Troc With Me, Baby
If you look up from the Place du Trocadero in Paris, you get a magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower. Closer to home, you can step out of the front door of the new Café Trocadero on 31st Street, turn due west and gaze upon the KCTV Channel 5 tower. Not exactly the same romantic vision, but if Kansas City’s dreary 31st Street doesn’t yet have the allure of Paris’ 16th arrondissement, it’s not because Café Trocadero’s owners, Chris Seferyn and Vince Rook, aren’t trying. Over the past nine years — since opening The Velvet Dog in a long-neglected building — they’ve established this stretch of the midtown artery as an oasis of sophistication and cool.
“The customers call the neighborhood Velvet Village,” said Café Trocadero manager Robbie McGowen, noting that Seferyn and Rook currently own the Empire Room across the street and the new brick buildings east of Café Trocadero that house the Spy Agency hair salon and DiPardo’s liquors. In terms of urban development, Velvet Village may not seem monumental, but for the long-neglected 31st Street corridor — once a busy streetcar thoroughfare — it’s a remarkable commitment to the inner city. There hasn’t been this much activity in this neighborhood (stretching from Oak to Gillham) since the 1920s, when the two-story brick building at 401-409 East 31st Street was home to a drugstore and three other small businesses. East and west of the building were barbershops, bakeries, beauty parlors, saloons and cafés. By the 1960s, most of the little neighborhood businesses had been shuttered or torn down, and Loomis Pharmacy was the only operation still thriving, at 401 East 31st. By the time Jimmy Carter was in the White House, the building had been taken over by caterer Robert Salsman, who turned it into R.T.’s Deli, which a friend of mine insists was “a hot, singles gathering place in the early 1980s.”
That may have been true, but singles haven’t flocked there for more than a decade. But surprise, it’s a happening haven again, for hot singles, lukewarm couples and frosted blondes. Seferyn and Rook gutted the space, installing shiny, cherry-stained flooring, a spectacular blond-wood bar (in the old pharmacy space, the only area where customers can still smoke) and, instead of ugly ductwork, a floating maze of quivering sunflower-gold fabric tubes snaking through the warren of spartanly decorated rooms. But the most important installation in the place is the talented young chef, Jason Bowers, who has created a menu that’s as stylish and creative as any bistro or boîte near the Place du Trocadero in Paris.
The delicious food is what distinguishes Café Trocadero from its more raucous counterpart, The Velvet Dog, across the street. Bowers’ cuisine is seriously elegant. So even if the pounding techno dance music (“The ghost of dead disco,” sniffs my friend Ned, who so loves the food at Café Trocadero that he dines there at least once a week, “in spite of the dreadful music”) and the attractive hipsters in attendance suggest that the place is more a nightclub than a restaurant, the food itself is very much a potent lure.
Yes, it’s very much a see-and-be-seen place, particularly among the theater and media set; at least one schmoozy reporter likes to hold court at the bar, evoking the spirit of another famous Café Trocadero — the one in Hollywood from 1934 to 1946 — owned by gossipy Billy Wilkerson of The Hollywood Reporter, where several young starlets were discovered by studio executives. Proving that history repeats itself, the night I dined with talent agent Melissa, she passed out her business card to at least three of the restaurant’s handsome young waiters: “They’re all gorgeous,” she said, sipping an Absolut Hunk martini (Absolut Vanilla, pineapple juice and fresh lime juice) prepared for her by freckled bartender Michael. Melissa spent much more time flirting with boyish Michael than eating her appetizer: a platter of crunchy, fried root chips — carrot, turnip, celery — laden with succulent, boneless beef short ribs and a sprinkle of tart blue-cheese crumbles. So I ate the dish for her and then polished off my own fabulous dinner of pillowy sea scallops lightly glazed in a white-wine cream.
That was the night we were eating in the bar so Melissa could puff on Marlboros. A few nights later, when I dined with Jen and David, we were seated in the smoke-free, front dining room, attended by the chiseled Antony, whose rugged beauty left the normally chatty Jen almost speechless. David, celebrating his 31st birthday, was more interested in the menu. He and I agreed that we preferred sinking our teeth into the crunchy soba-noodle crust of the artistically composed, spicy tuna roll, dripping with a jade-colored cucumber and jalapeño coulis. Jen, nibbling on a moist chunk of salmon cake, felt rather differently. So unnerved was she by Antony’s magnetic presence that she took forever to order dinner, finally settling on the seared Atlantic salmon. It arrived fleshy, firm and nearly erect, perched on a fluffy mound of buttery-rich, lobster-dill mashed potatoes (generously laden with big pieces of luscious lobster). She ate it all lustily.
David devoured the slab of golden mountain trout, crusted with spiced pecans and sautéed in a fragrant brown butter sauce: “It’s a taste sensation,” he said, nearly swooning. I took a few bites myself and found it to be a highly sensual dish: moist and tender under the crunchy armor, delicately spiced, not fiery.
In keeping with the aphrodisiac theme of the night, I ordered — and loved — a flaky potpie stuffed with wild mushrooms (crimini, shiitake, portabella), full-bodied and rich as beefsteak. Served with a light spring-vegetable risotto, it was one of the most gorgeous vegetable dishes I have ever tasted.
I was in such a state of ecstasy, I nearly waved away the dessert menu but was brought back to my senses by David’s reproach: “It’s my birthday, and I know exactly what I want.”
“So do I,” whispered Jen, batting her eyelashes at the lean, blond florist in the tight plaid pants at the next table. Alas, he didn’t seem interested in any of us.
“Behave yourself,” David hissed at her. He smiled up at our server, “I’ll have the Frozen Cashew Brittle Glacé, please.”
The icy concoction of whipped cream, eggs and sugar was dappled with amber cashew brittle, butterscotch caramel and Belgian chocolate, accompanied with a chewy macaroon and a wisp of a cashew cookie. It was maddeningly good. So was a soothing pavé of poached Anjou pears glazed in brown sugar and balsamic vinegar, and topped with a scoop of creamy cinnamon ice cream.
I felt guilty eating so ravenously, but la vie est trop courte, and I could diet the next day. Alas, just 24 hours later, I returned with three sophisticated friends who despised the music but adored the food. That was the night I had a wonderful hunk of red snapper, seared under a crust of masa and floating on a decadently rich polenta flavored with cheddar and jalapeño. It was breathtakingly delicious, even if my companions fumed that the restaurant was “just too Studio 54 for Kansas City.”
That’s an overstatement, although Café Trocadero is the perfect setting for beautiful people to gather together. If they can’t dance, at least they can get all hot and bothered over a tower of glistening yellow tomatoes, fresh mozzarella (a shade too cold) and lots of garlic. It may not be Paris, but it’s nearly as exciting.
