Downtown SLC Market Street Grill Ends Breakfast Tradition
- Jess Candle
- 1 day ago
- 11 min read
OK, I don't have time for long articles, so each one needs to be a blast of energy.
The first time I heard of The New Yorker restaurant in Salt Lake City, I knew it was for me, I knew I would love it, and I just had to eat there.
At the time I was 18 years old, and was working as a busboy at Mulboon's restaurant, which was located at Trolley Square, you know, east of 700 east and south of 500 south. Mulboon's was popular then. On Friday and Saturday nights there would sometimes be a wait of 1 to 2 hours, or even on busy times like New Year's Eve waits longer than 2 hours. People would be seated right before ten p.m. and be dining until midnight or later. My shift at work was sometimes 5 p.m. to 2 a.m., or later. We were a popular spot for the kids to eat for their high school prom/dance dates. It was a fun place to work because even though I wasn't super busy with my own friends on a weekend night, it was fun to work someplace where the people dining there were having fun. It was sort of a social life by proxy, or what we now understand to be more of a virtual social life.
The kids that worked at Mujlboon's, like me, were mostly in college, age 18-22, and lived close to Trolley or the University. A lot of the kids, unlike me, partied. I didn't party but I always liked to be around fun people. A lot of the employees had worked at other restaurants or worked at multiple restaurants at the same time. My friend at work Dave told me he had a second job at Baci, an Italian restaurant run by Gastronomy, Inc., a Utah-based restaurant group. I learned that Gastronomy also owned The New Yorker as well as Market Street Grill (downtown) and Market Street Broiler (up by the University).
Fine, I was naive and sheltered but all these places sounded exotic to me, places for high rollers, places where mafia types liked to meet and make their plans. The New Yorker sounded cool, it sounded like a secret hideout, a great steakhouse, elegant, ancient, a keeper of secrets. It was said to be a "private club" which is a funny Utah thing -- it was a way of figuring out how to serve liquor by issuing memberships to the patrons. But I didn't drink and I wasn't 21, so the idea of a private club was forbidden to me, as well as mysterious.
At Mulboon's the big thing, the unique thing, was that every order came with a big shrimp cocktail order, which was brought out in a huge white plastic shell full of ice, with shrimp laid out and little bowls of cocktail sauce inside, along with lemons. Then the waiter would pass around little plates to everyone at the table and they would all share their shrimp bowl. You could get an extra bowl for free -- sometimes a big table would go through three or four or more. There wasn't anything special about most of the menu items but the big shrimp bowl was unique and the waiters would carry their trays high in the air, with a stiff elbow, so it kind of made an impression. Like I said the restaurant was really popular for a decade or longer, popular for dates, popular for high school kids, popular for tourists.
During the coming fifteen years (the fifteen years after the beginning of my story when I start working at Mulboon's), I ate a lot at Market Street Broiler (by the University) and then eventually at Baci and Pierpont, as well as Market Street Grill. The Market Street restaurants were basically the same with different names. The one by the University was awesome -- for a long time you could get a lunch special with bread and chowder and a little entree for less than ten dollars. Baci had this amazing spinach salad with a tasty dressing and sprinkled bacon bits on it. Pierpont had these ginormous burritos that were so big they were embarrassing to order. I ordered one once and when the waitress brought it out I wanted to die. It was about 14 inches long and 8 inches around, probably 5 pounds of food, and it was as if my grandpa were wandering around the restaurant naked, super embarrassing but no one could turn away.
Eventually I went to law school and got recruited by a law firm -- for the recruiting lunch they took me to The New Yorker. I loved everything about it. Underground, dark, heavy tablecloths, dark heavy carpet, wood everywhere, a giant bar, old men in suits mostly. My dish was a steak on top of mashed potatoes with a heavy red wine sauce over everything, and then everyone had a huge dessert. The steak was super large and tasty and I really liked everything I had. I remember the meal like it was yesterday. I was so nervous. I wanted to be hired. John Weston was there, Brian Hulse, Brian Johnson I think, Cunningham, maybe Benevento, Shaughnessy, I don't know, all eventually big wigs. I ate there a few times more over the years and especially loved their soups. Sometimes the people I took with me (my wife Kim) didn't love the food as much as I did, so maybe it was not as objectively good as I liked to think.
