The Spirit of St. Louis

Have you heard the story of Pearl Curran? The 20^th-century housewife who channeled a 17^th-century spirit? She was of, and is, St. Louis. She lived in the early 1900s, when the gateway to the West was a growing, bustling metropolis. But she had a tie to America’s uncertain past. The spirit she channeled went by the name of Patience Worth, a supposed spinster from the late 1600s. Through Curran’s Ouija board, Worth would convey instances of her dangerous, abrupt life and dictate stories she never got to humanly compose. The women were bound and tied by societal constraints in two different ages of opportunity. Worth’s America was still in its defining infancy. Curran’s was in the infancy of what in the coming decades would come to be known as the “American Century”. Their singular story was one of a soaring success tied to the past but with no place to go but down.

In a way, St. Louis has never been able to exorcise itself from the story of Curran and Worth. It is a city whose past and present coexist in its precarious current reality. It has a glorious literary history that has been visited by the specter of one of America’s great living writers. It is a region obsessed with America’s pastime even while that pastime falls further and further behind America’s sporting passion. It is home to the great American beer, which is now owned by a foreign corporation. The city gave rise to various pioneers of American music and is now bustling with the music of the streets, chronicling the deadly decent prosperity has taken. Its famous arch is a portal to the past, present and future, a portal to opportunity and decay; it is a portal to America.

St. Louis was once the fourth largest city in the country but has now slipped to the 52^nd largest city, although the sprawling metropolitan area is much larger. Literature has helped define the area’s rise and descent. Adding to the supernatural literary echo has included Mark Twain, who grew up in the region as Samuel Clemons. He has almost singularly ensured this area will always have a major role in the telling of the American story. Other major contributors have included T.S. Eliot, Tennessee Williams, and Maya Angelou. And about halfway down that decent from four to 52, another son of the Midwest, novelist Jonathan Franzen, set his debut novel, “The 27^th City” in St. Louis and observed, “for too long, our officers have accepted the idea that their mission is merely to ensure that St. Louis deteriorates in the most orderly way possible”.

That deterioration has been constant since the height of St. Louis’ ascent and has been echoed all across the country. Infrastructure the country over has been failing and is in desperate need of reinvention. Even in the best of times, poverty has been rampant. Today, St. Louis has a violent reputation nationally. Its arts reflect desperate lives in the shadow of progress. Hip Hop has a strong foothold here, famously producing the rapper Nelly. At other times it has spit out deities such as the Rock and Roll pioneer Chuck Berry and the jazz luminary Miles Davis. In the face of blight, St. Louis has consistently helped redefine itself, its culture, and consistently redefined what it means to be American.

We are now at the dawn of a new age of reinvention, perhaps best illustrated by what has happened to the great American beer, Budweiser. In 2008, Anheuser Busch was purchased by the Belgian company Inbev, bringing globalization fully to doorstep of St. Louis. It is a move mirrored the country and world over. It is causing the confrontation of what it means to have local pride when a foreign company is a major employer of St. Louis workers. Is Budweiser still the great American lager? What constitutes American made anymore? Is it better to eschew the macro-brews that have long been dominant in the name of micro-brews like the Square One, Shlafly and O’Fallon Breweries that now populate the area? What does that mean for the American worker?

Through all of these reinventions that have been documented in St. Louis, the one constant has seemingly been the St. Louis Cardinals. Even in an era when football dominates the nation’s sports scene, baseball holds an enduring spot in the hearts of this region. Some of the greatest players in baseball have called this area home. The Cardinals have been had their history illuminated by the Gashouse Gang; they have seen the Man and the Machine and have visited the Wizard of Oz. It is a love affair that has spanned the written word, been served a tall cold one, and has danced “The Duck Walk” to ragtime jazz. It has endured.

This is the St. Louis to be explored over the coming months. There is a “Spirit of St. Louis” that is felt today because it is being channeled from a magnificent past. The “Gateway to the West” once opened to a land of uncertainty just as this city serves as a gateway to an uncertain future. Through its deterioration this city has always endured as a beacon of light. It is still a magnificent city; it is still filled with problems. A reinvention is at hand, for it and the country. What we all become is a matter for the Ouija board that is St. Louis.

A Beer for Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the Midnight Sun

By those who moil for amber gold;

The Arctic ales produce secret tales

That blossom when the tap runs cold;

The Northern Lights have seen bitter nights

But the bitterest I ever did see

Was the night on the marge I put on my charge

A beer for Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where bourbon is lined in rows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”

It was Firkin Day, we were mushing our way, on a happy hour trail.

Talk of a thirst! Manhattans mentioned first, but I held out for an ale.

If whiskey we chose, our lashes would close, till sometimes we couldn’t see;

So we skipped the rye, but bye and bye, the one to whimper was Sam McGee.

That very night, the brewery was packed tight, with many beers to show,

I picked a brew, evoking Bear, legendarily running through the snow,

He turned to me, and “Cap” says he, “I’ve no cash this trip, I guess;

Cover for me, I’m asking that you won’t refuse this one request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; so I agreed to the evening’s loan;

‘Ale Slayers’ was tapped, producing a satisfied thirst-quenching moan.

