Eating the Minneapple

Update Your Bookmarks, please!

2010-07-16T12:39:00.001-07:00

Gooooooooood afternoon, Twin Cities!

I'm happy to announce that I've got a new webpage for you. Please click on over to www.eatingtheminneapple.com and see what I've got in store for you! It's a whole new world and I'm even bribing you to come over. There's one of those obnoxious webby giveaways over there. Just do it! Plus, it's much prettier than this page. Now go!

xxxooo

Chef Shack @ Mill City Farmer's Market

2010-06-25T07:35:00.000-07:00

On a recent gray Saturday, I made my way over to the Mill City Farmer's Market. Parked fifteen miles away and still at a meter, I was starving by the time I met Eric there.

Yeah, he was excited, too. And hungry. We tried hunting around for ingredients, duck eggs, lamb steaks, beautiful goat cheeses and early pinky green strawberries with grumbly tummies. We couldn't ignore the half mile long line in front of the Chef Shack. I'd been looking forward to trying their food after reading a bunch of their positive press in the local media.

(this lady only looks cranky because she isn't eating donuts.)

Like little kids at the county fair, we discussed the various menu options and our best strategy, convinced we were starving enough to eat it all. The benefit of the long line was that we had the chance to watch everyone else walking past us with their steamy treats. A young girl clutched her paper boat captained by a soft shell crab and asked her mom, "What is that?" pointing at a little green curly hat perched on what used to be his little crabby head. Her mother's brow furrowed, "I'm not sure honey." I had to hold my hand down to keep myself from shaking it around in the air, jumping up and down, "I know! I know! I know! FIDDLEHEAD FERN!!"

We decided we must get one. We'd get the nachos, soft shell crab sandwich and the donuts. I could smell the sugary, fried little nuggets beckoning us like the tickle of a little crab claw under my nostrils. Must.Have.DONUTS.

We got our food and sought shelter from the spitting rain under the long, blue arm of the Guthrie theater. The nachos were dressed with smokey pulled pork, vibrant tomato salsa, black beans and creamy luscious guacamole. The chips were warm and crispy. I shoveled a couple into my mouth before making a greasy fingered grab at Eric's sandwich.

This was a little piece of heaven on a bun. The crab actually tasted crabby. We both marveled, realizing that we'd never actually had a soft shell crab that we really liked before. Usually, they're difficult to eat, greasy, gritty with cornmeal, or a soggy disappointing heap. Often, the most appealing this is attempting to gross out your dining companions by eating something so similar to a giant sea insect. (I get the same effect by eating calamari when out with my friend Andy, and making the little tentacled bits dance on the edge of her plate. It's a wonder I have friends.) This was the antithesis. The crab was lightly battered, crispy and tasting of fresh sea water - jolted to life with the zing of the pickled ramp tartar sauce. The grilled fiddleheads were a grassy, earthy flavor anchor. The charred fresh bread was crispy on the outside, plush on the inside. It was pretty much the ideal sandwich. Eric had to yank it back before I finished it off.

Then we got going on the donuts and that was pretty much the end of me. I couldn't talk or function properly until the bag was empty, drained of all donuts and the sugary coating leftover at the bottom. They were sweet, cardamomy (one of my favorite spices) and with just enough salt on them to ensure that they are utterly addicting. We ate the whole bag and had to get in line for more. They were fried crisp, crunchy and irregularly shaped, encapsulating the just sweet enough dough and kissed with the crackly sugar, spice salt mixture. Hot, fresh and wonderful.

I couldn't even tell if the rain was still falling. I was sucking on the wax paper bag when Eric jumped up, like being suddenly awakened from a wonderful dream. "Meter! I'm 10 minutes late!" We raced back to our respective cars. Well, I'm assuming he raced. I trotted for a bit before giving up. I am not a runner. I shambled up to my car, now sporting a soggy white envelope tucked under the wiper. I was still on such a happy food high, the $40 ticket didn't even phase me. I carefully licked my fingers again before touching the offensive little spitwad and chucking it onto the floor of the car. I closed my eyes and went to my happy place full of jaunty little crab sandwiches and dancing donuts.

I've since been following Chef Shack on Facebook and was delighted to see that they've been approved for serving food on the streets of Minneapolis. Follow them and find out where they're headed next - either to 5th & Hennipen on Monday, today at MPR, tomorrow at Mill City - just do it! You'll thank me. I'll happily except all kisses of gratitude in the form of little fried circles of spicy sweet yum yums.

Heartland on St. Clair

2010-06-11T09:32:00.001-07:00

It's the end of an era for Heartland restaurant. On Sunday, they'll be closing their current location before opening an incredibly ambitious new operation down in Lowertown. I've heard some comments about chef Lenny Russo's possible insanity relating to the move - the overhead! The non-existent St. Paul foot traffic! Fhima! To that I say, if anyone can do it, it's this guy. Who would have ever thought the restaurant, tucked into the Mac Groveland neighborhood at a relatively quiet intersection would ever draw a fine dining crowd? He did. And he was right.

I have to admit, I've never eaten on the fine dining side of the restaurant. The prices and pressure to actually order two entrees is too great for me. I've always loved grabbing a stool in the often crowded, hallway-like wine bar next door. This is where I found out my friend Eric was getting married - that was a great night. I almost fell off my barstool with excitement. Then he surprised me with a bunch of spices that he'd brought me back from overseas. Love that man.

This is where Matt & I have celebrated our anniversary and any special "whoa, we actually have a little bit of money" occasion. So, fresh from his first paycheck at his shiny new REAL job (where he doesn't, not ever, have to crack open a cheap bottle of beer for anyone.) We went one last time to say goodbye.

I'd expected them to be packed with sentimental well wishers like me, but they were actually pretty quiet. Then again, it was 6:30pm on a Wednesday night. Not exactly a hip hour to be dining. I never claimed to be hip - just mildly delusional in a way that some people find kind of cool.

I ordered the pinot noir, he got a Schell's and we tucked into the menu. There was a lot of pointing and gasping with delight. One of the things I love about eating at Heartland is the experience of it. I've ordered things I never would have thought I'd consider eating before, but I put my trust in Russo and his staff. They churn out the weirdly wonderful.

The amuse we were served was a tiny cup of asparagus and fresh peas tossed in a horseradishy dressing.

The flavor was pretty strong to start out the meal with, but we still ate it all.

The little bread served looked like a little football and was made with wild rice flour. It was also just about as tender as a pigskin, but the inside flavor was deliciously sourdough-y. I think it would have been wonderful smeared with butter, but Matt ate it all. Cause he's a big jerk.

I comforted myself with the cheese tray, which I didn't have a chance to take a picture of. Suffice it to say, it was cheese, on a plate, and somehow in this lighting it would have come out looking like some kind of blurry, drunk valentine postcard for Wisconsin. (Honestly, I don't know what the lighting does to my camera.)

Because it was a special event, and because the bartender gave us the dining menu, we went off course. Usually, we'd be splitting a bit of house made lovely from the charcuterie section of the menu, but on this night we actually ordered an entree. We got the lamb chops with caramelized shallots and ramp mashed potatoes. (And can I just say that ramps are the new greatest thing ever? The last three years I've become one of those swooning, tooting converts, scouring farmer's markets for these little harbingers of spring? The oniony/garlicky flavor is incredible! And they're so versatile. Plus, there's the added living on the edge danger where if you eat too many, you get the winds something fierce. As a lady, this is something I've never had to endure, but it's always, always funny when it happens to Matt. Unless I'm stuck in the passenger seat of the car with the windows rolled up. That isn't very funny at all. See? Big jerk.)

The chops were cooked a perfectly pinky medium rare and the mashed potatoes with the sugary, rich shallots were just incredible. It was so velvety and rich, an incredibly decadent, almost desserty style entree. I licked the plate. Hand to God, I did. I had to! It was that good, and heaven only knows when I'll have a chance to eat this food again!

