Essay and photos by Johnathan Poertner

Editor’s Note:
Great news for fans of Uncle Bill’s: about four months after the publication of this article, the well-loved restaurant reopened under new ownership. Johnathan Poertner’s article (below) is good reading nonetheless.

— — —

In one of my favorite movies, Grosse Pointe Blank, John Cusack plays Martin Blank, a hitman who returns to his hometown. Early in the film, Martin decides to visit his childhood home, but his home is not there — it’s been torn down and replaced by an “Ultimart” convenience store. He has the requisite breakdown, and then solemnly concludes, “You can never go home again . . . but I guess you can shop there.”

On October 4^th, after eating my final Hickory Cured Bacon and Two Eggs (with a side of de rigueur pancakes to honor the restaurant’s legacy) at Uncle Bill’s, my wife quotes this line to me as we leave the establishment for the last time. Knowing both my love for that film and the diner, she captures the moment precisely.

I’m horrified that what had always been my home away from home could possibly be torn down and turned into a car wash or Dollar Tree.

To me and many others, we are losing much more than an aging diner. It’s been as formative as any other place where I’ve lived hours and hours of my life. Grade school, high school, first job site, these spaces hold snapshots of you at particular ages and times. But very few places connect your earliest childhood memories all the way up to the present in a nearly unchanged building. I kept changing but Uncle Bill’s stayed almost the same.

I spent my entire youth in a South City brick house near enough to be associated with well-regarded St. Louis Hills, but, technically, we lived in the less pricey neighborhood of Princeton Heights. My parents were grade school teachers, so eating out was a luxury. Sunday breakfast with the family at Uncle Bill’s was a treat only earned by waking up to attend early mass, accompanied by a chorus of serious begging.

Always Open, Always Dependable

At Bill’s I usually ordered the Hickory Cured Bacon and Two Eggs, scrambled, with toast. There was something magical about their toast. Two thin slices that came pre-buttered, with the buttered sides touching so that the luscious coating melted into the bread by the time you got it. Heavenly. I distinctly remember my frugal parents saying that ordering toast was a waste, because pancakes cost the same but were so much more filling; eventually, my mom and I worked out a complex but economical system of sharing in which we’d order two smaller, cheaper items and trade sides until we were both happy.

My last meal at Uncle Bill’s. That is some legit diner food.

We went often enough to learn the names of some regular Sunday servers. It helped that whenever a waitperson took a table they would tear the perforated top off your future bill and leave it like a business card, each one individually stamped with their name. During slower times, you’d often see servers hand-stamping stacks of checks, getting ready for the next day. Being young and naive, I thought that it must be an incredible honor to ascend the ranks from busser or dish washer, become a server, and then finally have your own custom stamp bestowed upon you.

For most of its life, Bill’s was open 24 hours, and it was incredible how much the personality of the restaurant changed depending on the day and the time. Visiting with my family and friends showed me Bill’s at a very wide range of days and times. Sunday mornings were filled with families and churchgoers. Friday and Saturday evenings throbbed with the wilder post-bar and club crowd. Mid-week and dinner time were reserved for only the most hardcore patrons; they understood that Bill’s menu was more than just pancakes, they could appreciate the diner’s true culinary depth. Someone might remark, “Anyone that goes to Uncle Bill’s on a Wednesday at 7 p.m. is just . . . sad.” But I say going to a venerable greasy spoon at an off-beat time with nerdy friends is the pinnacle of punk rock non-conformity.

In the Know

At least that’s how it felt to me as a teenager when Bill’s became our home away from home. In my later teen years, I joined a band called Lift the Mask and our practice space was the upper-level kitchen of a two-family flat on Devonshire, one block from Kingshighway. We’d practice until our drummer and bass players’ mom got fed up with all the noise and would make us stop. Then we’d head down to Uncle Bill’s to eat, introduce each other to new albums, debate song ideas, write and review lyrics, and dream about what our stage show would look like when we got big enough to pack Riverport Amphitheater.