He ain’t be dead but was filled with awful dread, of life past with beer so plain;

So I had to swear that, foul or fair, we’d sample till no beer remain.

A pal’s one need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

So I returned to the bar; but God! don’t get anything too pale.

Round two produced a ‘Sockeye Red’ so good he forgot Tennessee;

And before nightfall a convert that IPA had made of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath across the bar’s breadth, as I hurried, taste bud-driven,

With his spirit awakened I produced another round, fulfilling a promise given;

Though that red had spawned an appreciation taxing our brawn and brains,

He said “you promised true, and it’s up to you find out what else remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the bar has its own stern code.

In the minutes to come, though my lips were numb, a crest of euphoria I rode.

In the long, long night, his passions alight, Sam found a girl to give a ring.

So at the bar, now ordering for three, I found a brew that was just the thing.

With every drink our lashes would sink and feel heavy and heavier grow;

While a celebration of that ‘Panty Peeler’s’ citrus and spice did show;

The bill was bad, but I couldn’t be mad, cause I swore I would not give in;

And that Belgian Tripel was a guarantee we were leaving with a grin.

Then out on the marge after signing my charge, many a spirited derelict lay;

Sam looking grand, asked for the hand, of the lady Alice May.

She looked at it, and thought a bit, and I looked at my happy chum;

Then “Yes,” said she with a sudden cry, “we better call my mum.”

Some folks did swore, from the brewery door, honoring the impassioned fire;

And we all knew, in debt to the brew, that love could grow higher;

For within the vats that still remain are flavors you seldom see;

We would have to return, me and the future Mr. and Mrs. Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to see them snuggle so;

But the heavens scowled and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks and I don’t know why.

Into a tavern I turned for another pint of Midnight Sun to loosen up my tie.

I do not know how long I wrestled with grisly ‘Kodiak Brown Ale’ fear;

But the flavors leapt out and they danced about, ere good times ventured near;

I ordered some bread, then bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep outside.

I guess he’s booked, but its better I looked,”…then the door opened wide.

And in came Sam, looking cool and calm, without the woman he called a bore;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “ I just need one more.

It’s fine in here and I greatly fear being out in that gathering storm –

A ‘Monk’s Mistress’, that special dark ale, is what I need to keep warm.

There are strange things done in the Midnight Sun

By those who moil for amber gold;

The Arctic ales produce secret tales

That blossom when the tap runs cold;

The Northern Lights have seen bitter nights

But the bitterest I ever did see

Was the night on the marge I put on my charge

A beer for Sam McGee

* this “poem” owes a sizeable debt to “The Cremation of Sam McGee”. Forgive me Robert W. Service

* link to the original poem

*link to Midnight Sun Brewery

Some Anchorage Culinary Traditions

Compared to most modern cities, Anchorage is not very old. You’d think it wouldn’t have had the opportunity to develop many culinary traditions of its own. But thanks to an influx of outsiders that drastically altered its population during the second half of the twentieth century, culture has been imported. Two institutions serve as sparkling examples of how best to cook burgers and fried chicken both here in Alaska and wherever their founders originally called home. The two restaurants, The Lucky Wishbone and Arctic Roadrunners have seemingly changed little since their midcentury openings. The food in both places is a testament to simple, old school cooking that will never go out of style no matter the local. Their décor drips of local Alaskan color. Not the Alaska sold by its thriving tourist industry, but the Alaska of the working people who live their lives and stop in for a bite to eat at lunch or on the way home.

The Lucky Wishbone offers multiple options for a meal, though all but two are inconsequential. The place is known for its fried chicken and milkshakes. The buttermilk-battered chicken, pan fried to a golden brown would make any Southern grandma proud, as would the house made cornbread muffin that accompanies the meal. The meal is one of two nods to the past, the other the hand-dipped milkshakes that should not be skipped. The diet is already ruined so order a hot fudge shake to accompany your meal. Have a seat at the counter reserved for those willing to discuss golf (seriously) and pay homage to the Southern flyboy who a half a century ago put down roots in Alaska with the pride of his heritage in the kitchen and the pride of his service to his country covering his establishment’s walls.

There’s similar pride all over the walls of Arctic Roadrunner. Not in commemoration of the Local Burgerman, but to honor the lives of those who have frequented the restaurant since the mid 1960s. The décor is filled with photos and letters detailing the lives of Alaskans with nods to how long those lives have intersected with this local institution. The memorabilia is nice but would just be quaint if not for the memorable burgers. Served fast food style without being bland fast food, this place knows how to make simple, delicious. A diner can also make their sandwich more complicated with a condiment bar that is truly inspired.

It has taken inspiration to leave these two institutions alone. While the city has grown these two restaurants have stood the test of Anchorage time. They have tradition place like Applebees strain to replicate with faux-neighborhood authenticity. Locals already know it, but travelers need to seek these places out. Not because a tourist board sells them as authentic Alaska, but because authentic Alaskans have made these places their tradition.