To balance my sweet entree, I ordered the most meaty sounding of the desserts. Matt had a chocolate marquis that was just... yum. It was so good. I had a spice cake that was just a little bizarre, but that's half the fun of eating here. The bartender confirmed that the pastry chef, is a little nuts. I love that. My Rhubarb-mustard seed spice cake with ginger anglaise, barley malt glazed black walnuts and wild grape-high bush cranberry jelly was insane. The cake was zingy and spicy. The walnuts? Were footy. They were really... challenging. The ginger anglaise however was just incredible, subtly sweet and a smooth, coolness that harmonizes with the zing-zang-POW of the cake.

It was so much fun. Looking around the room I wondered what would stay and what would go. Personally, I'm hoping the 80's inspired wallpaper border around the room dies a slow and tacky death. The wonderful wine, amazing service and inspired food is what I look forward to seeing again, once they're settled in Lowertown.

Coffee News

2010-06-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

I love it when stumble upon a little gold star menu item in a place I'd never expect. Coffee News is a cute cafe over by the Macalester campus off Grand Ave in St. Paul. It's great for coffee (no surprise there - try the iced Chai) and a neighborhood stop for good breakfast. What you wouldn't expect is that they serve one of the best fish n chips platters in the Twin Cities.

It's long been our secret lunch spot. When classes are out, there is plenty of seating inside and out on the busy sidewalk. Matt has always gotten either the hummus platter or the fish n chips. I've not been nearly so loyal with my choices and usually flit around the menu like a bored hummingbird, until finally, he insisted I try the fish.

I'm loathe to admit that I'm not a big fish person. It would seem to me that someone who grew up on a lake would somewhere along the way have learned to love a fish or three, but no. Except for a brief, youthful love affair with the Gorton's Fisherman, I'm just never been able to get down with my finned friends. They're usually too... fishy. This dish, this one right here, is my exception. It's amazing. Unlike a traditional fish n chips platter this is made with catfish, breaded in nuts and panko and quickly fried so that there is no trace of oil. Not only is the dish not overly fishy, or at all greasy - it's highly flavored. The superb crunch of the nuts and crispity bread crumbs burst around the flaky, tender fish fillets. The caper and cornichon flecked tartar sauce is good, but wholly unnecessarily. In fact, for me that's usually just an extra condiment for the fries.

Oh, man, I haven't even told you about the fries yet! Hold onto your hats, kids, because these are possibly some of the best around. Really. That rumor about the killer fries at Salut? Lies. Totally. These are freshly fried potatoes that they then sprinkle with freshly minced garlic before serving. Granted, sometimes they can be a little snarky, not fit for Twilight fans, garlicky. Usually, though they are highly addictive. I remember when I introduced my friend Heather to these puppies she quickly went from, "Sure! I'll share with you!" To, "Oh my gosh - I can't believe I ate them all." She did. She ate them all. I held it against her for moments. (Bad share-er!)

Now is the perfect time to go check this out. The kids are gone, the sun is shining and I'm sure there's room outside for you to loll away what should have been a working afternoon, munching hot garlic fries and unbelievably good fish.

Sea Salt

2010-05-11T08:45:00.001-07:00

Spring is certainly here once the patio is open and bustling at Sea Sal t by Minnehaha Falls. Sunday started unlike any other day I've had this year. This day was Mother's Day - and for once, I was on the right side of this flower driven holiday. After years of poking my fingers on limp necked roses, cobbling together pathetic homemade cards from old photo albums and crayon sketches (I was 24 - not 4 last time I tried that one) or desperately phoning my mom's house phone, cell phone and then my sister's number at 3 in the afternoon to say, "Seriously! I love you! I do! Thank you! You're awesome! Seriously!"

This year, I slept in as late as I wanted without guilt or even a hangover. I smelled coffee already brewing for me and heard the chirps of my own little bird as his father struggled to remove the poo sodden diaper from his bum. This year I am a mother! And I deserve... STUFF. Oh hell yeah, I can get on board with this.

Of course, once up and caffeinated, I couldn't quite figure out what to do with myself. I was give carte blanche with my day and oddly, all I wanted to do was spend it with my son and husband. Weird. Usually, I'm crashing into Starbucks for a mocha, or rumaging through some store for shoe discounts. Spend the whole day with... boys? Boys that tend to accidentally yank down my shirt and tug on my hair? Boys that can occassionally smell? Weird. Grownups are weird.

After I opened and cherished my adorable cards, and coaxed my boy in the hopes that he'll say, "Foie Gras," as his first words (his constant babble of Da-DEE doesn't count), I decided we might as well leave the house. There was much debate and an aborted trip to the Arboretum (duh - PACKED. Mother's love flowers. What was I thinking? And Chanhassen is FAR.)

We decided to chance a trip to Sea Salt. I haven't been since I was largely pregnant and had to sneak sips of Matt's beer under scornful eyes of passers by. We astoundingly enough found a parking spot within walking distance of the falls.

We unloaded my dapper little fellow and headed over to the spot. Even more amazing - the line wasn't even out the door! Matt took his place in the queue and I strolled the kid around, swelling when I heard one woman remark, "Oh, look at that one! He's so cute!" You bet your bippy, lady. Cutest baby here. I also chose not to look in her direction on the off chance she was instead examining a "caterpillar" she'd been talking about - really just an army worm. Those things were everywhere.

We seated ourselves out back and watch the people. It's great people watching with families of all shapes, sizes, nationalities and social circles. Gutter punks, little Hmong ladies, sparkly Mexican princesses, suede elbowed college professors and football tossing sk8ter boys all roving around the park. Everyone seemed to be with a mom and each one was beaming.

I was too, the minute Matt arrived followed by our food. We've tried out a lot of dishes at Sea Salt, but the absolute best thing has to be the crawfish po' boy.

Each succulent little sea (swamp?) creature in cornmeal batter fried to crispy perfection and jazzed back to life with a little Tabasco sauce. The cool lettuce and creamy mayo melt against the dark charred toasty bread - all coming together into one of those mythical creatures of the deep. The Nessy of Cheap Eats - the Perfect Sandwich. It's zippy, crunchy, crispy, creamy, smokey, bright, fresh and fried. It's all I could ever ask for and more.

And there was more! More in the way of a really good cup o' beer. They were serving Moms a free cup and I got a rich and carmelly Surly. God bless the good beers. He'd also ordered a couple of oysters on the half shell. They were so good - so fresh. The concrete feeling of the jagged shell on my lips as I sucked down the cool tasty mollusk, spiked with cocktail sauce and a dab of horseradish. It was like swallowing the cool mist of the Atlantic coast that I haven't felt against my cheek since I was a toddler. All in all, I could seriously get used to these kinds of days. I enjoy being on the other side of this holiday.

It was just about then that I realized I hadn't yet talked to my mom. I took another long pull off my Surly and knew she'd understand.

Bin Wine Bar

2010-05-10T08:46:00.000-07:00

When I first heard the concept for Bin Wine Bar on Mears Park in downtown St. Paul I knew they were singing my tune. The plan was put together by a woman who lived in one of the lofts in the Lowertown neighborhood. She wanted somewhere she and friends could walk to, enjoy some little bites, good wine in a comfortable chic atmosphere. This was exactly what I was looking for! She could be me.

(Except of course having money and living in a snazzy loft. In fact, when we were looking to move I tried to find somewhere in downtown. I imagined being the super hip type of urban couple that could luxuriate in a brick and lumber lined loft, gleaming stainless steel appliances and glittering granite counter tops smiling at me every day. In fact, I had found one place just like that listed on Craigslist. I eagerly requested a showing and received an email that said, "keys after you sends us a check for $100. We are good cristans diong the Lard's work in Nigera misson. We will sends you tehdesposits. We loev our home and want a good Jessus follwing family to care for our home. We when receives teh mones, we send you teh keys." Yeeeah, as much as I do believe in the "Lard" I reported them as a fraudulent listing. The $800/mo price tag for the luxurious loft should probably have tipped me off, but I was feeling optimistic. Probably drunk or something.)

So, although I didn't live in the area, I wanted to visit and I wanted to try some wine (and maybe have a little commune with The Lard.) After a couple of failed attempts, I finally made my way over there last Saturday with two very good girlfriends. We arrived at exactly 3:01pm and they open at 3. Yes, I am always the lame-o at the party that shows up the exact second you tell me to be there. I am never cool enough to last to the end and I will always be that big of a dork.

