Normally I prefer self-guided tours of historical buildings and museums, but after my guided tour of the Wornall House last week, I’m rethinking that attitude. My guide, who is an intern at Wornall House, told me many wonderful stories.

John Wornall, one of the founders of Westport (the original town in the area, founded in 1833, and now part of Kansas City north of the Plaza), built Wornall House in 1858. In 1864, during the Battle of Westport, the Wornalls had to surrender to the Confederates and then to the Union Army in one day.

My guide showed me a balcony on the top floor from which John Wornall was almost hanged twice in those 24 hours. But all ended well: the family survived and surrendered their house for use as a Union hospital. The “informal parlor” (papered because that was cheaper than painting in those days) served as the surgery ward because it had a window through which resected body parts could be tossed onto a wagon. Isn’t that lovely?

My favorite thing about the formal parlor was not the old Steinway in the corner but the gendered chairs. Men’s chairs had arms and leaned back farther because men worked harder and therefore deserved to recline more. Do you suppose that’s why recliners and men go together in my mind?

When I saw this kitchen, however, I wondered if men had earned those chairs. That blue cone of sugar had to be broken up and then guarded in a locked sugar cabinet. This brick was tea, which was ground and then poured into the bottom of a cup to steep. (The original Boston tea-partiers threw such bricks into the harbor.) Everything (rotisserie, toast, soup) was placed on an open hearth, which must have been blazingly hot to cook meat without the benefit of full enclosure. Some meals could be prepared by piling coals onto these Dutch ovens; maybe you’ve cooked that way on a camping trip?

Slaves and children worked in this space. At the age of two on a farm, one’s childhood ended and work began. The youngest children had the worst jobs: emptying the chamber pots or doing repetitive work in the kitchen. As my guide said, making children turn the noodle-maker for hours was a good way to keep them from running around and breaking things.

My favorite item in the kitchen was the flytrap (honey goes around the opening in the bottom), followed closely by the rattrap.

In this house, I saw a wreath woven from the hair of 60 women. I learned that the word “sink” comes from the zinc used to line the recessed counters that held bowls of water for use in the kitchen. I also learned that Jayhawkers were free state warriors from Kansas and that Bushwhackers were slave state warriors from Missouri. Or perhaps both groups should be called terrorists.

Last night my sister and father and I had dinner at Avenues Bistro at the corner of Wornall and 63rd in Brookside, which is considered a top restaurant in Kansas City. I wanted to go there and I decided to take them because I worried that the dinner would be expensive, but it was $150 for three dinners plus tapas, desserts, and a bottle of wine. That was a reasonable amount for very good food—not quite as artisanal as Frasca in Boulder, but not nearly as expensive either. In any case, Avenues Bistro tends toward French- and German-influenced dishes, not Italian.

We sat in the second room, beyond the bar. Behind us a large party celebrated something: a wedding, perhaps, or a well-lived life. We were rather quiet because of the background noise, which makes it hard for my father and me to hear conversation. I think the high ceilings absorbed much of the sound, but not quite enough for us.

The sommelier brought us Jade Mountain 2007 Syrah as a compromise between the red zinfandel I prefer and the merlot my father has been drinking lately. It had an aroma of blackberries and was light-bodied and soft on the tongue. He brought us 3 Riedel glasses so my sister could have a taste.

Since Avenues Bistro offers tapas as well as full-sized entrees, I ordered the ceviche, and the filet tips and the mushroom Cabreles. The ceviche was fish-forward: I couldn’t taste lime or cilantro, which were supposed to be seasoning the lobster, shrimp, crab, and tomatoes. But it was refreshing against the marvelous grilled ciabatta. The filet was wonderful; I loved the blue cheese taste of the sauce and the silkiness of the meat.

By the time we got our entrees, we were getting full, but we soldiered on. The Black Forest Jaeger schnitzel, which the menu calls “a Swiss-German specialty,” was topped with Black Forest ham, bacon, caramelized onions, and mushrooms in a white wine cream sauce. It made me feel like the queen of bacon-gooeyness. When I had the leftovers for lunch today, they were still good. But I would not call this dish subtle. Is there such a thing as a subtle schnitzel?

We still didn’t stop. We ordered the flourless chocolate cake, which had the consistency of a dark mousse, and the German apple cake, similar to carrot cake. As we drove home, I wondered if it were responsible of me to feed my elderly father so much food. But other than an occasional complaint about how full he was, he didn’t seem to mind.

***

I was having trouble deciding whether to review Brio Tuscan Grille on the Plaza. I didn’t really like the food at this national chain where a high school friend took me. (Apparently there’s one in Centennial, Colorado.)

The seasonal bruschetta reminded my friend of pizza, when it should have been more like the ceviche mentioned above. And the roasted tomato and chicken risotto with prosciutto and asparagus was to risotto what this blurry picture is to photography. It lacked the density of risottos I’ve had, in which the rice was a match for the sauce rather than drowning in it. I did enjoy the fluffy crab and shrimp cakes but not their too-sweet sauce, which my friend said tasted like Miracle Whip. I’ve never had that (at least, not willingly), so I don’t know how it tastes.

***

The presentation of food was adequate at both restaurants, though the cakes certainly took the … well, you know.