But the gem of the Gastronomy group ended up being Market Street Grill. In my thirties I was in a book club with a lot of lawyer friends and we started meeting for breakfast at the Market Street Grill (the one downtown right above The New Yorker). For ten or twelve dollars or less there was an amazing variety of breakfasts one could order, all the usual suspects, many varieties of breads and eggs, omelets of course, pancakes, French toast, waffles, ham and bacon, and more exotic items like breakfast trout, salmon, or eggs benedict. Often a steamed tomato cut into a delicate shape would adorn each platter and the Market Street potatoes (broiled in the oven) were (and still are) a delight. They would bring the ketchup in a bottle, not in a tiny squirt bag like at Arby's. The orange juice and grapefruit juice were tasty and fresh, the coffee hot and fresh. The dishware and glasses were nice and clean and you always got a cloth napkin, not an old tampon like they give you at some places.
At breakfast, there were always plenty of other patrons around to make the place feel lively, but then if you got there between 8 and 830 you never had to wait. It was never crowded or full, but it was always busy and active and pleasant. You always had the sense that you were lucky to be there, and to have a seat, but you didn't have to wrestle to the death for your place or anything. The patrons were often men and women in their thirties and forties, people at the start of their law or bank careers, as well as a lot of older women and men in their sixties or seventies, people still working, or not, as the case may be.
The ceiling there at the restaurant is quite high with ceiling fans, the floor small white tiles, lots of hardwood and brass, coat hangers, heavy wood booths and tables, heavy chairs, a place that feels sort of like you are eating near an ocean or sea. The service when I have been there has always been excellent, mostly older waitresses or waiters who have been working in that industry for 5 or 10 years or longer. You never get a teenager or an idiot kid serving you.
My friends and I in the bookclub openly acknowledged regularly that we were lucky to eat there, and that it was still open. We were all old enough to know that good things don't last and can't last and as the world changed so dramatically we worried we would lose our precious breakfast meeting spot. I mean how many good breakfast places are there?
In our book club we had ten people but when we met for breakfast, for whatever reason we would only get five or six to show up, and the large circular booths at Market Street were the perfect shape and size to hold us and to allow us our little discussions of whatever book we were reading.
We would all normally get there around the same time, see another there early to hold the booth, and then walk over and hang our jackets or coats on the hooks and sit down to our meals. My Dad, now deceased, who was in the book club, would always order grapefruit juice, which would amuse the rest of us for some reason.
In the winter, the glass windows and doors of the restaurant would steam up and it was delightful to arrive and look in and see if others from the book club were already there.
Another member of the book club, Pat, a wise and funny man, once ordered the breakfast trout or similar which caused a commotion and I believe Pat also tried the eggs benedict a time or two. A brave man. Another member Gabe always orders either the Denver or the Spanish omelet. This is true wherever he breakfasts and he never will vary from that. The rest of us usually ordered some kind of combo with eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast. Most being LDS not a lot of coffee was served but there came a time when I started partaking and it was hot, fresh, and flavorful.
As I said, the restaurant was usually busy but not crowded, and most of the patrons like us seemed like lawyer or banker types meeting for breakfast before work.
Around this time I married my wife Kim and among infinite marvelous things, she and her family were big fans of Market Street, not just the one downtown, but the one in Cottonwood. So Kim and I would eat there often as a couple or with her family, and sometimes a work group would go to the the Broiler instead.
My Dad and I started breakfasting, in the last ten years of his life, at the Market Street Grill as well. This was outside of our book club, or I should say in addition to. My Dad would have been around sixty years old when we started meeting for breakfast, both of us realizing it was a good way and good time of day to meet up, for meeting for lunch or dinner often involved extra schedules or leaving work, which were impossible to coordinate.