"First ones in!" I exclaimed, my voice echoing off the empty bar fixtures. We sat ourselves near the front of the restaurant overlooking the park. I was lovely. Something about the place reminded me very much of a woman I used to know - P.W. Rich reds, brassy fixtures and opulent booths. I should call her.

We ordered a bottle of the Toasted Head "Untamed Red," a bottle I know I've seen at local wine shops, but had never tried. We also ordered a plate of the charcuterie.

A beautiful meat plate. The marinated olives were revelatory. The salty, fatty salami paired beautifully with the rosy pickled onions. There were little dots of salty almonds, tender, chubby little hunks of tar tar and spicy sopressata. Buttery, salty cashews, pickled spicy dilly beans and crisp fresh cucumber chips rounded out the plate. It was delightful to eat with plenty of little tastes and flavors to pair with the toasty wine. The bottle went quickly, although I wouldn't say it was a wonderful choice. It was completely drinkable, but nothing all that fantastic. It didn't taste like $30 worth of wine.

So, of course we ordered another bottle. This time, at the suggestion of our server, we ordered the Root: 1 Carmenere. I liked this one a bit more. The flavor was more supple. Soldiering ahead, we figured we should probably try some more food and ordered the cheese platter.

We were served a young Wisconsin Gouda, Northern Lights Blue and an English Gloucester cheese, more delicious olives, rye crisp crackers, craisins cocoa dusted almonds, incredible Marcona almonds and a little side of pickled beets. The almonds were a fantastic match for the cheese. The cheeses themselves were a nice pairing, all creamy, but varied in flavor from the meek Gouda, the soft, smooth blue and the snappy blue and cheddar combo. The rye crackers were very dry and chock full of nuts - hard to pair with the mild Gouda. They overpowered the taste. After asking for a side of bread, we got a basic if slightly stale baguette that was a better match.

We babbled, sipped, gossiped, giggled and occasionally snorted with laughter. The setting was instantly familiar and comfortable. A little more room on my credit card and we probably could have stayed there all day. If I lived in one of those loft apartments, this place would be a dangerous addition to the neighborhood. I could see myself cultivating a seriously addiction to the reasonably priced wine, fun little plates and outstanding company I'd settled in with.

A Toast to Old Friends

2010-04-12T10:25:00.001-07:00

This guy - old two fister - went ahead and got himself hitched this weekend. I'm so glad. See the attractive blond on the left there? That's his beautiful bride. See the slightly skeptical look on her face? I'm going to guess that wasn't the last time she looked at him that way. (And see that guy in the background? Alien Nation fan. Huge.)

Jim and I used to work together - along with a whole cast of interesting characters. There were plenty of happy hours and a whole lot of good times. Some of which I can even remember.

I've been looking forward to getting to celebrate this day with them for ages. Well, at least for as long as I'd known I was actually invited. I knew I'd see some of our old crew there and I knew it would be an outstanding time.

As we were desperately combing the suburban streets for the wedding I saw another car driving hastily two blocks ahead of us. I guessed correctly that they were also going to the wedding. Even more accurately - there were my old work peeps. Of course we'd be arriving moments before the ceremony was scheduled to start. We clattered into the (St. James church, of course) adjusting skirt hems and checking tie knots.

There was Jim in the entry way, looking cool and jovial. I momentarily reflected on my state of mind on my wedding day (harried at best - homicidal at worst. Matt threatened to strangle me at the reception if I didn't chill out. And that, dear friends, is how you build a successful marriage to me.) Conversely, my friend was happily hugging guests and having what appeared to be a great time.

The ceremony was beautiful - although nothing can compare to the bride. Her wedding dress was stunning. She looked flawless, not a hair out of place, serene smile on her face. Gorgeous. I'd show you a picture, but of course my camera isn't working. (OF COURSE.)

Immediately after the ceremony, our crew bolted past the receiving line and headed straight to Crave. I'd heard good things and thankfully, it was happy hour. I ordered a rail rum and Coke made with Cruzan rum - not bad. Not bad at all - especially for $5. We also got the loaded fries with cheddar cheese and bacon as well as some Korean chicken nuggets. The fries were good and the little nuggets were tasty - not too sweet. I didn't really detect much of a miso flavor, that the menu suggested, but they were fried tasty nuggets. It was kind of a no brainer. I'm going to have to go back for another try.

We got caught up, ("WHO is getting married? WHAT? Nooo." "Are you sure he never served any time?" "Literally hit by a dump truck?" "I can't believe he never got fired. I tried to fire him, but he was too engrossed in solitaire to hear me." "He's working where? No kidding." or my favorite, "What are you going to do with barrels full of pig fetuses!?")

It was time to hit the reception (and for me, the free wine, because really? Would you expect anything less of me?)

Soon after we found the bar, we saw Jim pour out of the back of the limo with his entourage.

He was clearly having a fantastic time.

We all made our way into the dining area to find that we'd been sequestered at the back of the room. Table 25. Clearly, the troublemakers. I kept making, "Nobody puts baby in a corner jokes until I thought for sure they were going to kick me off the island.

They also had a photobooth in the back of the room. Matt and I made total fools of ourselves there as well. The night came to an end for us all too soon - baby sitter needed some assistance. Apparently, our kid had learned to spontaneously combust while levitating and it was freaking her out a bit.

I predict a decent happy hour soon - one where I actually take a picture of Jane. Right now the only one I've got of her was taken very late at night and there may have been a feather boa involved. Maybe next time.

Meritage - St. Paul

2010-01-27T09:39:00.000-08:00

Heaven is a lofty palace built upon layers of pork and duck fat spiked Cassoulet. As I greedily dipped my spoon back into Matt's dinner I couldn't stop exclaiming, "Lovely! Just lovely!" like some kind of hopped up Holly Golightly.

Last Friday night Matt and I had the fortune of trying to decide how to spend an evening with just the two of us. We'd been lucky enough to have a little financial windfall, which of course needed to be spent entirely on food and liquor. We considered our options carefully. Really, there was only one place to go.

The problem with being a recovering food blogger is that I'm way too opinionated on where and how one should spend an evening dining out. Worse, slightly out of practice food blogger - and old (don't forget drastically aging) recovering party girl means I'm painfully aware that there is a myriad of new dining destinations that I have yet to try.

We were leaning towards an attempt at dining at the new Piccolo. It's hard enough to part with a dollar these days, it's more nerve wracking to do so at a very new restaurant that's rumored to be a bit pricey.

There was no question, we needed to go to Meritage. Meritage is a gem for Saint Paul. While the street it's on is lined with other, mediocre restaurants, this chef owned destination always highlights seasonal cuisine with sultry French accents. The service is top notch and the view is always lovely. It's my favorite date night spot.

We sprung for the $10 valet fee and were whisked inside to a lovely little table, despite our lack of a reservation. We could look out the frosted glass to see the ice skaters beyond. Twinkling white lights decorated the nearby parks for the Winter Carnival.

We began our meal with the steak tartare. The plate arrived with the steak molded into a little tower in the center, flanked by a small salad, cornichons and grilled bread slices. The meat was achingly tender and expertly dressed with just a little creamy sauce dotted with briny spikes of capers. Each component enhanced the beefiness of the steak, the texture of which was not unlike sushi grade tuna. It positively melted on the tongue. The buttery, smokey toasts and the little greens just kissed with a honeyed vinaigrette begged for more of that delicious, exquisite meat.

I tried to pace myself by sipping my glass of Boomtown Cabernet Sauvignon. I'd unknowingly ordered the perfect foil to our appetizer. It had deep woodsy notes with a hint of tobacco balanced out by the big fruit flavors of Cabernet. Needless to say - I was pretty much in heaven. Despite my best attempts at being polite company, my eyes rolled back into my head and I started to kind of happily convulse in my seat. It was so goooooood, ugggghhhhhluululughhhh. The icy looks from other diners brought me back into the moment.

