Westside Local is finally as good as its fans have always insisted it was

The first time I reviewed Westside Local, back in 2009, I couldn’t recommend it. Some of my friends already loved the new restaurant unconditionally, grateful to have such a business in this hip neighborhood. But I found the service arrogant and inept (a glaringly bad combination) and the food inconsistent. These things I blamed on original managing partner Troy McEvers, who seemed like an indulgent parent, looking the other way as his staff provided minimal service and maximum attitude.

I had written off 1663 Summit, but those same friends — along with a growing number of other people — eventually talked me into trying it again. Well, they were right. Westside Local now deserves its status as a KC-chic urban boîte (one that has earned some kind of most-favored-nation status among Charlotte Street Foundation types and others of the art set).

What has changed? For one thing, McEvershas left the building (his interest in the restaurant purchased by other partners in 2010). Not coincidentally, the least talented servers have also moved on. The managing partner is now Brandon Strick, and he has assembled a smart, attentive serving staff and has imported chef Sam Jones, a veteran of the kitchens at Blue Bird Bistro and Anton’s Taproom.

Jones’ current menu, which changes soon, keeps a few of this venue’s original dishes, in forms reconditioned to accentuate his strengths. The fries, good before, might be the best in the city now. Deviled eggs have appeared on more menus since the Local’s early days, but the ones here are fresher-tasting than those elsewhere. And the Summit Burger (made with ground, hormone-free rib-eye) is superlative, fully justifying its $12 price tag.

Some of Jones’ additions are elegantly simple. He marinates a flaky, moist Troutdale Farms trout in buttermilk and dredges the fish in cornmeal and sautés it in butter until its exterior is just delicately crispy. It’s an old-fashioned version of a classic, down to its side order of glazed carrots, and the plate I ordered completely seduced me. Jones says he’s planning to change how he makes that and a couple of the other entrées I tried and loved. I’m in favor of evolution — especially here — but I hope he doesn’t lose the recipe card for that trout. It’s the kind of dish that makes someone a regular, like those friends of mine who insisted that I return to the Local.

If the chef wants to experiment, he might work on the pork chop. I tried to love this thick, juicy cut, which practically gleamed under a shiny orange-juice-and-brown-sugar glaze and was sumptuously moist. But saltiness dominated the meat to a distracting degree. The server outlined the brining ingredients by ending with “just a little bit of kosher salt” — and thereby making the understatement of the evening. (Jones is indeed tweaking that dish as well.)

Westside Local now has an interesting connection to Sasha’s Baking Co., which opened earlier this year on Ninth Street. Sasha’s co-owner Jeremy Schepmann was once a waiter at Westside Local, and he and his wife, Michelle, purchased a percentage of the restaurant before opening their downtown business. Schepmann now supplies the sourdough bread and the baguettes to Westside Local, as well as the featured item on a much-abbreviated (but wildly improved) dessert list.

Jones uses that sourdough for the restaurant’s fine grilled cheese sandwich (another holdover from the original menu that’s better than ever) and scatters sourdough breadcrumbs over one of Westside Local’s signature dishes: a satisfying bowl of
cavatappi and cheese sauce (made with Shatto white cheddar). The other breads and crackers served here are from Farm to Market Bread Co.

This is a restaurant that credits, in detail, its local and regional vendors on the front of the menu and within the descriptions of each dish. That’s how I knew to seek out more Cottonwood River Cheddar, for instance, from the heart of Kansas. And it’s how you begin to decide how to custom-build your own cheese tray or charcuterie platter from the offerings listed in the “Localities” section of the menu. The most recognizable name might be Shatto, which provides the exceptionally fine Plattsburg and Winstead Reserve cheeses.

My favorite starter here, though, is the “pint of fries,” perfectly crispy, perfectly seasoned (a little Parmesan, a dash of parsley), dipped in one of the house-made aiolis (roasted-garlic, a punchy roasted-poblano). Jones makes the ketchup, too, but it’s not much less bland than the bottled stuff. I assuaged my guilt by ordering a kale salad to accompany the potatoes. As inexplicably trendy as this onetime garnish has become, the kale gets a flamboyant treatment here, adorned with shaved Brussels sprouts, fried shallots, slivered almonds, grated Parmesan and some gratuitous but tasty bacon slices.

The potpie is tasty — as it should be for $20 — but the house-made “puff pastry crust” described on the menu was neither puffy nor flaky when I tried the dish. The vegetables, Windhaven Farms roasted chicken and cream sauce were fine, but that crust kept what should have been a sure thing from being memorable.

I could be equally crabby about the Westside Reuben, which boasts “house corned beef” and the kitchen’s own sauerkraut but lacks Thousand Island dressing. I’m a stand-your-grounder about this. A good Reuben requires that dressing’s sweet note as a counterpoint to the tart kraut, and the version here subs in a jalapeño-dominated dressing that’s just plain discordant.

Not all sandwich innovations rub me the wrong way. The Local’s veggie burger is one of the city’s best, with a sweet-potato-and-quinoa patty that nicely balances those two components — along with cannellini beans and expertly deployed peppers — so that no single flavor overwhelms. You can taste the Emmenthaler, the bun stays together, and you can have it with those glorious fries.

The two-item dessert list includes a house-made bread pudding (it did, at least, the evenings I ate here), but why sample anything but Sasha’s “Chocolate Dome”? I wasn’t sure if I should stick a fork into this luscious, mammary mound of chocolate mousse (sunk into chocolate ganache) or lick it.

Service is slick now, infinitely more polished than it used to be. On weekends, a reservation is pretty much mandatory. I arrived, with a friend, at 5:30 p.m. on a Saturday and found almost all of the tables off-limits, held for people who had planned ahead. Within an hour, the intimate dining room (it seats about 65) was packed. Five years ago, that might have surprised or confused me. Not now.