The body language, the eye contact, flickering in sync then disengaging, a feeling out of things between the two of them: the table next to ours was obviously the setting for a first date. And then he picked up a ring and took a tentative bite and said, “Wow, these are really good onion rings.”
And she said, “Yes, I told you: there isn’t any place in town that does a better job of converting the onion’s propanethial oxide into the bispropenyl disulfide that makes onion rings so sweet.”
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At least that’s what we think she said. A fire truck roared down Lockwood right about that time, passing so close that the guy could have tossed one of the firefighters a ring since, at the time, we were dining on the sidewalk outside The Parkmoor Drive-in in Webster Groves. So we may not have gotten that last part of the conversation word for word. The sentiment, though, was absolutely there.
And had the dining room been open, as it is now, such an exchange may have never occurred. (If considering dining inside, understand that The Parkmoor employs foggers, filters, and short-wave antibacterial lights in the ongoing war against pathogens.)
“A time-honored hash house” is how Zagat’s described the original Parkmoor which, if you are old enough to remember any fashion trend from zoot suits to acid washed jeans, was among the most beloved dining spots in our environs. Its history is virtually a history of the 20th century in America.
A WWI vet, Mack McGinley, returned to his dusty West Texas home and imagined a removable device for facilitating dining that could be attached to one of those new “automobiles” that were becoming quite the thing. His brother William took the gadget on the road and wound up in St. Louis, where he realized the best way to market the tray would be to open his own restaurant, which is how The Parkmoor came to be.
Americans had already figured the automobile could be useful for more than traveling. Dining a la wheels became just another reason to fire up the flivver. Curbside service added to the fun; there were several Parkmoors scattered all over the city well up into the late ’50s. By the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, only the one at Clayton Road and Big Bend still remained, putting out burgers and other classics. It was a haunt clearly past its prime but still populated by late-night gadabouts, families and couples, and aficionados of early ’60s décor. But like so many regional favorites from, well, scoops to nuts, The Parkmoor became a memory after closing in 1999.
Then, last summer, a new incarnation opened in Webster Groves, capturing something of the spirit of yore, though without those snazzy bellhop uniforms once worn by the staff.
The car door trays are gone now, but meals arrive on aluminum hotel trays. The menu is much smaller than the original one that you might remember, but there are enough of the classics to be exciting. And dining on nostalgia has its charms.
Yes, we’re talking about the Parkmoor’s signature sandwich, The King: a burger, double-stacked, topped with a slice of American cheese, along with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and the special “Parkmoor sauce” on a buttered and toasted bun.
If you’ve never had one, think of a more robust, thicker version of a Steak ‘n Shake burger. There are crispy, lacy edges but also plenty of meat. The two-handed burger commands respect; it’s a sandwich to be hoisted and approached with some serious strategy.
The fries—well, of course you have to have fries—are starchy sticks with just enough crunch to engage your bite, salty and hot.
There are other offerings, most from the past as well. The Frank—a foot-long, all-beef dog split open, crisped up, and topped with planks of bacon and gooey cheese—is long enough for two buns. For better or worse, it’s served on just one. The Parlor Dog is a chili-dripping cousin.
A New Orleans-style, gravy-dipped, roast beef po-boy and a cradle of fixin’s does wonders between a hinged slab of toasted French bread with just enough heft to keep the messy masterpiece together.
The pork schnitzel sandwich is an impressive composition, the pork cutlet breaded, fried, and topped with pickled cabbage and what The Parkmoor refers to as “liquid gold cheese,” which is a sort of supercharged version of melted Velveeta that appears to good, gloppy effect with cheese fries.
For the patron who’s not afraid to live on the ledge, there’s a fried bologna sandwich, a truly remarkable work of art that’s comprised of—get this—pan-fried bologna wedged between two grilled cheese sandwiches, dressed with tomatoes, pickles, shredded lettuce, and (like it really needs it) a “special sauce.” You have been warned.
The original Parkmoor specialized in “all-cream ice cream.” The new dessert specialty has evolved to Sno*Balls. We need to add this right away: The Parkmoor does not offer durian flavor in its Sno*Ball selection. Other than that? Yeah, it offers pretty much every other flavor you can imagine and a few you haven’t yet.
The genre depends entirely on the quality of the shaving machine, which must turn out an ice nearly in powder form. The Parkmoor does an excellent job here. The restaurant also offers a “frosting” atop its cones, a healthy (ha ha) drizzle of sweetened, condensed milk to kick up that sugar content to near-narcotic levels. (And yes, the frozen treats are available year-round, even in icy weather.)
Like nearly every other eatery, the hours for The Parkmoor adapt to the current situation, so be sure to research prior to visiting. At present, it’s open Tuesday through Sunday from 11 a.m.–8 p.m. for limited seating dine-in service, curbside carryout, or delivery. Blue Plate specials (such as a chicken and biscuit pot pie) have been added to the menu.
When the restaurant gets the go-ahead to seat at 50 percent occupancy, limited breakfast hours will resume, which means the return of the 6 a.m. Burger, with bacon, egg, and English muffin.
Back to those onion rings, though. More than any other item on the menu, these golden ringlets of sweet love represent what must have been the reason that McGinley was inspired to invent those trays and the joy of his brother, who, we’re convinced, would be perfectly happy to grab a seat at the restaurant’s current incarnation and have a bite.
Editor’s Note: This dining review was originally scheduled to be published last fall, around the time that St. Louis County prohibited dining indoors at restaurants.
