All is not well at Maxwell’s Downtown Grill

It’s been awhile since I’ve eaten in a restaurant that was so ridiculously understaffed that I was tempted to get up out of my chair and help the stressed-out — and solo — waitress clear plates and refill water glasses. It’s a natural instinct for anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant: You feel for the servers who are juggling so many responsibilities that they don’t know if they’re coming or going.

Show me a dining room in near chaos on a Monday night, and I’ll start taking bets on the longevity of the joint. I was a bit concerned for Maxwell’s Downtown Grill in Lee’s Summit even before I dined there because one restaurant had already failed in the old red-brick building at the corner of Third and Douglas. A year ago, the venue was home to a barbecue joint called Beauchamps on the Rail. I kind of liked the place, but I was clearly in the minority because poor Beauchamps went off the rail.

The building sat empty for a few months, then reopened in late spring as Maxwell’s Downtown Grill, a kind of saloon-meets-diner concept created by Don and Lynn Phelps. The Phelpses own another restaurant in downtown Lee’s Summit, an Italian bistro called Ciao! Bella. I’ve never eaten there, but I did stop in for lunch one day and stood at the hostess desk for five or six minutes, waiting for one of the young staffers to come up and, you know, ask if I’d like a table. The dining room wasn’t remotely busy, but a teenage-looking waiter glanced over at me from across the dining room and made no effort to head in my direction until another two minutes had passed. Then — and the memory of this still makes me laugh — he walked toward me carrying a dish towel and a bottle of Windex. But after curtly acknowledging my presence, he stopped and started spraying the top of an empty table.

Hey, how many fuck-yous can one patron endure before he gets the idea? I walked out of the restaurant while the nitwit was still clumsily swiping the tabletop.

I experienced sloppy customer service on my two visits to Maxwell’s, too, though not from Brandy, the petite waitress who was the only server on the floor both nights. She was adorable and as professional as she could be under the trying circumstances. But there was a tall guy helping her out, and I’m assuming that he was a manager. But what kind of restaurant manager shows two people to a booth and, for the next 10 minutes, continues to pass by the table, looking right at the customers, and never asks for our drink order? Or never says, “We’re a little busy right now, but your server will be right with you”?

My friend Kevin thought it was all very amusing. “He’s pretending we’re invisible,” he said. “So I guess we are.”

Unless the Phelpses get their act together, there might be a lot more invisible customers because the cuisine isn’t all that memorable. Not that Maxwell’s is anything more than a diner with delusions of sophistication. When the place first opened, the menu was much more basic. “It was burgers and chicken strips and stuff like that,” said my friend Gia, who joined Bob, Johnny and me for dinner on my first visit and was surprised at some of the choices on the newest menu. “Pommes frites!” she laughed. “How cosmopolitan.” Brandy later explained pommes frites to our group: “They’re fried potatoes tossed with parsley and garlic. They’re quite daring.”

Daring? “Well, if you’re planning to kiss someone later,” Brandy said.

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This wasn’t the busy Monday night, so Brandy had time to suggest a few other daring dishes — like the fried olives on the appetizer selection. “They’re olives stuffed with cheese and deep-fried,” she told us.

Let’s just say the crunchy fried orbs served in a martini glass looked like fried olives. One bite told the real story: They were marble-sized cheese balls with minced-up black olives in a heavily battered crust, a culinary novelty and kind of trashy at that. Much better were the “volcano shrimp,” little crustaceans in a light crunchy batter, deep-fried and slathered with a smoky chipotle cream sauce.

The side salad that arrived before my dinner was a jumble of greens dripping with a creamy, mildly spiced concoction called “salsa ranch.” It wasn’t much of a prelude to the main event, two decent slabs of surprisingly garlicky meatloaf — luckily, I wasn’t going to kiss anyone later — sided with green beans and a mound of mac and cheese that tasted a lot like the kind made from a box.

Johnny raved about his chicken-fried chicken breast, served with mashers and a decent chicken gravy. But Bob wasn’t so crazy about his Douglas Street steak, slices of grilled beef that had been marinated in a syrupy teriyaki glaze. “I’ve never tasted beef that was so sweet,” he grimaced.

Gia ordered the fried pork-tenderloin sandwich and the fries, which she pronounced “fine.” After all, she said, “How can you screw up a tenderloin sandwich?”

We didn’t order dessert that night because Brandy plunked down the check before we could even ask about the selection of sweets, apparently created by chef Lynn Phelps herself.

I actually got to see a little laminated dessert menu on my next visit, dining with the nearly invisible Kevin on that Monday night. Walking in at 6:30 p.m., I was surprised at how busy it was: Monday nights are generally slow restaurant nights, particularly for a little place like this. My guess is that Maxwell’s has a following — though the bar, which is in a different part of the building and offers live entertainment every night, is often busier than the restaurant — but might have been trying to save money by understaffing.

We might have sat there, ignored, for another seven minutes if I hadn’t held out my hand to stop the manager as he whizzed by. He sent Brandy to attend to us, and she brought out drinks and gave a thumbs-up to the creamy lobster dip as a starter. “It’s heavenly,” she said. Well, it was rich and packed with “langostino lobster,” which isn’t really lobster in my book, but what the hell.

But our Caesar salads were overdressed and underwhelming. (Kevin’s croutons were as big as boulders, mine as tiny as crumbs.) Kevin’s tequila ribs didn’t evoke the flavor of tequila, but the meat had a lot of flavor when it wasn’t fatty and gristly. He finally pushed the plate of bones away but not before tasting the supposed “sweet potato casserole” and telling me, “It’s just three round slices of baked sweet potato. Big deal.”

I did order the big deal on the menu — steak Diane — that classic early 20th-century dish that was, for decades, prepared tableside with great theatrics. No one does that anymore, alas, including Maxwell’s, although the delectable filet was perfectly grilled and blanketed in an excellent mushroom-cognac sauce. Unfortunately, it was sided by a flavorless “medley” of broccoli and squash and a lukewarm bed of gummy mushroom risotto.

On this visit, I did get to sample one of the desserts, a thick wedge of creamy and very good Key lime cheesecake that was served, inexplicably — and foolishly — in a martini glass. This made it impossible to eat without knocking huge chunks of the pastry onto the table. “It’s a visual conceit that just doesn’t do justice to the dessert,” Kevin said.

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Why get so friggin’ fancy, anyway? Maxwell’s can’t live up to such affectations. After all, it’s a place that uses thick-grade paper towels as “napkins.” It should just remember that it’s a cozy little neighborhood restaurant that serves burgers, fried catfish and French dip sandwiches. And hire some help.

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