in which a 32-year-old desire is fulfilled: we eat at stroud's

In 1993 I read a story in the New York Times: a father and his young daughter ate at Stroud's, a Kansas City institution, known for pan-fried chicken, large portions, and a friendly, no-frills atmosphere. (The story is below.)

Stroud's sounded exactly like the kind of place I love -- the kind of place I imagined we'd stumble on during any of our road trips, but which have been mostly replaced by fast-food.  

I never forgot that story, especially a detail about a giant bowl of mashed potatoes (possibly my favourite food) and the something about the daughter's eyes opening wide at the mountain of food in front of them. Anytime we would watch a game being played in Kansas City, I would mention Stroud's and wonder if it was still open.

Somewhere along the way, I also learned about ever more reasons to visit KC and Tulsa, which is very nearby. And I would think of Stroud's, and those mashed potatoes.

I'm not saying I was obsessed with Stroud's, but I never forgot it and always wanted to go. And yesterday, we did.

* * * *

There are two Stroud's locations, and we learned that neither is the original restaurant -- so I was a tad concerned that somehow it might no longer be quality or a local favourite. On the way there, I told Allan I was walking back my expectations, which he said was the natural state before realizing something one has long desired.

Then we arrived. The current Stroud's looks like a large house, like you're visiting relatives for dinner. The huge parking lot was packed, and people were waiting for tables. My expectations rose.

After leaving our name, we sat outside at one of the many picnic tables, and played word games on my phone to pass the time. We had eaten very little all day in anticipation of this meal, and were very hungry. After about a half-hour, we heard on the loudspeaker: Laura, party of two.

Inside were multiple rooms, countless tables, all with red-checked tablecloths, all sporting heaping platters of food. 

The menu is very simple. Most of it is pan-fried chicken, with a choice of all white meat, all dark meat, or mixed, or the chef's choice. There is also chicken-fried steak, chicken-fried chicken, and pork chops. Everything comes with a choice of soup or salad, a choice of potatoes, plus green beans and cinnamon rolls. 

I ordered all dark, Allan ordered all light. I didn't want chicken-noodle soup or salad, because I didn't want to waste my tiny appetite. The server offered a few other things, and I chose applesauce. Allan had the soup, and it was delicious -- rich and hearty, very chickeny, with short, thick noodles. The applesauce was also delicious -- obviously homemade without fillers or thickeners, with cubes of apples along with the pureed. We each had some, but I forced myself to stop eating.

All around us, people were digging into big platters and putting food in takeout containers. Many people ended the meal by picking up a basket of cinnamon rolls and sliding them into a takeout container. It was obvious that this is a very common thing to do.

Then came the main attractions. 

The chicken was light and crispy on the outside, moist and tender inside. What else can you say? It was perfect. It was the fried chicken of my dreams. 

The mashed potatoes were the old-fashioned kind: no skin, smooth, light, no frills, just a big bowl of awesome. 

There was also a rich chicken gravy. I don't normally eat gravy -- I don't really like sauces or dressings -- but I did taste some. It could have been a separate course, some kind of obscenely rich soup.

The only thing that was not tasty or even interesting was the green beans. They are cooked with meat, so they should be delicious, but they were soggy -- which I understand is the old-fashioned Southern way. But hey, it's not like we were there for the vegetables!

* * * *

Right before we ordered, I suddenly realized that I had no lactaids with me. I always carry them with me, and had bought a new pack only days earlier in St. Louis, having forgotten to pack them. At home, I keep lactaids in the car, so if we spontaneously have ice cream or whatever, I am prepared. I'm so used to having them in the car and in my bag that I never gave it another thought. Now I was anticipating mashed potatoes -- which might be made with cream or sour cream -- and might get instantly sick. 

Allan was so caring. He suggested we leave, go buy more lactaids, and get on the waiting list again. He suggested coming back another night. He suggested asking other diners if anyone had lactaids. I was thinking, women will ask other women for tampons and any woman will happily oblige -- but lactaids? I can't ask. I said I would just have to take a chance, but I was concerned. 

The answer: no reaction at all. This means the potatoes might be made with butter or whole milk, but there can't be cream or sour cream in them. 

* * * *

The food was just as I had imagined: simple, perfect, plentiful. Nothing fussy, nothing cheap, nothing updated.

I love all kinds of food, and have had the pleasure and privilege of eating many high-end meals at many incredible restaurants. This story isn't "food used to be great and it's been ruined". And it's certainly not nostalgia, because I never ate food like this as a child. I just love this kind of simple food and respect the skills and knowledge of people who know how to make it so perfectly. How they do so, especially in such large quantities, is a beautiful mystery.

The service was friendly and sweet, and there were tons of people working -- taking orders, bringing platters, clearing tables -- no cutbacks or labour shortages there, so customers are not waiting for long.

Stroud's also has a full bar, and I wanted to try a drink that sounded delicious and desert-y: a Choked Chicken, made with rum, triple sec, brandy, pineapple juice and some other things... but I was just too full.