We'd all but licked our appetizer plates clean while we waited for our entrees. I had that anxious feeling of not wanting this fleeting experience to ever end and yet thrilled at the prospect of more food, more flavors and more of this exquisite adult feeling. I was drunk on the possibilities of the evening, loving my husband, my surrounds and every moment I got to savor everything.

This was when Chef Russell Klein made the mistake of stopping by our table. I'm all but ransacked by the afterglow of an evening out, yet randy for my next go around, and here's the unexpected business owner meeting my bleary eyed gaze.

"How is everything this evening?" He asked.

A fair question, but one I couldn't accurately answer in the space of a couple of minutes. "Really good," Matt enthused.

"It's just wonderful - we love everything," I licked the corners of my mouth, trying to think of some concise way to explain to him that NO - I'm not your every day diner - I GET you, man. I know. All I came up with was, "LOVE the winter menu!!!" And then I wanted to crawl under the table. It wasn't so much the simple words, as the overly enthusiastic sputtering of them.

"Uh... yeah, I need to change that. Thank you." He wandered away to the next table.

Thankfully, our food then showed up to distract me from my idiocy. (I carried a watermelon? Oh, GOD.)

Matt had ordered the afore mentioned Cassoulet and I had the moules frites. His meal was served in a little clay pot, topped with a confit of duck leg and a crust of browned bread crumbs.

My mussels were in a bowl, where the lid was removed so I could chuck the shells into it, alongside a cone of fries. The ink colored shells glistening in their wine and heavenly buttery sauce. Studding the sauce were porky nubs of pancetta. The fries were perfectly crisped on the outside and puffy, airy on the inside. It didn't hurt that they were served with an herby Bearnaise sauce for the dipping. Again, there was more of that awesome grilled bread. I was so excited to find one piece, already under the mussels bathing in that luscious broth, wait for me to slurp it down.

The mussels themselves were ideally medium sized. They weren't so big that they were tough or chewy, but not so small that I worried about getting an appetizer under the entree guise.

Meanwhile, Matt was moaning his way through the hunks of pork and duck. He dined on a supposed peasant's dish that I know I could never pretend to recreate. The duck confit was gone in minutes and each bite scooped from the pot contained more happy wonders of luxurious foods. The creamiest white beans I've ever had, with a delightfully hammy, garlicky sausage with big fatty hunks of pork. It was comforting, familiar and yet like nothing we'd ever had before. The portion size was not at all precious, either. We were able to take it home and both have enough for lunch the next day.

We ate until our chairs groaned in protest. The prospect of desert was too much, but we decided to head out for one more cocktail. A toast to our fantasy world where we could afford such luxuries, and belonged to a world that doesn't include any of the usual January drudgery.

We strolled down the cold sidewalks, watching skaters laughing, wobbling on the ice. Young girls draped in sashes, arms linked, scampering from one building to the next, their laughter echoing in the tiny white lights. The ice sculptures in the park sparkled under the blue lights and families towed sleds from the park to their cars.

We ended our evening at the St. Paul Hotel for two expertly crafted cocktails and just a couple of more moments of sweet, lovely perfection, lulled by all that we've been lucky enough to have and hold this icy wintry season.

Feliz Nachodad

2009-12-08T09:54:00.000-08:00

Ohhhhh-kay. I think I can finally move from the after effects of that Thanksgiving dinner. I might have made too much food. The upside was that everyone got leftovers - the downside is that I tried to eat them all before admitting defeat and busting out the Tupperware.

Of course, the minute the Thanksgiving holiday passes means that my second most favorite holiday of all year has arrived - my very own Birthday Month! YES - skip that pesky Christmas crap (or Chauhnukah Chrap. Kwanza Kwap...)

Matt & I decided to go old school and get in the car for a good ol' fashioned road trip. The only problem was this was our first wintry road trip, which made the destination decisions difficult. Usually, we'd throw back the top on the car and hit the sunny open roads for some where specializing in cheap booze and fried foods - usually somewhere in Wisconsin. The decision for a December trip involved a lot of waffling on my part. I made and canceled reservations for Madison. I love Madison. The problem is that the hotel I wanted to stay at was prohibitively expensive (considering this was being funded by the Holy Bank of Our Mothers) and it's really far. In the convertible, the trip is most of the excitement. In my maroon mom-mobile, it's better either get there in a hurry or go off-roading with the 4 wheel drive.

Besides, while Matt and I make an extraordinarily attractive couple when gussied up, we're more prone to cheese dip stains and bacon breath. Fancy hotels aren't really our style.

Finally, we decided to hit Mankato. I absolute love the landscape of southern MN and we happened to know someone who lived down there. Matt's friend Mark had moved a while ago and was running several restaurants. I figured I owed it to him and my stomach to go check it out. Besides, I reasoned, it's a college town. The drinking should be plentiful and cheap! Woo!

I got us set up at the Mankato Hilton Garden Inn, which was downright luxurious by our standards - they had a POOL and the rooms didn't come in dead hooker scent. After a nicely leisurely drive down we found ourselves in the cozy room overlooking the Verizon logo on their hockey stadium. Classay!

We called Mark only to find out that the Gophers and the Mankato State... guys were playing hockey at that very stadium that night. His restaurant Number 4 was about a block away and they expected to get slammed for dinner rush. This is how I ended at Number four at about 4:30 pm. We are beyond old. Old people at least wait until 5 to have dinner. This was not making me feel better about the impending birthday number. I tried to think of it as a really late lunch, but I know me. My eyelids were propped up with toothpicks by the time we got there and I just hoped I didn't pass out in the bread basket.

Our 19 year old waitress was adorable. She commiserated with Matt and Mark about how the restaurant business can burn you out. "I've been doing this since I was fifteen..." Wow, how'd you make it that long? Sweet. I'm OLD. Sigh. Okay, I'll try to move past that.

I loved the decor of the room, all rich red and blacks. Very stylish and dimly lit. The overhead music was swinging and sounded like icy martinis. It was a welcome reprieve from the annoying Christmas jangly butcherings of standards that seem to be playing everywhere these days.

We started off with some mussels in tomato fish broth. Matt couldn't get enough of them. I wasn't crazy about them. I'm not wild about fish flavor. Matt loves to eat anything that swims, so I took his word for it that they were wonderful.

Meanwhile, I dove into the pork wontons. They were delightfully crisp and light. The minced pork interior was teased to life with cardamom that snapped into my mouth with the jazzy little ponzu dipping sauce that tasted like a dressed up Hoisin sauce. I only let Matt have one. I ate the rest. And half of the French fries that came with the mussels which also tasted wonderful dipped in the sauce.

Because I gorged myself on all those, the time for the entrees came and I wasn't that hungry. Idiot! The menu for the evening sounded spectacular - venison medallions in particular sounded amazing. Between the almost full stomach and the already nearly empty wallet we decided just to split the Torta. I'm so glad we did.
It was a revelation of a sandwich. The slow roasted beef was meltingly tender, tucked into the crusty bread with soft, ripe tomato and the zippy little crumbles of feta. The bottom of the bun was spread with velvety guacamole with a soft burning heat. I couldn't believe how perfectly the guac and cheese complimented each other. Who would have ever thought?

I waved down our girl for more wine. I was drinking their house red that was a ridiculous $3.50 a glass. Honestly, I wouldn't have ordered it if I'd known how cheap it was. I'd have been skeptical and screwed myself out of a tasty treat. It was just a red blend, but it was really well balanced. There were hints of berries with a soft oak and jammy finish. I could have easily taken down a bottle by myself.

I blame the cheap wine for what happened next. After we finished our dinner and wished Mark the best - the room was filling up fast, we wandered across the street to a little bar called the Sugar Room. Once the hockey goons cleared out I found myself happily tucked into a fantastic bar. The door advertised Charlie Parr playing that night - I've only seen him once before, but loved his music. Perfect music for a chilly December night. Unfortunately, he wasn't playing until like 9 o'clock and it was now about 6. Yeah. 6 pm and I'm working on my buzz.
Then again, it's never stopped me before. When I saw my favorite rum behind the bar I settled into to watch (such a dork) Wayne's World on their flat screen TV. Some people might have been upset that there was no hockey, football or competetive bocce paralympics on The Ocho playing overhead, but I was thrilled the lack of sports drove those people out.

