Wish You Were Here, Part 3

In which it turns out my eyes are bigger then my intestinal tract…

When I first moved to Kansas City I had the same experience more than once: I’d ask a co-worker for restaurant suggestions and they’d name some fancy-schmancy-upscale dining spot and I’d ask if that’s where they ate and they’d say no:

“But you wouldn’t want to go there because the place I like is a dive.”

And I’d say that’s exactly where I want to go and eventually found great places like Rosedale BBQ – 600 Southwest Boulevard – that wrapped to-go-orders in old Kansas City Star newspapers and you can’t get much divier than that. (Some people claimed part of the Rosedale BBQ flavor was due to their secret ingredient: printer’s ink.)

For such an interesting city – Wild West gunslingers, Civil War battles, gangster shoot-outs, and All That Jazz – Kansas City seemed to have an inferiority complex about not being New York or Chicago or Paris, France which is why they tried to send me to hoity-toity restaurants; then I’d know they weren’t a bunch of inbred hillbillies.

BTW: According to the Kansas City Public Library website, “Kansas City has long been called the Paris of the Plains” which I’ve never heard even one real live person call it and Aalborg, Denmark and Riga, Latvia and Newcastle, England and Tromso, Norway and Turku, Finland and Dawson City in the Fucking Yukon — among others — have tried to get people to call them the “Paris of the North” which is a bit of a streeeeeeeeetch when it comes to comparisons and will remain one until Paris starts calling itself the “Dawson City of France.”

Here in the Paris of the Plains the attempt to be seen as a sophisticated up-to-date city was slightly undercut by the Hereford Association Bull — a 5,500 pound, 19-foot-8-inch long plastic bull called “BOB” which stands for “Bull On Building” — which was positioned on a 90-foot pylon outside the Hereford Association downtown headquarters.

So just about the time locals got done talking about the Kansas City Symphony and Our First-Rate Ballet and the time Placido Domingo performed Minnie the Moocher in Kansas City, some out-of-towner would look over their shoulder, see BOB and say:

“Wait, did you guys put up a statue of a cow?”

To which the correct reply is:

“It’s not a cow, it’s a bull and we not only put up a fiberglass statue of a bull, we included his balls which probably weigh 227 pounds apiece and if you don’t like it get your ass back to New York City and try to explain this statue, which sculptor Shahzia Sikander says supports ‘women rights, abortion and the late Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg’ which only seems likely if Ruth was a demonic ram cross-bred with an octopus and here in God’s Country we’d rather look at a bull’s nuts.”

(You don’t have to memorize that verbatim; the gist will do.)

In any case, the Best Defense is a Good Offense so never let anybody make you feel shitty about who you are: OWN IT.

One more story about why I like Kansas City:

I was in Cambridge, Massachusetts (I.Q. Central) and one night went to a nightclub that had music so loud my fillings vibrated and some dipshit was sitting at the bar reading a book by Friedrich Nietzsche.

Because when you’re pondering the Nature of Man, Truth, the Death of God, the Theory of Master-Slave Morality, the Crisis of Nihilism, the notion of Apollonian and Dionysian Forces, the Expression of Competing Wills and the Doctrine of Eternal Return there’s really no better place to do it than a dimly-lit bar that smells like a cross between stale beer, dirty socks and a mausoleum while the Ramones “Blitzkrieg Bop” is being played loud enough to qualify as enhanced interrogation.

The word “pretentious” springs to mind.

(Also, I was under the mistaken impression that Nietzsche committed suicide – he didn’t – so I must have been thinking about someone who was forced to talk to him at a cocktail party.)

In any case I get back to KC and meet someone at the Bristol on the Plaza which is pretty upscale for KC to tell them about my trip to Boston and the entire Bristol crowd has formed a conga line and is doing the bunny hop all around the bar and realize this is much more my speed.

So fuck sophistication (which would look great on a T-shirt) and the BOB it rode in on.

BTW: When Googling “bull” among the frequently asked questions was “Can a female be a bull” and the correct answer is: “Yes, if she’s in the right prison.”

So where were we?

And now a list of the places I didn’t make it to and the meals I didn’t eat and thank god for that because I feel like Mr. Creosote right before John Cleese gives him a “wah-fur theen mint” and yes, to get all the jokes you need to be familiar with the collected works of Monty Python.

Just in case you need some dining suggestions, here they are:

City Diner, 301 Grand: Great place for breakfast and/or lunch and Home of the 12-inch Buttermilk Pancake and at this point feel free to supply any pornography-related jokes that come to mind.

El Pollo Rey, 901 Kansas Ave, Kansas City, Kansas: As the name implies, chicken with Mexican side dishes.

The Peanut, 5000 Main Street: The Peanut’s famous for their wings so first time I went there I ordered a dozen and the waitress looked at me like I was completely nuts and when she brought them out I found out why.

The wings are huge and appear to be harvested from a Nuclear Power Plant adjacent chicken ranch although that may be the wrong terminology because the most famous Chicken Ranch is a whore house located in beautiful Pahrump, Nevada.

As you can see the Chicken Ranch was the Brothel of the Year and I’m guessing the competition between a Nevada whorehouse and the U.S. House of Representatives was fierce.

The Savoy at 21c, 219 West 9^th Street: Another one of those Trip Back in Time Restaurants in which you expect a white-coated waiter to inquire if Mr. Capone will be dining with you that evening.

Jess and Jim’s Steakhouse, 517 East 135^th Street: They offer a 30-ounce porterhouse and if you finish it, they immediately call the local news media, the Guinness Book of World Records and any loved ones you’d like to meet you at the emergency room.

They’ve got their very own cow (pretty sure it’s not a bull, but I didn’t climb the building to check its nuts) and according to the internet there’s a button on the porch you can push to make the cow go moo, so kiss our ass New York City because that’s the Height of Culture and not some demon-possessed Ruth Bader Ginsburg statue that’s not sophisticated enough to supply sound effects.

Sunday

So the final meal on my Binge-Eating Staycation was at:

Harry’s Country Club, 112 East Missouri Ave: And that’s City Fried Chicken which is a deep-fried chicken breast lounging on top of a pile of mashed potatoes and green beans,  smothered in white gravy thick enough to use as spackle in an emergency house repair.

The chicken is accompanied by a Missouri Mule and if I’d also ordered Sea Hogs (Bacon-Wrapped Shrimp with Creamy Horseradish Sauce) I could have started a petting zoo.

One final story before I go

So Sunday night I get back to the hotel after that final meal and get on an elevator that already contains two teenage girls drinking sodas (an important factor that will come up shortly) and we’re joined by what appears to be an inebriated couple.

I’m standing by the elevator buttons and ask Ray Milland (an outdated and unnecessary reference to The Lost Weekend) what floor he wants and Ray tells me, so I push the button and he then puts his arm around me and to celebrate my very minor example of good manners, tells me he loves me.

After the Drunk Couple stumbles off the elevator I look at the two teenage girls and say:

“Well, that was fucking weird.”

And they both burst out laughing and one of them manages to shoot soft drink out her nose which as any comedian can tell you, is the highest compliment a good one-liner can receive and I’m including the Mark Twain Prize.

Anyway… 

Hope you enjoyed reading about my weekend as much as I did living it and now I definitely need to go on a diet, but first…

Man, those Sea Hogs sounded good, didn’t they?