The cinnamon rolls arrived last (you have a choice of when to get them). They look like square dinner rolls, no icing. We each tasted a bite -- they were warm, sticky, meltingly sweet but not cloying -- incredibly delicious -- then slid them into the takeout box. The meal comes with two cinnamon rolls each.

Even before the cinnamon rolls came to the table, the server asked if we'd need boxes, and brought the takeout containers and bags. You get large containers for chicken, and small round containers and lids for everything else. Even with so many customers taking home leftovers, Stroud's still serves enormous portions. There is something wonderful about that. 

Then came the bill, and we both laughed out-loud: it was under $50. 

I wasn't planning on announcing where we were from or why we were there, but on the way out, a woman, clearly one of the owners, asked us if our meal was satisfactory, if there was anything else we needed. We told her it was excellent, and we loved it... and somehow I ended up saying, You can't imagine how long I've wanted to come here. 

She said, "Well now you have to tell me! How long?" 

Allan told her 32 years. She lit up. "I don't think I've ever heard that before!" 

I explained briefly: New York Times story, big baseball fans, always thinking, we'll see in a game in KC and eat there -- now here visiting from Canada. 

She said that was a lot of pressure, and after 32 years, did it live up to expectations? I told her it was exactly what I hoped and expected, perhaps even better. I also told her that when we got the bill, we laughed. She looked puzzled, and I said, where we live, it easily could have been twice as much. She seemed pleased with that.

She wished us well and asked us not to wait another 32 years before coming back. I hope I gave her a good story.

* * * *

A few weeks ago, Allan, our head researcher, helped me find the original story in the New York Times archives. We weren't sure of the year, but early 90s was a good guess. It's quite a lovely piece of writing. Thank you, Clyde Edgerton and Catherine!

Pan Fried Heaven
By Clyde Edgerton
May 16, 1993

Catherine is very hungry. 

I am very hungry. We're driving south out of Kansas City. Looking for Stroud's. Something about good fried chicken.

Fifteen minutes from downtown, I start seeing promising signs, actual signs on neighborhood establishments, that begin somehow mysteriously to signal that we may be getting close to a real place, the real thing -- a serious roadhouse fried-foods establishment. The signs are: The Spot Bar, Holiday Hotel (the i dotted with a star), Bob's 24-Hour Breakfast, Gideon Baptist Church, Fellowship Baptist Church, We Sharpen Everything and Herman's Automotive. Good signs.

Stroud's, "The Home of Pan Fried Chicken," is a small, gray, one-story wooden building nestled about one car length off the street at 1015 East 85th. It's almost under a busy overpass, and is backed up against an abandoned railroad track. The small parking lot and all other parking areas nearby -- including both sides of the street for 50 yards each way -- are already full. And it's only 6:30. I was thinking we'd beat the rush.

A man wearing a jacket with "Stroud's" written across the back directs traffic from the parking lot. "Eating in or taking out?" he asks as I drive up and roll down my car window.

"Eating in."

"Park down the street there."

At the front door, we're met by a man carrying out a brown cardboard box full of Styrofoam containers and napkins. Following is a woman with a white Michelob Light cardboard box full of the same.

Stroud's does not manufacture its own food boxes. Good sign.

Inside, the waiting and dining areas are in one fairly large room with a low ceiling. The place feels old and well used. Viewed from above, the room would be shaped like a very short fat T. We have entered at the top of the T.

To our left, in the small waiting area, about 50 people stand on a wooden floor, elbow to elbow, sipping drinks and beer, talking and laughing loudly. The dining area holds around 100 men, women and children, packed in and eating at tables and in a few low-backed booths along two walls. All the tables are covered with red-checkered oilcloth. Good sign.

The reason I keep saying "good sign" is because Stroud's is looking more and more like a good place to do what I am deciding to do tonight -- give in and pig out. I don't care about my "partial diet." I don't care about cholesterol, fat, grease, calories, grease or bread. One night with you, oh pan-fried chicken, oh chicken-fried steak. Catherine -- she's 10, my daughter -- and I have decided she'll order fried chicken and I'll order chicken-fried steak, which I've never had, but a good friend of mine, Buster Quin, eats it often when he and I eat lunch together. It's steak rolled in a seasoned flour mix and fried -- of course. I've watched Buster look very contented while he eats it.

A man takes our name and smiles. "About 50 minutes," he says. Catherine rolls her eyes. To myself I predict an hour-15, at least. We elbow over to the bar -- at the far end of the waiting area -- and order two club sodas, 75 cents each. Catherine sits on a stool while I stand behind her. The bartender smiles and seems as relaxed as the man who took my name.

Catherine points to a mounted rabbit head on the wall behind the bar. It has antlers between its ears, glasses on its nose and a black scarf around its neck. Beside it -- over an antique cash register -- is a mounted deer head. From his antlers hang lighted red heart-shaped Christmas tree lights and a rubber chicken. Not tacky tacky. Real tacky.

