Fear of Flying

"It's not that I have anything against those fancy coffee places," he says. "It's just that they don't have any real food. I need something more satisfying in the morning than a friggin' scone."

I'm right with him on the subject of those friggin' scones, which turn into crumbly blocks of sweetened plaster after a few hours. And, like my friend, I don't think of most coffeehouse fare — biscotti, chewy croissants, doughy cinnamon rolls, muffins — as breakfast. But sometimes the concept of a full breakfast is too overwhelming even for perpetually hungry me.

The other day, I rolled out of bed at 5 a.m. to pick up a friend at the airport. I was still bleary-eyed and half-asleep when I dropped him (and his many suitcases) at his downtown loft, so I made a detour to J.P. Wine Bar & Coffee House at 15th Street and Walnut for a rejuvenating shot of espresso. There was only the barista behind the bar and one other patron in the room — a bald guy staring at a laptop computer screen. I wasn't particularly hungry, but the barista caught me staring at a surprisingly pretty frosted pastry under a glass dome.

"A local lady makes those," he said, setting a square china demitasse in front of me. Since the pastry didn't look like one of those spongy, factory-made cinnamon rolls, I suddenly coveted the sweet. The guy behind the counter warmed it up in the microwave and served it to me on a china plate with a cloth napkin and a fork. It wasn't the most sensational roll I'd ever eaten, but as one part of a very soothing experience, I was impressed enough to make a mental note return when I was less fuzzy-headed. I can tell you from personal experience that with only a handful of hours of sleep, even Chubby's can seem almost alluring.

I've been back to J.P. Wine Bar & Coffee House several times since — fully rested and more level-headed — both during lunch hours and at night, when the place serves a selection of small plates. The venue has its eccentricities, and, yes, the kitchen can be inconsistent and a bit slow, but I really like the place. Compared with its predecessor in this location (the dark, drab coffee-and-vino shack called Tchoupitoulas), J.P. Wine Bar practically glows with positive energy.

There's no one person named J.P. behind this business; the initials represent Jordyn and Paige, the twin daughters of co-owners Keith and Linda Gobel. The business began in November with a smaller coffeehouse in Lee's Summit called J.P. Coffee, which doesn't serve food. When the Gobels decided to pour wine in the evenings, they hired former Pierpont's sommelier Ryan Maybee as a consultant. Because Maybee had been looking for a location in the Crossroads for his own coffeehouse and wine bar, the trio decided to pool their resources and open a more elaborate version of the Lee's Summit venue.

The interior makeover of the space — a warehouse in the last century — is dramatic and startling. Maybee and the Gobels had a vision for a sunnier, warmer front room, and architect Jake Shopp gave them exactly that. The bar was moved to the north wall (the kitchen was moved, too), tiles now cover the concrete floors, and several of the walls have been painted a lively shade of pistachio. Near the entrance, there's now an electric fireplace sheathed in pale stone, framed panels of painted glass and sexy Murano-style light fixtures. A long, narrow hall is now edged with secluded booths and leads to a private wine room boasting comfortable chairs and pretty wood wine lockers. Most of these cabinets have been snapped up already and are marked with metal plaques engraved with the owners' names.

On the night I went to dine in the big front room, the first Friday of August, I was with my friends Bob and Carmen and Carmen's new boyfriend, Brandon, who thought the crowd crammed around the bar looked well-off and sophisticated. A waitress appeared, carrying a metal flip-chart that looked like a hospital medical chart. It actually contained the list of small plates on one page, a quartet of cheese "flights" on another, a few dessert items (titled "Indulgences") on the third, followed by a trio of pages devoted to the 15 wine flights. Being a nondrinker, I needed my dining companions to explain to me that a flight of wine is like a boozy sampler platter. The J.P. vino tastings include three or four glasses containing 2-ounce pours.

In a matter of minutes, my tablemates were flying, with 10 goblets of various vintages among them. "This is a California kind of place," Bob announced between sips of Pinot Grigio. Carmen thought it was more European. I was pretending to be a doctor as I flipped through my chart — I mean menu — looking for dishes to elevate my cholesterol. The cheese flights seemed like a good start.