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"The travelers brought along sandwiches and cakes," wrote Morgan biographer Jean Strouse, "and Pierpont rustled up fresh provisions whenever he could."
Pierpont wouldn't have to rustle up much today, 131 years later, in historic Union Station, which has plenty of provisions but no trains. At Pierpont's (300 W. Pershing), the spirit of wealth, power, and history reverberates through the dining rooms, both public and private, making the restaurant's choice of name a perfect fit.
If things had worked out somewhat differently, Rod Anderson (the media-savvy entrepreneur behind the two Hereford House steak houses) would have called his new, expensively mounted restaurant, located just off restored Union Station's Grand Hall, the "Union Pacific Grill." But the still-active train corporation wasn't inclined to lend its name to Anderson's tony seafood concept, so he chose to name the place after Morgan, because the well-fed millionaire not only had been involved in financing steel and railroads but also had a reputation for polishing off a good dinner or two in his day.
One might wish that big-spending J.P. were still around to generously pick up the dinner tab at his namesake restaurant; the a la carte menu is pricey. And even if chef Todd Brooks' menu hasn't yet caught up to the dazzling good taste of Pierpont's interior, he's on his way.
But for now, the space is showier than the food. Anderson and his "interior consultant" (former restaurateur Paul Robinson) have turned what once was the women and children's lounge on the station's main level -- with its 25-foot ceilings and marble floors -- into something rather extraordinary.
This main room is so spectacular, you can envision it as the set of an MGM musical (like the railroad-theme The Harvey Girls), especially the well-stocked, mirrored bar, which rises to dizzying heights just off the entrance. It's a noisy, fun, and vibrant space, with the massive room divided only by a stylish partition, so sitting down to eat on the "dining" half of the space means coping with the echoes from the other side.
Even after being tucked into a cozy banquette (upholstered in brown leatherette and vaguely resembling a train compartment) an intimate conversation can bounce all over the room's hard surfaces. On one visit, a nearby table of well-lubricated suits was so boisterously loud, it was like having dinner smack in the middle of a David Mamet play. (It was, however, possible to overhear some good stock tips.)
Chef Brooks is still tinkering with some of the restaurant's signature dishes. Although there are some excellent dishes to be ordered and superb wine to be sipped, after the restaurant's third month, there still isn't a decent piece of bread to be found.
"We haven't instituted our bread program yet," announced the servers on two separate occasions, each using the clipped tones of a stockbroker describing a failed corporate merger.
According to a chatty manager in a startlingly splashy tie (the servers are more demurely dressed in dark blue shirts and black aprons), the "bread program" will one day involve a breadstick "especially created for us." But on an early visit, the bread that accompanied the salads was an ordinary breadstick and on another several weeks later, a ridiculously salty roll. On a third visit, the imported crusty roll was dotted with sunflower seeds but still was salty. It may sound like quibbling, but if you're going to spend some dough on dinner, the bread should be the kind of manna you can invest some interest in.
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