If you spent any time hanging out in The Hill neighborhood around a decade ago, you probably remember that specific smell of woodsmoke and rendered fat wafting from a storefront on Daggett Avenue. It wasn't the usual garlic-heavy aroma of the surrounding Italian joints. It was something different. That was Five Bistro St Louis. It wasn't just a place to grab dinner; it was basically the epicenter of a massive shift in how Missourians thought about their plates. Anthony Devoti, the chef and owner, didn't just cook food. He obsessed over it. He knew the name of the guy who grew the carrots and probably knew the name of the cow that provided the ribeye. Honestly, in a city that was still very much obsessed with toasted ravioli and Provel cheese (don't get me wrong, I love both), Five was a bit of a shock to the system.
It’s been years since the doors closed, yet people still talk about it. Why? Because it wasn't a "concept." It was a philosophy.
The Reality of Five Bistro St Louis and the Farm-to-Table Hype
Most people think "farm-to-table" is just a marketing buzzword used to justify a $45 chicken breast. At Five Bistro St Louis, it was actually the law of the land. Devoti was doing the whole local sourcing thing way before it was trendy or even particularly easy to do in the Midwest.
He followed a strict rule: if it wasn't in season within a few hundred miles, it wasn't on the menu. Simple.
This meant the menu changed constantly. Like, every single day. You could go on a Tuesday and have a pork shank that changed your life, then come back on Friday and it was gone because the farmer ran out or the season shifted. That’s the nuance people miss. Most "seasonal" restaurants change their menu four times a year. Five changed it based on the dirt.
Why the "Five" Name Actually Mattered
The name wasn't just a random number he liked. It represented the five flavor profiles—sweet, salty, sour, bitter, and umami.
But it also represented a very specific structure. In the early days, the menu was literally divided into five sections. You’d pick something from each, or just dive into the three-course or five-course tasting options. It felt sophisticated but also weirdly grounded. You were sitting in this rustic, brick-walled space that felt like a cozy basement, eating food that belonged in a high-end Chicago gallery.
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It worked because it wasn't pretentious. It was just good.
The Struggle of Being First
Being a pioneer kinda sucks sometimes. Five Bistro St Louis paved the way for places like Vicia or Bulrush, but it had to fight the uphill battle of educating a public that wasn't used to seeing "Heritage Breed" or "Non-GMO" on a menu in 2006.
The Hill is a neighborhood steeped in tradition. It's the land of red sauce and checkers-tablecloths. Dropping a progressive, ingredient-driven bistro right in the middle of that was a bold move. Some people hated it. They wanted their heavy pasta. But then there were the others—the chefs, the foodies, the curious locals—who realized that Devoti was showcasing what Missouri soil could actually produce.
He worked with folks like Geisert Farms and Double Star Farms. These weren't just vendors; they were partners. When the weather was bad and the crops failed, the menu at Five reflected that struggle. That’s authentic.
What the Critics Got Wrong
If you look back at old reviews from the St. Louis Post-Dispatch or the RFT, they often focused on the price or the "limited" options. They missed the point. The "limitation" was the feature. By narrowing the focus to what was fresh right now, the kitchen could achieve a level of flavor that "big box" restaurants simply can't touch.
You haven't lived until you've had a simple salad of Missouri tomatoes and house-made vinaigrette at the height of August. It ruins grocery store produce for you forever. Honestly, it's a curse.
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The Legacy of the Daggett Avenue Kitchen
When Five Bistro St Louis eventually transitioned and Devoti moved on to other projects like J. Devoti Trattoria, it felt like the end of an era. But the DNA of that kitchen is scattered all over the city now.
Think about the chefs who passed through there. The line cooks who learned how to break down a whole hog or preserve ramps. That knowledge doesn't just vanish. It’s in the way St. Louis eats today. We take for granted that we can get locally sourced beef or heirloom vegetables now, but Five was the one doing the heavy lifting when it was still considered "fringe."
Why We Don't See Many Places Like It Anymore
Running a restaurant like Five is exhausting.
- You have to manage relationships with 20 different small farmers instead of one big truck.
- The margins are razor-thin because real food costs real money.
- You have to constantly retrain staff on a menu that changes daily.
Most owners give up and go to a static menu. It’s easier. It’s safer. But it’s less soulful. Five was all soul. It was the kind of place where you felt the personality of the chef in every bite of charcuterie. They made everything in-house. Everything. If you had bread, they baked it. If you had bacon, they cured it.
The Hidden Impact on St. Louis Culture
It’s easy to look at the business side, but the cultural impact was bigger. It proved that St. Louis had an appetite for something beyond the status quo. It gave the city permission to be a "food town."
Before the mid-2000s, the high-end scene was very "Old Guard." Think white tablecloths and French service. Five brought a "come as you are" vibe but kept the technical execution at a world-class level. It was the bridge between the old-school fine dining of the 90s and the modern, casual-cool aesthetic we see today in places like the Grove or Cherokee Street.
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Lessons from the Five Bistro Era
If you're a diner today, there are things you can take away from what Five started.
First, ask where your food comes from. Not in a "Portlandia" way, but in a way that actually supports your local economy. When a menu lists a specific farm, it’s not just for show; it’s a receipt of a relationship.
Second, embrace the seasonal "limited" menu. If a restaurant has 50 items on the menu, I guarantee half of them are frozen or mediocre. If they have 10 items, they probably care about all 10.
Third, don't be afraid of the "unfamiliar" cuts of meat. Five was big on nose-to-tail eating. They used the whole animal because it was respectful and, frankly, delicious. If you see beef tongue or pig's ear on a menu, try it. Chances are, if the chef is brave enough to put it on there, they know exactly how to make it taste incredible.
Moving Forward: The Next Iteration
The spirit of Five Bistro St Louis lives on in the current STL food scene. You see it in the meticulous sourcing at places like Vicia. You see it in the grit of the younger chefs starting pop-ups.
Even though you can't walk into that specific space on Daggett and order a tasting menu anymore, the lesson remains: Quality isn't about luxury; it's about integrity. It's about knowing that the peach you're eating was on a tree twenty-four hours ago.
To support the current generation of chefs following in Devoti's footsteps, look for those who prioritize the "Missouri Harvest Calendar." Support the restaurants that tell you who their farmers are. And most importantly, keep an open mind when a menu looks "weird." That weirdness is usually where the magic happens.
Next time you're out in the city, look for the spots that don't have a freezer. Look for the spots where the chef is the one carrying the crates of kale in from the back of a muddy pickup truck. That’s where you’ll find the ghost of Five, and that’s where the best meals are still hiding.
Practical Steps for Food Enthusiasts
- Visit a Farmers Market: Start at the Tower Grove Farmers' Market or the Soulard Market. Meet the people who provided the ingredients for Five.
- Check the Source: When dining out, look at the bottom of the menu for a list of partner farms. If it's not there, ask the server.
- Eat Seasonally: Stop buying strawberries in January. Wait for May. The difference in flavor is the difference between a grainy sponge and actual fruit.
- Support Local Charcuterie: Seek out local butchers who use heritage breeds, keeping the craft of in-house curing alive.