That ’70s Place

I’m always amazed when I get phone calls — from complete strangers — asking my advice on where to go for a romantic dinner. I’m not a good source; I’ve only had two such dinners in my life, and both involved excessive amounts of booze. One was at a trashy drive-in (we brought our own champagne) and consisted of greasy hamburgers. The other involved a picnic hamper, a thermos of martinis and a hammock. After my broken arm healed, I never used romantic and dinner in the same sentence again.

Still, I appreciate the palpable romantic allure of several local haunts: the dimly lit booths at the Raphael Restaurant, the aphrodisiacal dishes served at the Peppercorn Duck Club, the view from the slowly rotating Skies, the elegant service and savoir faire at the American.

But then, for something completely different, there’s Harold’s Restaurant & Lounge. It’s such a retro scene that diners might be transported back to that sexy decade of disco, Burt Reynolds centerfolds, Farrah Fawcett posters, hot pants, platform shoes, The Dating Game and disease-free decadence.

For example, Harold’s welcomes folks who like to light up before sex. Its no-smoking section consists of the two worst tables in the place; all of the others boast amber glass ashtrays as big as eight-track tapes.

Back in the swinging ’70s, every upscale restaurant was serving wine in carafes, and the hottest new vino was sweet, pale-pink white zinfandel. These days, most restaurants fill their carafes with water and cut flowers, but at Harold’s nearly all the vintages — including Taylor Burgundy or Almaden Blush Chardonnay or Riunite Bianco (remember those “Riunite on ice … it’s nice!” commercials?) — still come in carafes. And quiche, the ne plus ultra culinary sensation of the Nixon years, isn’t just available as a side order at Harold’s — it’s a suggested option with most dinners, like a potato or a vegetable. North Kansas City is apparently populated with lots of real men.

Harold’s has been around since 1961, when Harold Ash (who died in 1996) and his wife, Janice, purchased a concrete-block roadhouse that had been known in the 1940s as the Pines, then Doug and Nola’s, and, finally, Bill and Johnny’s. It wasn’t very big in those early years, and the menu was much simpler (chili was one of its featured dishes), but the restaurant caught on, thanks to Harold’s personality and the fact that he served the kind of food Kansas Citians love: juicy steaks, tender prime rib and crispy fried chicken.

The dining room is spotless and attractive, even if the décor is generic and the lighting is so harsh that even the Olson twins might look like a pair of old hookers. But folks come here to eat and gab and have a good time. On each of my visits, tables had been pushed together so big groups of friends could gather, swapping wine, food and raucous stories. On the night I dined with my friends Patsy and Bob, we overheard more than a few tantalizing snippets, including a gentleman old enough to be my grandfather blurting out, “But what’s a titty bar?”

Patsy raised her eyebrows, then took a sip of the Taylor Burgundy, which she hadn’t seen on a menu in years. “It’s not bad,” she said, “and simply perfect with deep-fried mushrooms.”

We had ordered the big pile of mushrooms after reading the menu description — “Fresh and hand-breaded by our chef!” — and they were delish, especially when we dipped them in a plastic container of ranch dressing. We weren’t nearly as excited about the stuffed crab appetizer: four fiery-red crab shells (“With eyes!” Bob gasped) filled with a mixture of bread crumbs, chopped red and green peppers, and a microscopic amount of crabmeat. Even doused with cocktail sauce, they tasted more like baked stuffing than anything resembling seafood.

“Do you hear a doorbell?” Bob asked before our salads arrived. Our waitress explained that when the kitchen puts up an order, a cook rings a doorbell. The bell didn’t bother me, but Bob’s head turned every time it sounded. “I just want to get up and answer the door,” he said.

Whereas artfully composed salads are the rage at the mod squad of new Plaza restaurants, Harold’s sticks with that old standby: iceberg lettuce, one cucumber slice, purple onion rings and a sliced beet served with a basket of cellophane-wrapped crackers; the basket of rolls came with dinner, accompanied by little tubs of Country Crock spread. Bob pulled out one of the warm rolls and announced, “It looks like a hot-dog bun.” It tasted like one, too. I nearly choked on it when the young woman at an adjoining table practically screamed out, “When I see him again, I’m going to spit in his face!” The entire restaurant fell silent for a moment before carrying on as if nothing had happened. Then the doorbell rang.

“I love this restaurant,” said Bob, who was thrilled with his dinner, a mountain of boiled hot-spiced shrimp — huge crustaceans, as big as prawns — and paper-thin cottage fries, which he dipped in peppery white gravy.

Patsy had ordered the most expensive dinner on the menu, a combination of boiled shrimp and a perfectly cooked, tender filet mignon. “It’s very, very good,” she said, almost incredulously. “Who knew?”

I knew I was going to love the deep-fried chicken the moment I saw the waitress lugging the platter through the dining room. The crispy, delectable half chicken included a big breast and the fattest drumstick I’d ever seen.

A few nights later, Bob ordered the featured special, a thin but expertly cooked T-bone steak with a baked potato. I got daring and regretted it later; my deep-fried scallops had a breading so thick and chewy that I felt as if I were eating scallop-flavored Milk Duds. But the broccoli-and-cheese quiche was dyn-o-mite.

On one Saturday night, we were practically the only nonsmoking table in the joint. After watching everyone around me light up before, during and after their dinners, I started craving a puff. It took every bit of self-control not to swipe the ornate imitation-gold cigarette case from the octogenarian chain-smoker sitting at the table opposite me. Instead, I ordered a big slab of lemon meringue pie, which the waitress insisted was made in the restaurant’s kitchen. It wasn’t (all the pies and cheesecakes come from the Golden Boy factory), but I didn’t care. It was so good that I ordered a piece of coconut cream after that. That wasn’t quite as decadent as all those things we used to do 25 years ago. But then again, this isn’t 1978.

Or is it?