Steamed mussels, an appetizer, came to the table rubbery, lukewarm and khaki-hued what they did not come with were seafood forks or a bowl for discarded shells. Massa's actually manages to mal-tweak this salad even more by depositing a single, whole, stem-on pepperoncini or cherry pepper (there was one and then the other on two separate visits) along the edge of the plate, an inexplicable, bizarre, groundless choice that belies the rest of the salad's texture (why is everything else sliced but not this?) and content (cukes, tomatoes or plenty of other veggies should join in before anything from the chile family does). Among perfunctory salads, this one is an institution, largely because it's often served in institutions. It comes on a glass plate, and it has obviously been crafted of pre-chopped iceberg, pre-shaved carrot splinters, a few thin slices of pre-whatevered red cabbage and a goopy white "creamy Italian" dressing. You've probably seen Massa's' dinner salad before - when you had lunch with Grandma in the nursing-home cafeteria, or at your cousin's wedding reception at the Ramada Inn.
But sadly, this kitchen-of-all-trades proves master of none: The back of the house operates with a total lack of inspiration, as verve-free and inauthentic as you might fear upon encountering a menu that divvies up entries according to "red sauce" and "white sauce." Perhaps Massa's is so popular because it stretches itself in every culinary direction - bar food, blue-collar Italian staples, hometown favorites, cholesterol- and carb-conscious fare (marked with little red hearts and blue shields, respectively), whatever's gastronomically trendy - to please all palates. Then again, so do deep-fried chicken strips with honey-mustard sauce, mini-pizzas and burgers, toasted ravioli and shrimp scampi. Which is not to say Massa's excludes the au courant: Pesto, tilapia, tiramisu and shiraz all appear on the menu. In other words, during fine dining's Dark Ages. Before food became globalized and fetishized.
Massa's is a holdover from an era before celebrity chefs, nouvelle cuisine or the Food Network, before supermarket salad bars boasted avocado and radicchio, before you could buy sushi at a major-league baseball game or focaccia in an airport terminal, before us unedumicated Midwestern mouth-breathers knew from pesto, lattes, Gorgonzola, curry, balsamic vinegar, aioli, tilapia, tiramisu, crème brûlée or shiraz. A rival owner might gladly gut the left kidney of his sous chef to learn the secret of Massa's' success. Massa's' aisleways, amok with busboys, waitresses, tray stands, kids giggling their way to the bathroom in twos and threes and hostesses bushwhacking through the whole merry mess, seating parties while wielding plastic-jacketed menus as if they were machetes, keep the indoor clamor at a constant buzz. So packed is Massa's, the house won't let you reserve a patio table for any time after half-past six on weekends - and nobody seems to mind waiting an hour for an alfresco four-top to open up. Massa's' recent move - from Kirkwood's main drag, where it had reigned comfortably for more than two decades, to new side-street digs, David Slay's old ZuZu's Petals space - yielded a quaint, brick-laid outdoor terrace and space for about 100 additional patrons, but it did little to solve customer gridlock. The food biz is masochistic enough as it is no self-doubting chef or neurotic owner need saddle him- or herself with the extra whopper of festering career anxiety and bottom-line envy that's sure to register upon seeing the multitudes, the droves, the hordes that flock to this house of Italian vittles.
I can think of at least two dozen restaurateurs who should never eat dinner at Massa's on a Friday night.