The Majestic Restaurant & Bar—the last tenant at the corner of Laclede and Euclid avenues from the days when giants walked the earth—closed its doors this spring.
We were young and full of hormones in the autumn of 1964, just after it opened, with serious students of medicine populating that not-yet-fashionable neighborhood. The Majestic was the place to go when the cafeteria line was unbearable and there was enough cash for a hamburger and some ice cream. It wasn’t a place for a date, to be sure, but rather for hanging out, maybe wondering how long we could remain before being nudged along.
Decades later, on a Saturday night, I slipped into the bar side (thankfully, non-existent in those times) to listen to a bouzouki. I had a glass of Roditis, possibly two, sitting alone and unbothered. Then I left, equally quietly. I was perhaps 20 feet out the door when I heard someone say, “Wait. Please wait.”
I turned. A man was walking toward me. He was Greek, to judge from the voice and face. “Don’t go.”
My radar went off, but he came no closer and sounded kind. “I must leave,” I said.
“You should stay. We will dance.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I really can’t.”
“Please. We will dance.”
There was no threat at all, just a man wanting a dance partner. And though the spring night was ephemerally beautiful, there was a day shift waiting for me at the hospital. He was graceful about my declining on such a night.
To me, The Majestic will always be more than burgers and ice cream.
We will dance.