Monday afternoon I headed north to Brookside again, taking Highway 71 to 63rd Street and passing Research Hospital, where one of my relatives works, and the Landing shopping center, which I remember from my childhood. Mom and Dad would take us to Nu-Way, a burger joint where all I remember ordering is a chocolate coke, and it was near the Landing. Nu-Way isn’t there anymore, which makes me a little sad, but there may be some locations in Wichita.

I drove west on 63rd to Oak, where I parked and checked out the strip mall. Almost every business was closed on Mondays: Paris Flee Market, Bella Bridesmaid, the Clock Shop, Ward and Ward Custom Picture Framing, Brookside Antiques, and J’Adore (European antiques and interiors). Of all those, the framing store was open and, happily, the Oak Street Coffee Shop.

It was comfy and sunny but almost empty. The barista, who said she was new, made me a hot chocolate with Hershey’s syrup and then said I should tell her if I wanted more chocolate. Since it tasted like hot, weak chocolate milk, I did. (Hot chocolate varies so much in quality from one coffeehouse to another that I’m thinking of going back to coffee.) After I ensconced myself with Marie Claire in a corner to read all about Hilary Swank, a woman came in to buy the rest of their rich, dark, chocolate cake.

I stayed until the shop closed at 5, learning that Swank does not wear evening gowns every day (Newsflash!) and that the International Bodyguard Association has a women’s division that is growing apace. Both Obama and Qaddafi have female bodyguards, though Qaddafi’s look a lot tougher. Apparently female bodyguards have the advantage of being able to blend in better than a 6-foot guy in a black suit. This memorable quote—“You’re there to prevent a situation from happening, not to start a kung fu fight”—brought home to me why I wouldn’t be a good bodyguard. It’s the fighting that I want to learn.

Fortified with Hershey’s, I drove a couple of blocks over to Shop Girls, in the same strip near Brookside and 63rd with 5B Candles and Foo’s Fabulous Frozen Custard and Sharp’s 63rd Street Grill. The clothes in the window enticed me, but I hesitated, anticipating a bunch of long-sleeved T-shirts designed to cover the shoulder blades of 15-year-old girls.

Several tops actually fit, though I went home with only these two. On the way out, I was still stopping to look at jackets and scarves and purses. Shop Girls is a great place.

Since Monday is the day to indulge ourselves, as everyone knows, the most logical thing to follow a successful shopping trip is dinner. The list of fatty fried entrees at Sharp’s repelled me, but I had better luck across 63rd, where I found Carmen’s, Jalapenos, Domo sushi (shades of Denver), and the Blue Grotto. Carmen’s appeared to be a haven for illegal activity, and I wasn’t in the mood for sushi or Mexican. Blue Grotto, a locally owned restaurant, drew me in with its large, open front window and attractive bar. It was not too full when I got there at 6, making me feel less awkward as a singleton diner.

I sat at the bar in front of the window and enjoyed the slight breeze. When I ordered the Alexander Valley Chardonnay and lobster ravioli with brandy and lobster butter cream, the bartender brought me a white napkin, folded into a triangle, to use as a placemat. “Everyone gets one,” she said, assuring me that she didn’t think I was a slob. The wine glowed yellow-gray and tasted of citrus followed by something softer and smoother, perhaps the vanilla and caramel mentioned on the menu. I liked the irregular shape of the ravioli and the delicate flavor of lobster. The ravioli were firm, but I would have appreciated more, perhaps even crunchiness.

What impressed me most about Blue Grotto was the 18-inch-long antipasti platter ordered by my neighbors, featuring a hunk of cheese in the middle with a rosemary croccantini wedged inside, as well as salumi and oven-roasted vegetables.

It was a nice light meal, but after the glass of Punto Final Malbec, I didn’t want to drive home right away, so I headed over to the Roasterie for the second time this week. On my first trip with my sister, I ordered a beautiful latte and a red velvet cupcake. This time, it was an Americano and a chocolate mini-cupcake.

The owner, who first realized his love for coffee in the 1970s when he picked his first bean in Costa Rica, began roasting coffee in his Brookside basement in 1993, thereby getting to know his neighbors. Now he’s got a much larger space in which to indulge his coffee-jones, and people seem to like it.

I know I’ll be back, because I’m dying to sit on the orange-striped banquette that lines the back wall.

On a quick trip to Brookside on Saturday, I discovered a magical place, a bookstore for children where I wanted to spend hours.

Reading Reptile is Kansas City’s oldest independent bookseller and (according to the bookmark, anyway) is known across the country for its inventory. While I was there I read a father-son book by Will Smith (you know, the Fresh Prince). I bought a book titled Wreck This Journal by Keri Smith, which features hands-on activities like “Glue Random Items Here” and “Lose This Page” and “Space for Negative Comments: What Is Your Inner Critic Saying?”

But it was the decorations that really wowed me. Papier-mache creatures hung from or sat in every available spot. I walked through the doorway, which I think is a crocodile, and immediately wanted to take pictures.

The back of the store was devoted to craft activities for kids.

I even got a picture of the book cat, who was a calico rather than a Cheshire cat.

Brookside, one of Kansas City’s trendy neighborhoods, is located a few blocks south of the Country Club Plaza. Reading Reptile is between Brookside and Wornall on 63rd.