Before I knew it, it was like 9 or something. Yeah, really late. We went back to the bar, fixed ourselves some more cocktails and settled into the hot tub for a good, long soak. Things get blurry after that.

I spent the next day praying for death or at least relief to one of the worst hangovers I've had in a while. That's what happens when I start before the happy hours even have a chance to kick in. We decided to cruise over to New Ulm, which is both cute and enough to kill me. The sun was shining extra bright and I had a new nasueous sensation I'd never experienced before. I was car sick. I tried to page through my high brow reading material, but that obviously didn't help.

We drove past the Schell's brewery. It's gorgeous. I'd have loved to take a tour, but of course being Minnesota we couldn't actually buy any beer and that wouldn't do me any good. Every hill we drove down made me want to vomit (uphill was okay, though.) Twisty roads were fine, but Herman the German's staircase made me positively green. We also passed what had to be about five Taco John's, all advertising Nachos Navidad and all making me alternately depraved with hunger and utterly disgusted. Plus, as a special torture, I got the radio commercial stuck in my head, which meant Matt was subjected to me singing a wavering "Feliz Navidad - and from Taco Joooohn's!" (There was also a rousing rendition of Melikalikimaka for good measure. Am eveeeiiill.)

Eventually, we could take it no longer and we had to drive through. I had all my hopes at redemption pinned on some softshells. The poor kid that served us had the most pathetic teenager attempt at a mustache and yellowed pointy teeth that I almost lost my cookies again. Then my tacos were there. Sweet, sweet grease and pulverized meat product. Come to mama!

After a few more hours of attempted recovery and another hour or two in the hot tub I was finally feeling human enough to venture out into the world.
We walked over to the Pub 500. For a small(ish) town they sure seem to have a good amount of upscale pubs. It's a beautiful, large and warm room with lots of oak and high top bar tables. We ordered some Schell's Dark and a plate of their peanut spicy wings.

The beer. It was the beer that saved me. The bubbles, the caramelly toasty foam and the ice cold pint glass. I downed it while waiting for our wings and ordered another. The wings were wonderful. The peanut sauce wasn't overly thick and had a serious ginger zing. It was almost better than my Thai peanut sauce I make at home. I could've eaten a dozen by myself, but tried to hold myself back. Had I learned nothing from the excesses of the night before?

Apparently not.

Anchor Fish & Chips

2009-10-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

I can only live the life of the monk for so long. I mean, really. Barring the need to sign up for food stamps I'm not going to be staying in every night. Finally there are some new spots out there that I've been able to get to. J.Lo and I hadn't gotten together in ages - partially due to my bemoaning of expenses and partially due to a misunderstanding over the quantifiable dreaminess of Anderson Cooper. It's a story better left untouched.

A new little pub called The Anchor Fish & Chips has set up shop just down the street from Laura's childhood home. We converged there Friday evening. They'd just swung open the doors and already it was teaming with a hungry mix of neighborhood folks. On either side of the high top table she'd snagged for us were people taking pictures. The guys behind us were attempting to capture the magic of the Shepard's pie. "No, no... don't poke the carrot... gently roll it over. You don't want to get holes in it." Wise words, Ace -like finding Ray Brower on the side of the train tracks.

The menu is small, smaller still is the wine list. I had a choice of red or white, but at least it was organic. Better to stick to the beers at this spot. The toasty foam from the Bell's Oktoberfest tickled my upper lip like a handlebar moustache. After much debate, Laura decided to get the ubiquitous fish n chips while I opted for the hamburger with chips and a topping of Irish cheddar.

After just a few moments the food arrived. Her breaded cod was the size of a small human forearm.
She kept saying that it tasted like a doughnut. At first, this seemed like a positive assessment, but as she dragged on through her beige on beige meal, it waned. The breading was thick and crisp. The fries were clearly made in house and quite yummy. The crispty outer shell gave way to pillowy warm depths of potato yumminess. The fish was greatly enhanced by the tarter sauce that Laura had to ask for a couple of times. It closely resembled my mom's home-made, tasting of Helmann's mayo and lemon juice.

The burger was good and juicy, dripping pink juices down my grubby little fist. I felt lucky that I prefer my meat cooked medium rare. I know people that would have mooed at it before turning seven shades of pale and tipping off the bar stool. The flour dusted bun was nicely slathered with butter and toasted. The best thing on my plate were also the fries with the generous sprinkling of Kosher salt.

What absolutely did not enhance anything was the vat of gravy I paid extra for. It was hard to resist - I am a sucker for fat on fat (note more beige on beige - with the drizzling rain outside, it did feel rather English - but more the food they were known for a few years ago before gastropubs started sprouting like gilded beacons of tasty sanctuary.) It arrived warm and soon was cold and congealed. It tasted familiar. I closed my eyes and pictured a warm house, stuffed to the gills with family - all talking at once and... making copious Simpson's references. It tasted exactly like the grocery store deli gravy I'd used the first Thanksgiving that I cooked for my in-laws.

We were happy to toss our napkins into our baskets and head out just as the capacity of the place began to brim. The neighborhood was screaming for a great little spot for some decent, cheap-ish food. The Anchor Fish & Chips defintely fills the bill. Still, I was ready to meander down the street and belly up elsewhere for a grown up drink and some good conversation.

I'm Starving

2009-08-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

Okay, not really. And it's not even really funny given the current state of things. I can read that the economy might maybe sorta kinda - maaayyy beeee rebounding, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it. I feel like I haven't even been out to eat in months - MONTHS I tell you. So unfair.

I have been to a couple of places that I considered updating you on, but really they weren't enough to write home about.

Here's a recap:

The new Brasa on Grand is lovely - it's wonderful to finally have some good food options in St. Paul. I highly recommend it. It's almost identical to the NE one.

I also went to the new Parasole venture, Burger Jones. It wasn't awful, but it wasn't all that great. It's hard to write more beyond, "Meh." I do appreciate cheese curds and gravy on my fries, but the burger only being offered Pink or Not Pink left me with a Pink Only in One Corner How is That Possible burger. Not to mention caramelized onions that while tasty, had the mouth feel of earthworms.

You know, I remember when Ike's first opened up downtown and a $9 burger was a special occasion something. Now we're being charged $8 or $9 bucks a pop and we don't even get FRIES with that. Seriously? That's supposed to be the new consumer driven food find - our BARGAIN dining experience? What the hey? It did not feel bargainable. It felt more akin to making out with a stranger behind the dumpster of the Turf Club after a Little Man show and too many cigarettes. It's not quite enough to send you screaming for the showers, but maybe another bump or two after you get home from the bar will help block out the memories from after the band ripped into their second set. (That little guy can rock! Devil Horns WOOO!!) Anyone else? Just me?

Anyway, here's the thing. I don't think I can write here anymore. That makes me profoundly depressed and that's why I've been avoiding saying anything. I love going out, trying new food and actually having a few folks kind enough to listen to those opinions, while occasionally stroking my overly inflated ego.

When I started, I was lucky enough to have a job with a big, fat expense account and some seriously fun coworkers to blow through it with. Last I heard, that company has all but gone under. Luckily, I have a day job. Unfortunately, Matt doesn't. Then there was the great spawning of '09. I did have a kid - and he is seriously awesome AWESOME with big, fat drooly sparkles. So, I've got all that goin' on at home right now. I'd love to be able to keep going out and trying new places, but there isn't much to try. I keep reading the restaurant news around town and there isn't anything I'm interested in. The new restaurant at the Guthrie... maybe... I'm not big on seafood when we're surrounded on all sides by land, though.

I'm just rambling now (see!? You missed me.) Hopefully, things will change. Hopefully, you'll have me back. In the meantime, hang in there. Times are tight out there. We'll get by. 'Til then, I'll be out back drinking Thunderbird and savoring my tasty regrets. Take care, you guys!

Hey Joy! Whatcha doin?

