If you go out and buy April's St. Louis Magazine, you can read the article that turned Southampton Neighborhood's luck around. Dude, this place has been sort of cursed ever since I turned that puppy in. That's what I get for bragging.
If you're not busy for the next two weeks, go see Hamlet at The Black Cat Theatre on Sutton Ave in Maplewood. I thought I'd be Shakespeared out after watching SLU's rockin' British Colonial version of Midsummer Night's Dream, but no.
The Black Cat is a sweet venue, too. The chairs are comfy. It doesn't smell like feet. And if you had a time machine, you could go back to last Thursday's preview night, when the tickets were only $10. You could even sit by us, instead of those really obnoxious people who sat behind us and laughed really loudly at innapropriate moments. I'm all for inappropriate laughter (every time someone mentioned that the castle was named "Elsinore," I thought of Strange Brew and giggled. Take off, hoser!), but even I have my limits. Go see Hamlet, though. If but for no other reason than the fact that the ghost of Hamlet's father totally sounds like Jean-Luc Picard.
I totally forgot to gripe about this three weeks ago.
We were downtown for an opening at the Ellen Curlee Gallery and we wanted to eat dinner. It was a Friday night. We've been to Kitchen K lots of times and, this is St. Louis, we just don't dress up to eat. Ever. And the host (we think it might have been the owner) met us at the door and mentioned that we might feel more comfortable eating in the bar, since it was more "casual." I totally felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. We had money, dammit! And it's not even like we were wearing tube tops and flip flops, yo. And of a hot summer evening, you see that crap in the CWE all over the place. It ain't right, but it's okay. What is it about tube tops and flip flops that makes me envoke Whitney Houston? Wicked.
Anyway, I was incensed, but the food was still great, so I couldn't maintain my self-righteous anger as much as I'd liked. And I guess the sweet potato fries made it worth it to smell like some hipster's cigar by the end of the night. But honestly, I don't want to be seen in the "K Bar" (you have to pronounce the "K" really hard, like K-Hay so nobody thinks you said gay bar. Not that there's anything wrong with that.) any more than y'all don't want my sneaker-wearing fat ass in your restaurant chasing off all your non-existent customers. This downtown belongs to US, the folks who braved Washington BEFORE they put lights in the streets and valet parked the cars. This little "ooh we could be a real city" identity crisis was adorable at first, but now it ain't cute no more, Ray-Ray. Until I can go to any Schnucks in the city limits and not bump into at least three people I know (and were trying to avoid), St. Louis is still gonna be small-town to me.