My Dad talked about other male friends he had his age, and how he would get together with them for breakfast as well, at times. He had some regular guys he liked to breakfast with at the Dee's Restaurant in Bountiful (my Dad lived in Bountiful). That Dee's was a popular place for a very long time and my Dad and I also had a tradition of meeting there for breakfast, during a period of time in which I too lived in Bountiful. The Dee's is closed now. Like I said, all good things must end, and the better something is, the shorter its life will be.
During the years of the Occupy Wall Street movement (remember that?) my book club mates met at Market Street on a day when I was busy with work. This is so far as I know the only time I have missed a book club duty or activity.
The members of the group arrived and sat as usual in a large round booth. A few of them had not shaved that same day and like many men had five o'clock shadow or similar. As they took their seats, a neighboring booth of old women objected to them on the grounds that they looked like they might be part of the Occupy movement, for they were "completely unshaved." This tale has brought great laughter to the group over the years.
As time does it takes everything away, it takes everything, it takes and it takes and it takes, and it gives nothing, not never, not once. The pandemic arrived in Spring of 2020. So weird. What a weird time. Well obviously that's when everyone started working from home, using Zoom and Teams to communicate so that we would not infect each other with this lethal disease called COVID.
Naturally, in downtown SLC, the number of bankers and lawyers eating breakfast or lunch immediately diminished to zero or near zero. There were no customers, no diners, no clients. Everyone at at home, in the suburbs, and if they did come in to work, they sure as hell weren't dining in a restaurant or cafe where they could get a life-ending disease.
This of course put massive stress on the restaurant industry, which already operates on the margins. The New Yorker closed during this time, which was a weighty blow for me. The Market Street Broiler closed. Another place nearby, a SLC favorite for decades, also closed -- you've heard of it for sure -- Cannella's Restaurant & Lounge, open for 42 years on the corner of 500 South and 200 East, wonderful wonderful place and people, wonderful lunch spot, wonderful evening and weekend spot. A real gem. They closed during the pandemic. When Cannella's closed, it really made me and my wife despondent for a time -- this place was within walking distance of our home and a place we could always count on to come through.
We all have our lists. Half the restaurants and bars on Main between S. Temple and 400 South, in SLC closed during the pandemic. We were all rats on a ship.
Through it all my book club and I kept meeting there for breakfast, and my Dad and I kept meeting there as well.
The lucky thing about Dad was that as he grew older, there was never a time of incapacity. He could always drive and walk and eat just fine. When he finally passed the whole thing was quick, like two weeks and he was dead. And up until that moment he was totally intact, what a blessing for him and his wife and for us. I don't know exactly when he and I would have eaten at Market Street most recently for breakfast, but we met regularly.
What did we talk about? Hell if I know. I don't remember. It's never about that, is it? It's more making your own traditions and creating things to look forward to, being around strong people who build you up and make you feel good, so that you can get through each day to the next one.
A couple of days ago I drove by there in the morning. They have a little case where they sell premade salads, premade desserts, chowder in containers, little loaves of bread. I thought I would stop by and grab a couple of salads for me and my wife for lunch. This was around 9 in the morning.
I was worried it would be closed as I pulled up. I couldn't tell. It looked dark inside but the fans were still spinning on the ceiling. I walked to the door, grabbed it firmly and tugged. Locked, Closed.
They had updated their hours -- it wasn't a death blow. Market Street Grill is open for lunch and dinner and brunch, but they no longer serve breakfast. As soon as I felt the weight of the locked door, I thought of my Dad. I wondered what he would think. Even though I wasn't going there to see him, I was glad that I organically thought of him -- it was like we were meeting there even though he's no longer upon this earth. I was proud of him I was proud of me, for all the time we took to make those breakfasts happen. I was proud we made and kept that tradition for as long as we did. Life isn't perfect. We all die. We don't do all the things we want. But at least we did this.
