Mar. 21st, 2005 09:11 am
Dinner at Malmaison I: Setting
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muckefuckThe highlight of the visit home--the raison d'être for the trip, in fact--was dinner at an upscale French restaurant in the exurban wilds. The name of the village it's in--St. Albans--said nothing to me, so I looked it up on Mapquest. For my Dad's last milestone birthday, we'd gone to some B&B in Augusta, a charming little wine town in "Missouri's Rhineland"--one of those struggling 19th-century farm towns reborn as a kitsch depot for urban and suburban daytrippers--so I was expecting more of the same. The map, however, revealed street names like "Bordeaux Circle" and "Latour Street" that smacked of modern subdivisional theme-naming.
In the end, it was a mix of both: A 268 year-old settlement reinvented a decade ago as a chichi gated recreational/residential community. The approach was stunning: From the map, I could tell that the hamlet was located right where the bluffs drop away to the 100-year floodplain of the mighty Missouri River. We left South County Strip Mall Hell behind when we crossed into Franklin County. The rural route began to follow meandering Tavern Creek through a glen between low hills. The flat was all taken up with paddocks; we saw very few animals, though, despite being told to expect llamas and other exotics.
This gave way to the country club proper--there were golfers out at twilight in blustery early spring weather--and then a profusion of monumental gated communities with names like "The Hollows", "The Moors", "The Bluffs". Our first clue that we were reaching the heart of the original settlement was a gorgeously dilapidated depot, probably left over from the days when the estate was a dairy farm operated by the owners of the International Shoe Company. Our next surprise was a historical marker bearing the likenesses of Lewis and Clark, the bicentennial of whose explorations was the toast of the town last year. (Web research--we didn't have time to stop and read it--indicates that it memoralises their visit to nearby Tavern Cave, where Lewis almost ended the expediction there and then by nearly plunging off a 300-ft. drop.)
A little further along--right past where the Chicago, Rock Island, and Pacific rail line crosses Little Tavern Creek before the latter merges with Tavern Creek at the edge of the floodplain--we came upon our destination, "The Gardens of Malmaison" (a name which remained obscure to everyone--including the staff we talked to--until further Googling revealed it's the name of an early country estate of Napoleon Bonaparte's). We parked on a water meadow dominated by a tremendous alder tree--or three of them, actually, merged into a single huge trunk. It was dusk and we hurried up the hillside to view the gardens before the light vanished.
Unfortunately, not much was out this early in the year, but we could see signs of future beauty. Behind the formal garden, the steep slope had been terraced and peonies were sprouting along each step. An ancient stone walk led through it all, ending abruptly at a teetering metal gate to a small woodlot. (The bartender later explained that a house with a pool had once stoop atop the hill.) From the gate, I could see the heavily-wooded floodplain peeking through to the north and I led my brothers down for a look.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bunj spotted a large half-ruined sign along the railroad right-of-way and we clambered down in our best clothes for a closer look. (Fortunately, it was not muddy at all.)
The sign warned us that the next 1 1/2 miles on either side of the track were private property, everything was prohibited, and trespassers would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. So what didbunj do? He immediately plunged ahead for a closer look at a concrete bunker with an open window and an door standing ajar tucked into the base of the hill. Refuse was strew in front of it, so I didn't go any closer; my brothers reported farm equipment inside. (The bartender, who had also done a lot of work on the gardens, later told me they called this place, which they used as a shed, "the Spiderhouse".)
We then turned out attention back to the gardens, which had recently been outfitted with a bar and wood-burning pizza oven for al fresco dining. Someone had left the rosemary plants exposed (they're not winter-hardy in St. Louis) and they were a dead dull gray. The fountain was off and we saw nothing blooming until we came closer to the main building. Here there was a running fountain with goldfish and a small clumb of crocuses. On the other side was another wood-burning fireplace facing a small stone-paved terrace that was just being stoked by some of the staff.
