A Misadventure in Four Parts: Attending Govinda’s Vegetarian Feast

For Wednesdays in March, we’ll go with a faith-based approach, finding interesting stories about local faith communities of many different stripes. This is our fourth and final edition. Check out previous columns here at SLM Daily.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that I ate hundreds of meals at Govinda’s (3926 Lindell, 314-535-0441) during my 20s. Maybe that owes to being young and having “that spot” where you’re a greeted regular. The plant-based, Indian fare was a major pull, as I spent big chunks of that decade as a vegan, and the rest of it as a vegetarian. And the price had a lot to do with attendance, too, since you could score an all-you-eat lunch or dinner for about $5 or $6.

There was a time, in fact, that the Sunday dinner buffet was not so much a gathering of Hare Krishnas as it was a get-together of every cool rocker in the 1993 version of St. Louis City, or at least those with slightly hippie proclivities. Heck, you could’ve shaken the room up and created three really great bands on any given night, with a couple of artists left over to draw album covers. And while Sunday night was the biggest draw of the week, with something like a dollar’s extra surcharge, the place was open weekdays, too, giving vegetarians a daily dining option in midtown at a time when not every restaurant was open to creating interesting vegetarian fare.

While the three other Wednesdays this month were centered on first-time drop-ins, this week my goal was to pop back by the International Society for Krishna Consciousness building on Lindell for a meal and a bit of a nostalgia trip, all for what I assumed was still a very low donation.

Remembering that things used to kick off around 6:15 p.m. or so on Sunday nights, I aimed for a 7 p.m. arrival, figuring that would give the long line a time to die down. And that’s just when I arrived, though confusion colored my every step from that moment on.

For starters, there was a sign on the door, which indicated that the daily lunch buffet was closed—it was dated with a vague “starting November.” With the lights on the building generally darkened, I wondered if the place was open at all, a question answered when the door was opened for me, a gentleman wordlessly allowing me entry. If that was a quiet greeting, the rest of my senses picked up on my, in total and complete, multi-sensory remembrance of Govinda’s. The smell (spices, incense, lots of warm bodies), the warmth of the room (lots of warm bodies, incense, spices), and the sound (an upbeat, friendly patter between congregants, cut by various chants and songs being hummed by passerby).

What caused a second round of momentary confusion was the dozens of shoes and sandals scattered about the lobby, along with a sign indicating that footwear should come off at the top step. For an awkward moment I stood and looked about. I slipped my shoes off, suddenly and acutely aware that I had a quarter-sized hole in the back of my right sock. (May this be a lesson: there is no sane reason for wearing that holed-out sock “for just one more wearing.” Let it go, that sock. Seriously. What’s to hang onto here? Ayie!) Realizing that my new pair of trousers were cut long enough to avoid the embarrassment I so richly deserved, I strode into to the dining hall in socks, a room in which every table was filled, and about 90 percent of those folks were wearing sandals or shoes. I chose to not go barefoot, as a few were found, and shimmied back down the small stairwell, where I attempted to quickly re-engage my footwear.

That crisis past, I jumped back into the line, which was a good 15 to 17 people deep. Most every seat around me was taken and conversations were free-flowing. Now, 15 years ago, I recognized at least a quarter of the attendees and most of the Krishnas working the buffet line. This time equalled zero facial recognition. There were no poor 20-year-olds, no folks twice that age reliving the good old meals. This was a solidly Krishna community, dining together after a longer, afternoon program of mantra yoga, chanting, dancing, and discussion of the Krishna source text, the Bhagavad Gita. The Krsna Prasadam (or pure-vegetarian feast) was the end point of a multiple-part worship service; that was true back in the day, but there was a very different feel this time around.  

Once again, as another beam of light shone down upon me, lighting the error of my ways, I was finally at the steam table. I took my paper plate and handed it forward. A heaping scoop of rice was dropped on it, followed by a second, smaller dollop. Beans were next. Followed by a splash of cucumbers in yogurt. Then, what I took to be baked sweet potatoes, topped, lastly, by a soft bread, useful for soaking up the last morsels. Now, each of these dishes has a more specific, culturally appropriate name, and certainly the folks at the steam table were saying exactly what was going on my plate as they kept adding layers. But I might not have been fully listening, as I was thinking about where I’d pay.

The final a-ha moment of my visit came at the end of the line, as I passed on the moist, reddish dessert and realized that no one was going to ask me for $6. This was, in fact, a fully underwritten meal. And as I spun and looked at every table, full of unknown faces, I wondered how much I looked like the guy who shows up a vegetarian feast without taking part in the yoga, the dancing, the discussion and the chanting, only to stretch a hand out for a big, old plate of delicious, free food.

Here’s a truism that holds up: Times have changed. Oh, gosh, they surely have. When that truism slaps you in the face, have a laugh, throw out some socks, and realize that there’s another misadventure coming up. It’s just a matter of when.