2009-04-21T11:50:00.000-07:00

Eating.

Eating what?

Anything that's not nailed down.

Comfort Food

2009-04-01T10:10:00.001-07:00

I just ate what can only be described as a vat of macaroni and cheese. The best part is that it didn't come in the form of a box or even as take out from a nearby restaurant. No, it was made for me by my own personal chef. Well, he will be employed as my chef once he agrees to the five cents a week stipend and leaving the restaurant that he's currently employed with.

First I suppose I should address why I haven't written since the end of January, just in case you're keeping track. After my soon to be Pulitzer nominated entry about things not really sucking - they did, in fact start to suck. Big time. For one - I haven't eaten out at a restaurant in nearly all this time. I'm not talking about just going to my boring old stand bys I mean - I have not been leaving the house! First I got taken out by the Ebola of colds. Since I'm not allowed to take anything that could be construed as helpful medication I had to sit and suffer for a week and a half with an attractive chapped nose and nothing but Rachel Ray on TV (dude - she's everywhere.)

Then, my great Aunt Joy, for whom I was named died. She was elderly, but still one hell of a lady that had this mischievous glint in her eye. I honestly didn't see that one coming even though all the signs were there (one obvious one being that she was well into her 90's.)

Meanwhile, Matt became crippled. First his leg hurt, then it was hard to lift things at work and suddenly, he's completely immobile with pain. I poked him with a stick and determined it probably wasn't polio, but it took a while for the doctors to diagnose his real problem and then eventually work out how to treat it.

Meanwhile, I'm getting larger and fast losing the ability to dress myself in the morning without floor show inspired gymnastics (you should see the underwear as a ribbon routine set to Celine Dion's "If You Ax Me To" - it's genius, really.) Thankfully, Matt's family and some of our friends took pity on us and brought food. We didn't starve, but charity food and misery usually make kind of sad blog posts. Thankfully, Matt's back has improved and I've been able to crank out a couple of reasonably edible meals from the paltry packed pantry. We're surviving, but we are seriously boring.

That is, until we got our chef. I haven't seen Mark in a couple of months. A father himself, and a full time chef, he's a busy guy. He's recently been hired to run the kitchen at a place in Mankato and is about to leave us for there. I'm so glad I got one more meal out of the guy! If ever you find yourself down there - go to this place. I can't say anything other than Mark has never, ever served me anything, but outstanding food and the wine list is like a reunion of sorts for me. (Marietta Old Vine! BUDDY! How've you been!? It's been like a year since I saw you.) Plus, the place he's going is Italian and Mark knows Italian - his resume includes time in the kitchens of Pazzaluna and La Grolla (plus, some French training as well.)

So, anyway, he and Matt were having a couple of beers yesterday when Mark decided I needed to be fed and fed properly (as did our soon to be child, who we're considering naming after a suggestion of Mark's - but I don't want to get too ahead of myself here.) They swung by the market to pick up just a couple of things, but mostly he was able to whip this together with what I had laying around our house.

First, he prepped:

A pound of shredded white aged and regular cheddar cheese, a shallot, three cloves of garlic and the pickled jalapenos. Budweiser.

Then he browned:

I'd like to add that this was some of the best bacon I've ever had. I bought it on a whim when I'd visited the Golden Fig with my mom on Saturday. I was delirious to be out of the house and hadn't had a decent piece of bacon in weeks. (I was not kidding about how far we had fallen into the Pit of Despair. Me! Pregnant! Without bacon!!) It was from Tim Fisher's farm. If ever you see it, ignore the price tag and just buy it.

Then he made a roux, stirred in about a half gallon of half and half, a can of Bud, diced jalapenos with about half the jar's pickling liquid and a generous portion of love.

Meanwhile, he'd heavily salted some water and boiled some shells. He pulled them out and told me, without a little bit of scorn, about how you should never - ever rinse your pasta in cold water to stop the cooking process. You lose all the starch. Instead, he tossed it with olive oil, spread them out on a cookie sheet and chilled them in the fridge.

While the sauce thickened we watched a little video he'd brought of his daughter Lola. She.is.so.CUTE. My God, she's a little vision. My favorite parts were when her little 13 month old mouth worked out, "Daa DEE?" and when she punched him in the nads causing him to double over - the camera work is genius.

Anyway, enough fun - I sent him back to the dungeon - I mean kitchen.

He dumped in the cheese and stirred until extra creamy and crazy tasty. He asked me if I thought it needed more salt - clever chef appeals to my inflated ego. It was perfectly seasoned, but we determined that it could use a little more kick from the spicy peppers.

Meanwhile, he pulled this olive focaccia I had stashed in the freezer out and slathered it with olive oil. He salt and peppered both sides of the bread and pressed in some freshly grated Parmesan cheese. He then grilled the bread to golden perfection. "We'd call this a 'crouton' at the restaurant," he kind of scoffed. "This is my favorite kind of cooking - comfort food - REAL comfort food." Then he launched into a story about his new boss' version of braised lamb shanks. I swooned.

Before I knew it, dinner was served (in an ice cream bowl because Matt and I can't reach to load and unload the dishwasher yet.)

Somewhere between the jalapenos, bacon, gallon of cream and the love, this was the best mac and cheese I've ever had. Things seem to finally be looking up.

Random, not really food related

2009-01-29T13:55:00.000-08:00

For lunch today I wandered over to Barnes and Noble in my quest to find a decent mommy book that doesn't make me want to club the author over the head with something heavy. I found one that looks good so far. In the baby development part it compares him either to a ferret or a shampoo bottle in the next couple of weeks. These are sizes I can actually visualize - stuff I've actually held, or in the case of the ferret, put in my mouth. (Don't ask.)

I will never be able to recover from reading, "He's about the size of an orange seed - BUT TWICE AS SWEEET!!" Barf.

Then I went to Potbelly and the hot peppers gave me heartburn.

Things That Don't Suck

2009-01-07T14:08:00.000-08:00

My taster's still off. I'm eating and enjoying a wide range of odd things, but mostly they're home cooked items resembling items my mom used to make for me when I was a picky little eater (Mexican pizza: hamburger meat on a fried tortilla topped with cheddar cheese. Oh, how far we have fallen.) Well, it's either been that or Dan Dan Noodles from Little Szechuan by the boatload. I could eat an order of these with every meal and die a happy woman.

So, how 'bout you guys? Everybody make it through the holidays? Any bruised foreheads from misplaced fruitcakes or noisemaker induced hearing loss?
It seems like everyone around me is back at work, back to the salt mines and trapped under oppressive mid-winter blues. I'm so beyond my assault threats on Jim Kramer that I'm now just firing spitballs at the TV. Blah weather, work and money woes.

I'm going to try to take a cue from my mother, Minnesota's resident Miss Mary Sunshine and see if I can't spin some good out of things going on around me, rather than sulk that I don't have the money to go out and eat and even if I did - my palate is not currently to be trusted.

Instead of resolutions, I give you my list of things that don't suck right now.

1.) Bacon - nuff said. The St. Paul Farmer's Market is still going strong during these blustery months. Do yourself a favor and drag yourself down there some Saturday morning. The Bar 5 Farms bacon is heaven. There's also a new indoor space across the street. There awaits you warm coffee and giant Cinnamon rolls, which definitely do not suck.

2.) The Winter Carnival is coming. Granted - I almost never go. Last year Matt dragged me and I tried tater tot hotdish for the first time. It was actually kinda good! Plus, inevitably, it's almost always the warmest week in January because the snow sculptures always seem to melt before I get to see them.

3.) Chilly weather means that I can put the garbage out in our mudroom and wait until Matt gets back from Spam country to take it all the way to the garbage can by the garage. Garbage doesn't rot when it's frozen!

4.) Erbert & Gerbert's delivery. Although they've proven to be much less than "freakishly fast," they are quite tasty and eventually deliver to my place of business in downtown Minneapolis. They've got this all veggie sandwich that has avocado, provolone cheese and a healthy slathering of Hellman's mayo. God bless the fat packed veggie option.

