I ate my way through Kansas City last week. For the most part, I ate haute. At Bluestem, a storefront bôite in the Westport neighborhood, I enjoyed a smoky filet with a fried Maytag blue bonbon on the side. And I watched pastry chef and co-owner Megan Garrelts wait tables while cradling her two-week-old daughter in the crook of her arm. At 40 Sardines, the exurban restaurant chef Debbie Gold now runs solo after a split with her husband, I sipped lovely peanut soup - bisque really - brightened by a drizzle of chive- and basil-infused olive oil. Instead of wine, Gold was high on local fave Boulevard Brewing. And she was right: Their Boulevard Tripel, a Belgian ale with a nose of bananas, was the best taste of the night. But a couple days of haute eating requires a basse rejoinder. At the Tenderloin Grill, a counter service joint in a largely Hispanic neighborhood along Southwest Boulevard, I joined Paul Kirk and Ardie Davis, two champions of local porcine culture. Much to the consternation of owner Ricardo Herrera, who touts his burgers, Paul and Ardie ordered snoot sandwiches for all. (Anatomy lesson: a snoot is a pig face, with snout as focal point.) Meanwhile, Paul and Ardie talked Missouri snoot styles: Kansas City (steamed ‘til soft) versus St. Louis (grilled ‘til crispy.) The snoot arrived quickly — a floppy mound of tender, barnyard-scented offal on a white bread bun slicked with mustard and hot sauce. A nostril jutted out at an almost jaunty angle, giving the bun the look of a beret. When I bit down, mustard squirted from a nostril. I chewed and grimaced and swallowed, earning the haute eats to come that evening.
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