The Palm Trees serves up Middle Eastern cuisine in South City
Cherokee Street is home to St. Louis’ first Saudi Arabian restaurant.
Photo by Kevin A. Roberts
Even if you don’t speak a word of Arabic, you’ll instantly recognize many of the dishes at The Palm Trees, the new Saudi Arabian restaurant on Cherokee Street. The restaurant assumes a regional identity, calling its cuisine Middle Eastern. (Borders have shifted as quickly as sand in that part of the world, and matching geography with cuisines is a rather tricky matter.)
Starters include tabbouleh (a parsley-based salad), sambusa (a.k.a. samosa, sambosa, samoosa, and more, in cuisines stretching for thousands of miles), baba ganoge (the eggplant spread better known as baba ghanoush, though it has many transliterations), and falafel (deep-fried chickpea patties that can spur lively discussion as to who made ’em first).
Among the entrées, you’ll quickly recognize two old Greek friends: moussaka and pastitsio (simplified to “macaroni béchamel”). Tzattziki (the popular Greek item, with a slightly modified spelling) is another interesting option.
You’ll also find a handful of Saudi Arabian staples. Our lamb mandi incorporated a double-boned chop as the meat; it brought a smoky grilled flavor one might associate with a Greek lamb roast. The chop sat atop a bed of soft basmati rice. (Raisins, almonds, and fried onions are optional, but don’t pass on them, because they add flavor and texture.) Other Saudi-specific dishes include a rice-based dish called kabsa and a dessert called Om Ali. A variety of specials are also available, especially during Islamic celebrations.
Photo by Kevin A. Roberts
Sample a popular Egyptian street food called koshary, an unexpected riff on macaroni. The pasta is mixed with rice and lentils, then garnished with fried onions and paired with chickpeas.
It’s hackneyed to say that a restaurant feels like you’re eating in the owners’ home, but the atmosphere and hospitality here are richer than at almost any restaurant in my recent memory. On being seated, we were immediately served a cup of weak coffee flavored with cardamom and a small portion of dates. Throughout the meal, a rotating collection of staff members paid warm but unobtrusive visits to our table. If you really want to go all in on the experience, sit—or, rather, recline at table—in the restaurant’s downstairs room.
Which came first: the biryani or the byrani? Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? In these times, commonality is infinitely more important than ethnic one-upmanship—and one of the best places to find a mutually understandable language is in the kitchen.
