In July 2013, I rolled up to the then-Delmar Boulevard office of the Riverfront Times, seven months pregnant and fresh off a plane from Washington, D.C., to begin a freelance gig as the paper's restaurant critic. People always ask how I got this job — it's probably the most common question I get, even before where to go to eat — and I still sometimes wonder that myself. The short answer is that I had just had the offer for my dream job at the Central Intelligence Agency rescinded because I failed my security clearance (bad credit and weed), was mad at the world and hormonal, and came across the RFT's posting for a restaurant critic. A couple of weeks later I'd quit my job, walked away from a prestigious fellowship that included six-figure tuition reimbursement (that was probably dumb) and returned home to St. Louis after six years away to embark on the journey that has been the biggest thrill of my professional life.
I had no journalism experience and no professional writing credentials, but I'd spent more than a decade in the restaurant industry and had a writing-intensive background. The paper's then-editor, the brilliant Tom Finkel, took a chance on me as an untested writer; I took a chance on a job that paid literally one-seventh of what I'd been earning. That part hasn't been pretty, but I wouldn't trade it for anything.
The reason I was so willing to take the financial hit is that I love restaurants. Tremendously. I love dining, hospitality, the pomp and circumstance of service and, of course, the food. However, it probably took only three or so reviews before I realized that all of those wonderful things pale in comparison to the people. I've had life-changing meals during my tenure at the RFT, but the food component has never been nearly as interesting as the stories behind it. The restaurant industry is brutal on a good day, and the fact that so many wonderful folks choose to partake in this magnificent show is curious to me. What drives them became the organizing principle of my writing and the biggest joy of this job. Getting to know their stories and have them trust me to tell them has been an honor and a gift.
One of those people is John Perkins. Like me, Perkins began his official foray into the St. Louis dining scene in 2013, with the opening of his much-heralded Southern kitchen, Juniper. Another thing we share is a recent major career change: This is my last review as the RFT's dining critic, a decision that I have struggled with, much in the same way Perkins did when thinking through the future of Juniper.
Last July, Perkins shuttered Juniper and reopened three months later as Sunday Best (4101 Laclede Avenue, 314-329-7696), a more casual concept centered around his much-heralded fried chicken. Closing Juniper was a tough decision for Perkins, and one that took him a while to reach, even though he'd been seeing the signs for a while. Eighty percent of the people who came to Juniper came there for the chicken, whereas he spent a great deal of time and energy on the other 20 percent of the menu. Sentimentality is difficult to overcome, though, and Perkins admits that he was holding on to something that had run its course because he just didn't want to let go.
But finally he did let go, and in doing so, Perkins has created not simply a thrilling fried chicken destination with Sunday Best but a brilliant brand that, if the universe is fair, will become a successful boutique chain and the region's fried chicken authority.
It's hard not to be bullish on Sunday Best's prospects when you bite into that chicken. Perkins has been tweaking his recipe for more than a decade, and though he'd never say that he's achieved perfection, he's come as close as humanly possible. The pressure-fried bird is impossibly juicy and encased in crunchy breading that is substantial yet not overwhelming. The seasoning is magnificent, with just a subtle backbeat of pepper. The shocking thing is how crisp it remains; I had an order packed up, traveled all the way to Wildwood in rush-hour traffic and was gobsmacked that it was still crunchy nearly an hour later. It gets no better than this.
The tenders, typically an obligatory kids menu offering, get the same treatment and can be ordered by grown-ups without any shame. I ordered the hot version, which is dipped in a chili-oil spice that hits you on the back palate with a cayenne wallop, yet is so complex and flavorful you can't stop eating it, even as the heat builds. A side of rich buttermilk ranch provided a delectable, cooling antidote.
Perkins may have left his Juniper era behind, but he — with the help of talented kitchen manager Pat Skiersch — approaches everything at Sunday Best with just as much care as he did at the more upscale predecessor. This applies to sandwiches, including the Sunday Club, which pairs a juicy grilled chicken thigh with bacon, lettuce, tomato and a verdant basil aioli, while the wonderful cornmeal-breaded catfish po' boy is accented with crunchy bread-and-butter pickles and piquant comeback sauce. The restaurant's namesake sandwich, the Sunday Best, is perfection of the fried-chicken sandwich form. Here, a breaded chicken thigh is placed onto a soft, toasted bun with deliciously sticky red-pepper jelly and earthy smoked mayo, each component layering on top of one another like a beautiful symphony.
Sides are worthy of standing alongside such culinary beauty. Mac and cheese is impossibly creamy, and collards deliver with just a whisper of sweetness and heat. I was blown away by the Sea Island red peas, a take on a bean salad that pairs the beans with preserved lemon and celery. The brightness was a welcome counter to the fried main courses. Equally impressive are the beets, which pair the root vegetables with crème fraîche, spiced pecans, dill and orange zest, brightening the earthy dish.
Fried chicken may be Perkins' calling card, but his burger is one of the best in the city. Sauteed peppers and onions are cooked so long they break down into a wonderfully caramelized condiment the texture of tapenade. They combine with rich pimento cheese and garlic aioli, creating a mind-blowing concoction greater than the sum of its parts. It's incredibly rich, like a cheeseburger with 10 exclamation points behind it. I'd put it up against any other smashburger in the city.
I admire Perkins for his ability to deliver such excellent food against every adversity — finances, his personal health, a pandemic, the general stressors of running a business — but mostly, I respect him for being a wonderful human being with whom I've had the privilege of regularly interacting over the past decade. I consider him a friend, as I consider every restaurant owner, chef, cook, server, busser, bartender, dishwasher and host I've had the honor of interacting with throughout my time in this role.
I consider you, RFT readers, friends too. Every week — for well over 500 reviews — you've allowed me to yammer on about the things that I've found interesting and important, and hopefully you did, too. I've felt overwhelmingly supported by you, and I hope that you will continue to connect with me and reach out through Facebook and Instagram @cherylabaehr. It's not the end, but it's definitely a change — one that, like Sunday Best, will be different, but hopefully just as delicious.
Thanks for the ride.
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