5.) Birthdays. Laura's is this Saturday and she rocks. Plus - this gives me something to do! I might even be forced to stay up past 9pm. Better yet - she's having a few friends gather at the home of the original Ping Pang OW! wings. I'll be sure to take pictures.

6.) I can legitimately rock my stretch pants and no one can say anything because I'm pregnant and pregnant ladies get to wear giant stretchy pants! I am rotund! Gawk at my jiggly behind! I am creator of LIFE! Mwa ha ha ha!! Included in this are other pregnancy related things such as - no one says, "You're going back to the buffet line again?" or "Doritos for breakfast? Really?" Yes, really. And while you're at it - where is the prime rib? Yorkshire pudding? I'm HUNGRY over here!

7.) Meritage in downtown St. Paul. I was lucky enough that while dining there on my birthday a photographer from one of the local papers was taking pictures for their Year in Food issue. Guess who got - for FREE - the dishes that he'd photographed? That's right. Me. I shared with Matt, but mostly it was me. I ended up having four entrees for the price of one that night. The servers were a dream and the food was heavenly. It's a fantastic spot for a romantic date night. You should go.

8.) A perfectly fried egg. I take mine over easy. It's even better if you'll listen to me and go to that Farmer's Market - get some local just gathered eggs. It's so simple. Just a little pat of butter, cracked open egg, flipped and dusted with salt and pepper. I like to have mine over a piece of lightly toasted bread. When the knife pierces the milky white exterior and the golden yolk bubbles forth, spilling onto the crispy toast creating that first sodden bite of creamy heaven, that is true beauty my friends.

9.) Morrelli's Market. While I may be stuck on Dry Island for a while longer, I know it won't be forever. The wine and booze prices they have are insanely cheap. Want to know my favorite way to deal with a bad economy? Relief is spelled H-e-n-d-r-i-c-k's. Chilled martini glass, Hendrick's ever so light juniper lilt garnished with a slice of cucumber or a sliver-thin twist of lime. Enjoy. Or, if you're wagon bound like me - grab some food! I don't know what the deal is with this place, but it's one of the very few - if not only places in Minnesota where you can find a deli and a liquor store sharing a space. Last weekend we tried two of their house made frozen pizzas. For the price of a Tombstone we got a thin crust covered in their Italian spiced tomato sauce and real mozzarella cheese. The oven was coated in the fried gooey tendrils that had escaped during the cooking process. Before our movie was over both were gone. I can tell you the sausage and pepperoni was good, but the basic cheese just sang. (So did I. This all went down while watching Hamlet 2. High brow evening. Rock Me Sexy Jesus got stuck in my head. I rationalized that the baby books do say you should sing to your baby in utero.)

10.) My husband. I know - it's not exactly food related or a cohesive ending to a rambling top 10 list, but I gotta say it. The man rocks hardcore. He's been the retriever of weird food requests and the builder of awesome fudge sundaes. He's the cheese to my macaroni.

I hope you guys all have some bits of happiness to hold on to right now. I know it can't all be as bad as it seems, right? It's not like there's a looming alien ship over all our major cities. (Or minor cities - Oh no! Not McGregor!!) We're gonna make it out of this. Spring will come soon enough and with it flowers, sunshine, a better outlook on all things money related. Plus, I'll be able to drink again!

Making Up for Lost Time

2008-12-09T13:22:00.000-08:00

I live AND I have photographic evidence of places I have dined. I know, right? I'm like a real food blogger and everything.

Most recent days have been spent scouring the web to try to determine what I cannot eat (everything) and then consuming what I think I should eat (and that would be pretty much everything.) I was laying low in the dining out part, though. I'm just so thankful that I've got a job with medical coverage, I can't even tell you. I felt guilty even thinking about going out to eat when so many are scouring bare food shelves for pantry items.

I'm getting over it, though. Prepare yourselves, there's an epic Frodo to the Mountaintop aspect to this post. It was my burden - and my precious.

Anyway, Friday night, just as I was about to leave work after way too much working and not enough net surfing, I got a call from Matt. The heat was out in the house. Great. I considered driving up to Duluth, where I knew Mom and Julie would feed and shelter me, but it was snowing and that's far. I knew my mother in law would happily take me in, but I just didn't want to go bug her. I wanted to sit on my couch, watch embarrassing TV and stuff my face - as I'd earned the right to do by resisting the tired urge to call in sick to work every day. I tentatively checked in with a couple of friends who I thought would be sympathetic to a night on the couch and munchies. Aisha almost insisted I come over immediately, but she and Scottie have a Friday night ritual that may or may not involve a television program called "Smackdown." I hated to interfere by making them suffer through a Jon & Kate Plus 8 marathon - then I remembered that they don't even have cable. That wasn't going to work. I checked in with Andy and she had plans, so I gave up and cried into the phone to my sister. "I got no place else ta goooooooo!!!" Overly dramatic? Yes - but you'll remember I'm pregnant and already prone to such theatrics.

I decided to tough it out. How bad could it be, right? Maybe the heat had come back on! When I arrived at the hovel it was... not warm. But it wasn't sleeping on a stretch of cardboard with fingerless gloves freezing either. I put on my chill pants - my fat pants - the only pants that fit these days, grabbed the down comforter and strategically positioned the space heater. I phoned Skinner's and requested they bring me a bacon cheeseburger stat - with fries. I flipped on the TV and was thrilled to find Meet Me in St. Louis had just started. After horking down the burger, I sang along to "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" from under my fluffy white refuge, burger bun crumbs floating from the sides of my mouth like so many snowflakes.

I moved the entire operation into the bedroom and was asleep by 9:30. Except for a couple of wretched trips to the coldest bathroom this side of the Himalayas, it was really tolerable. Things improved when Matt got home from work - he's my human space heater.

The next morning I was supposed to get together for an impromptu little brunch with Aisha and Scottie, Andy and Laura - Andy wasn't able to make it at the last minute, but everyone else was there when I arrived - smiling and oh, so warm! We'd decided on the Copper Dome on Randolph and Hamline in Highland Park. I haven't been there since the days I used to pretend to be a Mac student. Consequently, I don't think I'd ever been there so sober. I thought for sure the food would be Perkins-type quality - it is frequented by lots of gray hairs - which, incidentally, means the room is a Grandma appropriate 85 degrees. It was wonderful.

I was so wrong about the food. Before it arrived, however, I was swilling down my diner strength coffee and bemoaning my plight to my dearests when they distracted me with something shiny - a present! It is my birthday this week and I do so enjoy presents. They know me so well! I would have been thrilled with a jar of dilly pickles, but instead they got me this gorgeous little blue digital camera! Turns out Aish, Andy, Eric and Laura had all gotten together to get me something really nice. I know - crazy awesome friends! I was thrilled and immediately started snapping pictures.

Here's Laura and Scottie

Aisha and Scottie - that is not poop she's holding. They're truffles. I made them. If you notice the table, Scottie had eaten his already.

Aisha and me in my birthday sweater - I LOVE this color and would live in it every day if possible. (Purchased from B&lu online shop. As much as it pains me to pay shipping from four blocks from my house, I'm loving their clothes as pretend preggie wear.) By the way - don't you think Sweet Loaf would make a totally awesome '70's power ballad/arena rock band name? They'd kick Bread's weenie butts.

Here is my breakfast. I was starving and inhaled half of it before I remembered that I used to be a food blogger and I should probably capture this stuff with the camera. Two eggs, over easy (see ignored Preg Food Advice), hash browns, wheat toast, 3 sausage links and two crepes. I ate nearly the entire thing. Freezing makes me hungry.

Random shot of the poor saps stuck dining with us. It was a great meal. The waitress was one of the same ladies that used to wait on us back when we were obnoxious/hungover/burned out students. She was so sweet! The food was down home cooking - fluffy margarine ball topped my crepes, toast was thoroughly buttered on both sides - crispy on both sides, oddly square hash browns. The sausage was good and mildly spicy and the bacon Scottie ordered was real, thick, perfectly cooked meaty bacon. Aisha's pancakes were huge and fluffy. Why hadn't I been back to this place sooner? And talk about a great antidote to the saggy economy - the prices haven't inched up since the Regan administration. Totally affordable, totally comforting and so completely worth the two second drive for me. I left flushed and full of love for my friends and neighborhood.

