taped a show. She admitted she liked being a “cable channel rock star.” We asked if they really served the “Ballistic Elvis Sammich” shown on the menu. Yep – texas toast, peanut butter, strawberry jam, bananas, and bacon.

The food came. My gumbo was to die for; spicy, thick with fresh ingredients and hot. Three german pancakes with carmelized apples and red sour cabbage slaw was perfect. The double dog was served in a huge stainless steel bowl with two quarter pound beef hot dogs covered in good chili. We ate well. I couldn't stop smiling.

As we left, the singer was between tunes. He turned to us and asked if we had enjoyed ourselves. We assured him we had.

“Well, I'm glad y'all had a good time. By the way - this hippy right here is Tom Coghill, the owner. He put this all together just for you, so promise Tom you'll come back soon.”

We promised. Check it out for yourself at www.IronBarley.com.