A couple of places that escaped the wrecking ball were reborn as restaurants, in a kind of culinary trend during the 1940s. That was when the John Soden estate at 45th Street and Main, for example, was turned into a genteel teahouse. Right across the street, the old William Chapman mansion became the Wishbone, a venue for fried chicken dinners and garlicky salads; the restaurant is long gone, but its name lives on in the salad-dressing section at grocery stores everywhere. A few other restaurants took hold for a while in older homes (Victor Hugo's, the Green Parrot), but they'd all been leveled by the 1980s, victims of drastically changing tastes in food, décor and service. When disco and singles bars were all the rage, prim waitresses and family-style dinners were suddenly so yesterday. Old-fashioned graciousness wasn't just boring; it was uncool.
But nostalgia can be a potent lure, which is why diners still flock to eat in a renovated mansion such as Rembrandt's Restaurant or in hundred-year-old farmhouses such as Stroud's in the Northland or Tuscany Manor in Lee's Summit. "Sometimes you just want to eat a home-cooked meal in a home," says a friend of mine who refuses to learn to cook. Who cares if it's a former home, outfitted with a professional kitchen and a trained staff? The idea is still, you know, homey.
Over on the Johnson County side, just up the hill from a grim stretch of ugly postwar buildings on Nieman Road, Mary and Mark Mollentine have turned a 153-year-old farmhouse -- reportedly the residence and headquarters of territorial governor Andrew Reeder in 1854 -- into the modestly appointed Governor's Meeting House. There they've created a style of dining that has much more in common with 1943 than with 2003.
"This place is just so civilized," my friend Carol said after we had settled into our chairs and our server had brought each of us a small, leaf-shaped glass plate decorated with a sliver of milky cheese, a cluster of red grapes, a few dried apricots and a squiggle of smoked chipotle-and-raspberry cream cheese, along with a single cracker. It was a grandmotherly touch, unexpected yet thoughtful, like the "citrus service" that arrives with glasses of ice water. It isn't enough for a server to offer a mere slice of lemon with the tapez l'eau -- there were artfully carved orange and lime wedges as well.
Carol's daughter, Becky, a New York City-based actress, and Becky's boyfriend, David, looked around as if they had landed on the moon. We were sitting in the Prairie Room, a tile-floored dining area outfitted with hanging wood cutting boards and whirling ceiling fans. Glamorous it wasn't. But, as David said, "the real class is in all the little details." He noted the soft, yeasty home-baked rolls accompanied by individual swirls of soft butter served at room temperature. ("So it doesn't taste cold and hard," he said.)
It felt as if the Governor's Meeting House was some closely guarded secret -- only a handful of other customers were in the place. "It's like being in our own private dining room that no one else in town knows about," Becky said after she took a sip of crisp Marco Felluga Pinot Grigio. "So don't tell anyone."
Comments (0)