Those were great times. Our ideas were grand and we were making a special space for ourselves – even if it was just a worn booth and wobbly table. In our minds we were pioneers. We were hip to something that the rest of the city had moved past, or only saw for its novelty as a pancake house. No one else dared to order grilled cheese, chili and a hot fudge sundae during the same meal, but we did. We, and we alone, understood the depths of Uncle Bill’s: The Patty Melt, the Deluxe Club, the Chicken Luncheon. Only we were bold enough to venture into these uncharted waters. (Ah, the arrogance of youth.)

Bill’s was so ingrained in our identity as a band that when we finally made a recording of our songs (entitled Scars and Stripes), we photoshopped Bill’s menu to display album tracks, replacing menu items with song names and prices with track times.

Little Changes, Big Changes

Throughout this era there were almost imperceptible changes at Bill’s, but they did signal the passage of time. Every so often, there would be a new staffer or I’d notice a few more gray hairs on owner William Choi’s head as he descended from his upstairs office, providing you a brief glimpse of the Uncle Bill. The cigarette dispenser with its yellowed pull knobs and the smoking section were both removed, though the smell remained for years. The menu barely changed, but once in a great while a new item would be added, the price of a cup of coffee would go up a quarter, and less popular items would be removed (I’m looking at you, Gizzard Dinner).

I still remember the uproar caused when Bill’s switched from Thomas Coffee to Ronnoco. A devastating blow — but somehow we lived through it. The men’s bathroom got remodeled and an insanely overpowered hand dryer was installed. (I think I lost some skin to that thing.) The gold and porcelain tchotchkes on sale in the entryway would eventually go away and be replaced by holiday decor and “Best Breakfast” award plaques, but not before I could purchase my absolute favorite item: the Toilet Seat Clock. For years I had loved its gaudiness and rarity from afar. I promised myself that when I had my own place, I would proudly hang it in my bathroom – and it hangs there today! (Completely unrelated, I’m suddenly reminded of how much my wife loves me.)

Eventually, the band lineup changed, and our practice space moved out to St. Charles. With this and other life changes, trips to Bill’s became less frequent but never disappeared entirely. My relationship took me to Columbia, Mo., where we were married and had our first child. We still traveled back and forth between Columbia and St. Louis to visit family, squeezing in the odd Bill’s visit. After about six years, our family moved back to South City and continued the tradition of family breakfasts. Our second child entered our lives and as both kids grew, we needed more space. We relocated again, this time to South County; the increased distance meant even fewer Bill’s meals.

The Death, Announced

When the news of Uncle Bill’s closing broke on October 1^st, my phone exploded with texts and calls. The weight and tone of the messages were akin to when someone tells you a dear friend contracted an incurable disease. “Hey man . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, but did you hear . . . about Bill’s?” “I’m so sorry . . . .” “How are you holding up?”

Bill’s was shutting down on October 8th, only one week after the fateful announcement. I foresaw a mad rush by the entire city trying to squeeze in one last visit and panicked. Would I be able to make it there in time? Would they run out of food? But the pancake gods smiled on me that day: I had already taken the upcoming Friday off from work to drive my kids to their marching band competition.

Regulars rush in for a final meal during the last week.

My wife, my mom and I decided to have an earlyish Bill’s breakfast before our trip. Once there, we saw that the line was out the door and they wanted to leave. But after seeing the look in my eyes, they conceded. As we waited, I had time to reflect, take photos and listen to other patrons lament the imminent shuttering of their place.

We enjoyed a delicious, comforting meal, just as I had hundreds of times before. Everything tasted exactly as it always had. Consistent to the very end.

Coda?

Mr. Choi is putting the property up for sale, and while that means the possibility of someone purchasing and reviving it, I’m not holding out hope. The restaurant business is often brutal. How many neighborhood restaurants and diners have come and gone during Uncle Bill’s 63-year run? Too many to count. Even if it did reopen, would it have the same magic? With the right people and returning staff, I suppose it’s possible, but I’ve already said my goodbyes and made peace with it.

Uncle Bill’s stands as a monument to a different time.

— – — s s l — – —

Johnathan Poertner is a native South St. Louisan, husband and father of two who works in corporate learning and development. He’s also a musician, gamer, movie buff and cat enthusiast. Photography and videography are two of his creative hobbies.