We first wandered into the St. Clair Broiler early one spring evening after having driven past it for a year and a half. After that first meal, we were so sorry for all the times we never stopped. It celebrated its 50th anniversary last year: half a century of crisp, smoky burgers, perfectly dressed and placed on an oblong platter with steak fries and a bumpy green pickle. All those years of proper milkshakes and pies baked on the premises, of BLTs, of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The only decent ribs in the tundra. Plate dinners on wonderfully heavy, white plates, plates so heavy that one whack on the head would cause a concussion. Friendly staff in pleasantly stained shirts that you could tell had started off clean that morning. We went back reasonably often, but never managed to brave the five-egg omelets or the crowds on Fish Fry Fridays. There was never, ever a bad meal. It was a perfect rainy-day restaurant, a lazy afternoon restaurant, a place that could cure what ailed you.

We stopped in last night after an absence of a couple months and thought that maybe some of the staff were new. Then we noticed the new menus, which featured a hideous new clip-art logo and was bereft of my favorite veggie melt. The onion rings arrived clad in a new batter, obviously not fried in the trans-fat free oil previously touted by the joint. And the plates... they were thin, and square. They contained the world’s driest turkey melt. And the mashed potatoes were brown, festooned by sprightly tiny mushrooms and scallion ribbons. The beef medallions, never before seen on the menu, were raw.

There was a little sign on the table: under new management. Up and merged with another place from Minneapolis. Completely new staff.

We didn’t stay to see what they had done to “improve” dessert. Alas, St. Clair, we hardly knew ye.