On a side wall, beside the standard neon beer signs, is a big, framed picture, hung slightly crooked, of the man who took our names with his arm around Rush Limbaugh. Good sign. Liberals don't do much frying.

***

Over the noise of people talking and laughing, the piano version of "Pink Panther" sounds live. Catherine and I take our free refills and walk over toward the dining area. Sure enough, against a far wall sits a piano player at an old upright. He leans his ear to a customer who offers a request and starts in on "As Time Goes By" -- upbeat.

Now I get a good view of the eating going on at the tables and booths. The service is family style. A little boy close by is eating mashed potatoes with his spoon -- from a plate filled with mashed potatoes, french fries, a pickle, some kind of rolls and something that looks like a fried chicken liver or a hush puppy.

On all the tables are ketchup, hot sauce, sugar, salt and pepper. And an ash tray -- in case you hadn't figured that out already.

The ceiling and floor at Stroud's have a nice sway. The low ceiling has exposed beams painted dark brown against a weathered white. The multiple heat vents in the ceiling are also painted dark brown -- to go with the beams, which are 2 by 4's, by the way. Yes. Just right. Some of these so-called roadhouses with fake Coke signs and old gas pumps and trombones all over the place do not have ceiling beams that are brown painted 2 by 4's.

The windows have fluffed yellow curtains -- which on the west wall are backed by Venetian blinds. The curtains (without the Venetian blind backing) could make certain country people think of their grandmother's kitchen -- and I suppose those with the Venetian blinds could make others think of their grandmother's kitchen, or living room even.

You get the picture. The place was built in 1933 and the sounds of hammers and saws since then have been rare. I am by now really hungry, and so is Catherine.

We're finally seated in the middle of the room -- after a sure-enough 50-minute wait. Our waitress smiles easily and seems relaxed like, well, like everybody else working in the place. She, like all the other waiters and waitresses, is wearing a tasteful T-shirt that across the back says, "We choke our own chickens." Could be a good sign, I suppose.

We order.

The man who took our names at the door walks by carrying a car seat full of big blue-eyed baby. He speaks to a couple as he passes them. He knows quite a few of the customers. He smiles at us.

A bowl of mashed potatoes is placed in front of us. It could feed six lumberjacks and a small mule. Catherine and I look at each other. Make that a large mule.

A bowl of string beans follows, or snap beans, or green beans -- depending on where you're from. What seems clear from the wonderful ham smell coming up from that bowl, and from the obvious soft texture of the beans, is that the cook is from the South, or at least from some rural area where people cook their string beans. For a long time. With something in them that tastes good -- like ham bits.

Next: large bowl of thick, hot, creamy gravy with ladle.

Now Catherine gets her fried chicken. Four big pieces -- white and dark meat -- on a long plate. She looks at me.

I get my chicken-fried steak. It is the biggest one piece of food that I have ever seen served to a human in my life. We both stare at it. It's as big as a place mat. It is falling off one side of the long plate. Covering half of it is what must have been a full ladle of that thick, creamy gravy.

Then our waitress brings the bread. Hold your hat. The bread is this: soft, hot, sticky cinnamon rolls. We had been given the choice of having them with the meal or after. With the meal, Catherine has dictated.

Her eyes are very big.

Mine are too.

It is now 7:40. We never think about how nice it would be to eat slowly and savor our meal. We dive in, trading chicken for chicken-fried steak. Inside its crisp covering, the steak is very tender and moist. The thick gravy makes it all work together just right.

The nice thing about the potatoes and gravy is that both have precisely the right amount of black pepper. Not enough for you to taste, exactly, but enough to remind you that there is black pepper somewhere in the world.

The chicken is tender and smoking hot and at one point a taste of the crisp skin brings back a lost memory from years ago when I was a child at my grandmother's house -- the out-of-this-world, sinful taste of a piece of fried pork skin eaten within hours of the hog-killing. Cracklings, they're called. Yes, this tender crispy chicken that I am eating has something that is an exquisite rarity -- delicious grease. And plenty of it.

Are you with me? Or have you gone to the refrigerator for a fresh green salad, white wine, and turned to the book reviews. If you're with me, you've perhaps eaten cracklings.

As we finish up at about 5 past 8, Catherine says, "Daddy, I know what you're going to say. You're going to say, 'I ate too much.' "

"I said that a while ago."

"Well, maybe you ought to stop eating."

"I don't think I can. It's good, isn't it?"

"It's real, real good," Catherine says. "Do you know who would like this?"

"Who?"

"Grandma."

"And Mama."

"Man, yeah. Anybody would."

We head back to our hotel, then up the elevator to the revolving restaurant and lounge 40 stories up -- one of those that makes a complete revolution each hour. Catherine wants a look at the city. The hostess seats us in the lounge. Here, no people are waiting to get in. And the music is piped in. But the city is beautiful. We are full and content. Catherine wants to know if we can go back to Stroud's tomorrow.

"Let's think about it," I say.