We went inside, hung our coats, and said our hellos. The guest of honour, my stepmother, greeted us in a red and black silk pantsuit she had hand-tailored in China during their recent visit and showed us to the private dining room, tucked into a dim enclosed porch with a low tin roof. She told us that the original log cabin dating back to 1857 was where the bar was and led us on a reprise of the short tour she had just received. (This was where I got my chance to quiz the barman about some of what we'd seen on the grounds.) The old attached barn had been converted into a tavern back in 1926; in 1987, a French couple bought it, rechristened it, and made it over into a French restaurant. It was on its second set of owners since then and they had done some extensive renovations.
In the end, it was a mix of both: A 268 year-old settlement reinvented a decade ago as a chichi gated recreational/residential community. The approach was stunning: From the map, I could tell that the hamlet was located right where the bluffs drop away to the 100-year floodplain of the mighty Missouri River. We left South County Strip Mall Hell behind when we crossed into Franklin County. The rural route began to follow meandering Tavern Creek through a glen between low hills. The flat was all taken up with paddocks; we saw very few animals, though, despite being told to expect llamas and other exotics.
This gave way to the country club proper--there were golfers out at twilight in blustery early spring weather--and then a profusion of monumental gated communities with names like "The Hollows", "The Moors", "The Bluffs". Our first clue that we were reaching the heart of the original settlement was a gorgeously dilapidated depot, probably left over from the days when the estate was a dairy farm operated by the owners of the International Shoe Company. Our next surprise was a historical marker bearing the likenesses of Lewis and Clark, the bicentennial of whose explorations was the toast of the town last year. (Web research--we didn't have time to stop and read it--indicates that it memoralises their visit to nearby Tavern Cave, where Lewis almost ended the expediction there and then by nearly plunging off a 300-ft. drop.)
A little further along--right past where the Chicago, Rock Island, and Pacific rail line crosses Little Tavern Creek before the latter merges with Tavern Creek at the edge of the floodplain--we came upon our destination, "The Gardens of Malmaison" (a name which remained obscure to everyone--including the staff we talked to--until further Googling revealed it's the name of an early country estate of Napoleon Bonaparte's). We parked on a water meadow dominated by a tremendous alder tree--or three of them, actually, merged into a single huge trunk. It was dusk and we hurried up the hillside to view the gardens before the light vanished.
Unfortunately, not much was out this early in the year, but we could see signs of future beauty. Behind the formal garden, the steep slope had been terraced and peonies were sprouting along each step. An ancient stone walk led through it all, ending abruptly at a teetering metal gate to a small woodlot. (The bartender later explained that a house with a pool had once stoop atop the hill.) From the gate, I could see the heavily-wooded floodplain peeking through to the north and I led my brothers down for a look.
bunj spotted a large half-ruined sign along the railroad right-of-way and we clambered down in our best clothes for a closer look. (Fortunately, it was not muddy at all.)The sign warned us that the next 1 1/2 miles on either side of the track were private property, everything was prohibited, and trespassers would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. So what did
bunj do? He immediately plunged ahead for a closer look at a concrete bunker with an open window and an door standing ajar tucked into the base of the hill. Refuse was strew in front of it, so I didn't go any closer; my brothers reported farm equipment inside. (The bartender, who had also done a lot of work on the gardens, later told me they called this place, which they used as a shed, "the Spiderhouse".)We then turned out attention back to the gardens, which had recently been outfitted with a bar and wood-burning pizza oven for al fresco dining. Someone had left the rosemary plants exposed (they're not winter-hardy in St. Louis) and they were a dead dull gray. The fountain was off and we saw nothing blooming until we came closer to the main building. Here there was a running fountain with goldfish and a small clumb of crocuses. On the other side was another wood-burning fireplace facing a small stone-paved terrace that was just being stoked by some of the staff.
We went inside, hung our coats, and said our hellos. The guest of honour, my stepmother, greeted us in a red and black silk pantsuit she had hand-tailored in China during their recent visit and showed us to the private dining room, tucked into a dim enclosed porch with a low tin roof. She told us that the original log cabin dating back to 1857 was where the bar was and led us on a reprise of the short tour she had just received. (This was where I got my chance to quiz the barman about some of what we'd seen on the grounds.) The old attached barn had been converted into a tavern back in 1926; in 1987, a French couple bought it, rechristened it, and made it over into a French restaurant. It was on its second set of owners since then and they had done some extensive renovations.