Are we actually going to talk about Topgolf (3201 Chouteau Avenue, 314-333-0188) today? I mean, the food there? In case you haven’t seen, a brand new ball ground has risen in Midtown. The lights are on; the “fields” are green again. I don’t know what the birds are thinking — all that net.
Me, I’ve never shared the same sentence with the word “golf,” let alone stood in a pod three floors up and swung a club like a string of spaghetti at a small ball. No, me and golf, me and anything that classifies as a sport, are oil and water.
Speaking of oil, I wondered ahead of time what kind this golf kitchen was using in its food. What was it that was bumping the calorie count as sky high as my ball wasn’t going? Eighteen-hundred-plus calories for guac and chips? Twelve-hundred for the hummus and raw veg plate?? I understood (maybe) 2,200 for the chicken strips, and — more on this later — I understood it for the “Injectable Donut Holes.” Boy, even before I put one of those things in my mouth, I understood that. And I was grateful then for the full-disclosure menu which lists these nutrimental numbers clear as a blue day on the links.
But, already, I was being judgy, coming to conclusions.
“Stop it,” I said to myself. “You might be surprised.”
I was.
For instance, you actually can cobble together a decent meat-free dinner at Topgolf. And you won’t starve if you’re vegan or can’t stomach gluten. Credit where it’s due.
Right off the tee, we ordered the Farmhouse Flatbread with a cauliflower crust. I was interested. It’s delicate, pretty-looking: Cherry tomatoes tangled in with arugula over finely minced mushrooms, red onion and a creamy garlic vinaigrette. The twist — and it’s a good one — is that I think the mushrooms may have started out dried. Which means they are intensely and woodsily fungiform.
Oddly, this flatbread is only classified as “gf,” not vegetarian. Don’t know what that’s about or where the meat could possibly have been hiding.
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The bar at Topgolf offers a unique spot for a drink — and the liquor options fill seven pages.
Don’t be disappointed when the “Nacho Average Nachos” arrive (is this a sporting term or a warning?). Yes, they look slumped and overheated, but are remarkably lifted by a very solid, very zippy chimichurri and a few thick coins of jalapeño. There are pinto beans in the mix as well. I made a note to try this at home.
There’s simply no replicating the look of Topgolf’s burgers. With these immaculate, food-styled cartoons of our national dish, you can tweeze your brows in the sheen of these buns. But you might need Freddie Mercury’s jaw to bite down. Ours arrived toothpicked with lettuce, tomato and a perfect, glistening tongue of bacon and was satisfyingly charred. That meat was definitely not hiding, but the “secret sauce” was a little coy. (What was it? And where?)
The trio of tacos is offered three ways, but we plumped for a threesome of shrimp, rather than chicken or beef. Where a shrimp is concerned, there’s no quicker way to lose faith in a chef than bouncing down on a rubber bolus. And our faith remained intact. Someone here knows how to do these tiddlers, and I could imagine the scene back in the kitchen — flames jaggering up the sides of a blistering, sizzling pan; shrimp jumping like hoolies at a football match. There was distinct “authenticity” to these tacos; they are precisely what they are meant to be.
Despite echoes of dystopia as you gaze out from Topgolf into Midtown and the neighborhoods beyond, you can’t fault the view. I mean, who wants rolling hills and trees with leaves (or trees without them)? Who wants real grass and a sweet breeze? This is a city and those are long ago things.
But no one seems to mind. It’s jolly here, if a little strange. Good sportsmanship is all around: boys-night-outs, girls-night-outs and families, and not a plaid pant in sight. The staff could not be nicer.
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You can inject your donut holes with your choice of chocolate, raspberry jelly or Bavarian cream.
So, at last, what is to be said about Topgolf’s Injectable Donut Holes? I’ve puzzled a little over this one, and almost come up empty. It’s unlike me; the holes — it’s true — have me stumped.
I know hospital language in a food article isn’t really the thing, but I don’t know where else to go. I mean, how do I not go there when a couple of syringes show up at the table and they’re filled alternately with something that is red, and something that looks yellow and thick. I definitely won’t say ichor tastes better, but I definitely will mention that the stuff in that red tube bore zero resemblance to any jelly I’ve ever come across. As for the goo in the other, if that was Bavarian cream (or anything cream), then I’m chief of surgery at the Mayo Clinic.
A rider to all of this could be that seven pages of booze menu (more if you count the puddingy “Sweet Sips” that sneak in under “Desserts”) might guarantee that by the time these infamous, scorched spherules arrive, you’ll be too snookered to care, let alone get them in your mouth. After all those beverages — all those flashing!! boozy “Golf Bags” that are big enough to be shared but most likely aren’t — you won’t know which is ball and which is hole. And it’s OK. Out there, far out on the Astro Turf, is the best place for either.
Topgolf is open Sun.-Thurs. 9 a.m. to 11 p.m.; Fri.-Sat. 9 a.m. to midnight. Send tips and feedback to Alexa Beattie at [email protected]
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