Fear of Flying

A friend of mine flatly refuses to go to the many sleek, highfalutin coffeehouses around the city for his morning cup of java, even though he admits that he’d rather have a double espresso or a frothy cappuccino than the less classy brew served at a pancake joint.

“It’s not that I have anything against those fancy coffee places,” he says. “It’s just that they don’t have any real food. I need something more satisfying in the morning than a friggin’ scone.”

I’m right with him on the subject of those friggin’ scones, which turn into crumbly blocks of sweetened plaster after a few hours. And, like my friend, I don’t think of most coffeehouse fare — biscotti, chewy croissants, doughy cinnamon rolls, muffins — as breakfast. But sometimes the concept of a full breakfast is too overwhelming even for perpetually hungry me.

The other day, I rolled out of bed at 5 a.m. to pick up a friend at the airport. I was still bleary-eyed and half-asleep when I dropped him (and his many suitcases) at his downtown loft, so I made a detour to J.P. Wine Bar & Coffee House at 15th Street and Walnut for a rejuvenating shot of espresso. There was only the barista behind the bar and one other patron in the room — a bald guy staring at a laptop computer screen. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but the barista caught me staring at a surprisingly pretty frosted pastry under a glass dome.

“A local lady makes those,” he said, setting a square china demitasse in front of me. Since the pastry didn’t look like one of those spongy, factory-made cinnamon rolls, I suddenly coveted the sweet. The guy behind the counter warmed it up in the microwave and served it to me on a china plate with a cloth napkin and a fork. It wasn’t the most sensational roll I’d ever eaten, but as one part of a very soothing experience, I was impressed enough to make a mental note return when I was less fuzzy-headed. I can tell you from personal experience that with only a handful of hours of sleep, even Chubby’s can seem almost alluring.

I’ve been back to J.P. Wine Bar & Coffee House several times since — fully rested and more level-headed — both during lunch hours and at night, when the place serves a selection of small plates. The venue has its eccentricities, and, yes, the kitchen can be inconsistent and a bit slow, but I really like the place. Compared with its predecessor in this location (the dark, drab coffee-and-vino shack called Tchoupitoulas), J.P. Wine Bar practically glows with positive energy.

There’s no one person named J.P. behind this business; the initials represent Jordyn and Paige, the twin daughters of co-owners Keith and Linda Gobel. The business began in November with a smaller coffeehouse in Lee’s Summit called J.P. Coffee, which doesn’t serve food. When the Gobels decided to pour wine in the evenings, they hired former Pierpont’s sommelier Ryan Maybee as a consultant. Because Maybee had been looking for a location in the Crossroads for his own coffeehouse and wine bar, the trio decided to pool their resources and open a more elaborate version of the Lee’s Summit venue.

The interior makeover of the space — a warehouse in the last century — is dramatic and startling. Maybee and the Gobels had a vision for a sunnier, warmer front room, and architect Jake Shopp gave them exactly that. The bar was moved to the north wall (the kitchen was moved, too), tiles now cover the concrete floors, and several of the walls have been painted a lively shade of pistachio. Near the entrance, there’s now an electric fireplace sheathed in pale stone, framed panels of painted glass and sexy Murano-style light fixtures. A long, narrow hall is now edged with secluded booths and leads to a private wine room boasting comfortable chairs and pretty wood wine lockers. Most of these cabinets have been snapped up already and are marked with metal plaques engraved with the owners’ names.

On the night I went to dine in the big front room, the first Friday of August, I was with my friends Bob and Carmen and Carmen’s new boyfriend, Brandon, who thought the crowd crammed around the bar looked well-off and sophisticated. A waitress appeared, carrying a metal flip-chart that looked like a hospital medical chart. It actually contained the list of small plates on one page, a quartet of cheese “flights” on another, a few dessert items (titled “Indulgences”) on the third, followed by a trio of pages devoted to the 15 wine flights. Being a nondrinker, I needed my dining companions to explain to me that a flight of wine is like a boozy sampler platter. The J.P. vino tastings include three or four glasses containing 2-ounce pours.

In a matter of minutes, my tablemates were flying, with 10 goblets of various vintages among them. “This is a California kind of place,” Bob announced between sips of Pinot Grigio. Carmen thought it was more European. I was pretending to be a doctor as I flipped through my chart — I mean menu — looking for dishes to elevate my cholesterol. The cheese flights seemed like a good start.

I’ve rarely had good luck with cheese plates in Kansas City. I’ve seen too many with a sliver of brie and cubes of pepper jack. But J.P. chef Darren Bartley has assembled some interesting combinations of imported fromage. The plates come with delicious accessories: tiny champagne grapes, salty kalamata olives, candied nuts, dried fruit, sliced radishes and gherkins, toasted crisps, crackers and sweet breads. They’re not just easy-to-share finger food; sampling a couple of them adds up to a nice, light dinner. The menu urges diners to “be adventurous and daring,” and I did my part by nibbling on mild French Mimolette (Charles DeGaulle’s favorite cheese), sheep’s milk cacio di fossa, and smoky Spanish Idiazábal.

Forty minutes later, there were 17 glasses of wine — empty and full — on the table and the adjacent window ledge. There was barely room for the additional dishes we ordered. The Ahi tuna tartar was a pile of ruby-colored cubes mixed with bits of tomato, onion and “wasabi foam” that was the same vibrant pink as bubble gum. We all liked the combination of sliced figs and pears splashed with honey as well as an offbeat assemblage of spicy chorizo, a fat marinated artichoke heart and a curl of frozen melon. Everything was lovely except for the panini du jour, a hunk of bread filled with smoked salmon and God knows what else.

“The panini,” Carmen said, setting down a glass of Argentine Zamba Marca, “isn’t sending me.”

The wine did, however, and we left J.P. in exceptionally good spirits; three of the group were still flying.

I had a more promising panini experience a week or so later, when I stopped in with Carol Ann for lunch. The menu at that time of day includes soup, two wraps and two paninis. Chef Bartley is expanding the lunch menu considerably this month. “We had never intended to offer lunch,” Maybee explained. “J.P. was going to be a coffeehouse in the day and a wine bar with small plates at night.”

But so many people requested lunch that Maybee and Bartley flew into action. Lunches, like the small-plate menu, must be simple: The J.P. kitchen has no grill, no fryer and only a small oven. But Bartley’s adding more salads and soups. When Carol Ann and I dined, there was a fine chicken tortilla soup, thick and punchy with peppers and served in a big cappuccino mug. The pricey panini sandwiches are served on toasted, not pressed, French bread. I was underwhelmed by the “ham and beer cheese” variation — made with Belgian Chimay Trappiste cheese — but I was impressed by the cheese-and-turkey number. The latter is as thick as a St. James Bible, piled with smoked turkey and provolone and slathered with the bizarre-sounding but tasty “spicy strawberry jam.”

As an alternative to java joints that don’t serve real food, J.P. Wine Bar & Coffee House is a real destination. No matter what flight you’re on, there’s always a happy landing.