Then I went home. The house was definitely not getting any warmer. I eyed my suitcase and contemplated my Mom in Law's house blocks away. Oh, so warm and inviting. She's the kind of mom that would even let me control the remote - she probably wouldn't be there - off reading scholarly tomes or feeding the lepers or something. She's always busy.

Then I looked at the cats. Foul beasts. When we moved into the house Eli pissed his pants and hid under the stairs for two days. How do you explain that kind of thing to a person with no pets?

Heaving a pathetically heavy sigh, I gave up my thrilling plans of visiting the No Coast Craft fair and picked up the Yellow Pages. I called a few heating guys and invited the nicest sounding one over. Matt came home to suffer with me - this time it was winter coat and hat, space heater and Can't Buy Me Love on the TV. When the heating guy finally arrived, he had no more luck than I did finding the pilot light on the behemoth in our basement. The house has one of those old "octopus" style furnaces. It's covered in plaster, cement and purportedly made entirely out of asbestos.

He poked around until he found a thing that could be unscrewed at the base of the thing. It kind of looked like the Abominable Snowman's foot. There was more poking around and then he tugged on a thing. Magically, the furnace fired up. Then it died again. From this he was able to determine that the problem wasn't actually the 10,000 year old antique heating system we had, but was in fact only the thermostat. Thank God, because if it was that furnace, I was going to have to move. So, almost $400 later and a new thermostat affixed to the wall, now exposing the hot pink paint left behind the old one, we were in business. And it was still freezing. So, we left.

Our plan all along had been to meet up with our friends Tony and Sarah for dinner at the new St. Paul Bulldog. We had a little time to kill and decided to whet our appetites with some treats from Wuollet. Since I'd not gotten any fun Christmas shopping in and now wouldn't be able to until our landlord returned from vacation and sends me a reimbursement check, I wanted to at least wander the Grand Meander that was taking place. We grabbed a hot chocolate, fried Cinnamon donut, chocolate donut and a sugar cookie. Don't laugh! Matt hadn't eaten all day. Geez, what do you think I am?

So, I slurped up the deliciously creamy, deeply chocolate cocoa and had a couple bites of Matt's fried cinnamon yum-yum. It was gone in seconds. The glaze crackled as I tore off hunks of raised donut batter laced with homey cinnamon. Heaven with a cocoa. The chocolate donut was Matt's wubbie of childhood food treats. He was practically hugging himself and humming as he scarfed it down. Here's another poetically posed photo from the new camera.

After that we were off into the snow dusted evening - white lights were strung from bare empty branches, lighting up white streets full of happy shoppers.

Restaurant Max in the new Hotel Minneapolis

2008-11-18T12:02:00.000-08:00

My lawyer advised me it would be wise to do lunch again. The last time we got together for a lunch I ended up with some blog controversy and I pissed some people off. For those wondering, I never did go back to Porter & Frye for a more balanced review. I honestly can't afford it. I still haven't heard anything that compels me to return.

Patrick (lawyer and occasional brother in law) was kind of enough to suggest we visit the new Restaurant Max in the Hotel Minneapolis that opened up on 4th Street and 2nd Avenue a few months ago. We briefly discussed our propensity for controversy when dining at a new hotel restaurant, but decided it was worth the risk. Besides, this place hasn't garnered anywhere near the same amount of ink. Sounded relatively safe.

Matt decided to join us before heading out to his wetland soils class. When we arrived Patrick was dressed in a nice suit, I had the usual I-Work-At-An-Ad-Agency-So-You-Better-Think-I'm-Cool desperate attempt at garb and Matt was dressed like a lumberjack. Pat sang the opening few lines of this song as we waited for our table.

Just after we sat down, our cute bespectacled waitress appeared and squinted at Matt. He said, "Oh, hey! How are you? We were in drama class together."

"Oh, yeah! Yeah! How are you?"

"Great - I'm over at the U now."

"Ha! I'm just finishing up at MCTC... Gosh, what did you do your monologue on again?"

Matt did a monologue?

"Oh, I don't remember..." he chuckled. Chuckled. I've heard my share of chortles, guffaws and hoots, but not a lot of chuckles.

"Wow... yeah," she noticed the rest of us for the first time and asked for drink orders. I asked for the East of Oregon drink. She excused herself and walked away.

"You are here with your wife, you know," Pat reminded him. "Your pregnant wife?"

Matt was embarrassed and started doing this wild flailing of arms thing he does when he's nervous. I moved the water glasses away from the edge.

She returned with only the coffee and cream that Matt had requested. There was more flailing and some drivel about Tennessee Williams. I covered my mouth trying not to laugh. That lumberjack is one hot ticket.

Tiring of the drama scene, I set about deciding what to order while dodging the occasional nervous elbow that swung into my space. Eventually, my drink arrived.

Here is where I'd normally insert a picture, but not only did I forget the real camera at the office, but my stupid cell phone was in the pocket of the jacket I checked. You'll just have to trust me. It was a gorgeous cocktail. In a globe shaped low ball I was presented with a pink frothy delight of crushed raspberries, muddled sage, a dusting of cardamom and a splash of lime juice mixed with seltzer water. The whole thing was set off by a bunny eared garnish of sage leaves. It tasted like Christmas, mildly sweet, fruity, spicy and comforting. I never want to go without this drink again. I'd love to recreate it for all of my upcoming holiday celebrations.

For lunch I ordered the hot pastrami and Fontina sandwich with grilled Serrano pepper served with a side of truffled fries. Pat decided on the open faced braised pork while Matt struggled with his decision. "What's this Japanese egg and shrimp thing?"

"Only our best sandwich. You'll love it," she gushed. He agreed to ordered it.

While we were catching up I couldn't stop staring around the room. It really is beautiful. There are these huge, red Lily pad shaped light fixtures suspended from the existing marble columns. Additional fixtures with spider webbed silver metal that hung over the table tops. The room felt contemporary, ageless and warm at the same time.

My sandwich was soon before me, a steamy, spicy specimen. The meat had been cooked on the grill giving the fatty pieces a beautiful bacon like appearance. The smell wafting up from the plate was divine; salty, rich perfection. True to the menu, there was just one grilled Serrano, de-seeded and sliced laid in the middle of the sandwich. The gooey cheese laced the French bread and clung to fatty meat bits as I cut the large portion in half. The salty, sweet thin fries were dusted in a little dried parsley and adorable. They didn't have the crack-like appeal of the Bulldog truffled tots, but they were pretty good and eventually gone. The sandwich was everything I'd hoped. The pastrami was salty without drying out the mouth, the cheese was a nice foil to the assertive meat and the sweet, cabbage sauerkraut that lingered ever so lightly at the back of my throat. The sauerkraut was mild enough to tempt even those that profess to hate stinky pickled things yet distinctive enough to make a pregnant lady want to gorge herself on the stuff.

Matt's sandwich was amazing. The egg was square (because it's Japanese.) It had been whipped up and cooked into a pillowy custard texture and the entire thing was dressed with a light drizzle of mustard. I didn't get to try the shrimp (and I'm probably not supposed to eat them anyway) but he swore it was wonderful.

The three of us finished almost every bite of our entrees before ordering dessert. We selected the little shot glass tastes offered - reminiscent of the desserts offered by Bank. Each was nice, not too sickly sweet, but none knocked me out. I probably could have skipped it after horking down almost the whole sandwich. Thankfully, Matt helped before he had to sputter out his farewell to our lovely server.

Over all, I was impressed by the Max experience. It is owned by the same group that runs Pazzaluna and the St. Paul Hotel, so my low expectations could have been a little higher. It's a great spot for a client dinner and would be a nice option for a little happy hour. I guess not all restaurants in hotels are mediocre. Maybe I should try that Manny's place next.

Screw Privacy

2008-11-06T12:39:00.000-08:00

While I'll be unable to report on any new sushi spots or oyster bars in the next few months, I will be cooking up something else.

So that is what's been going on with me.

Finally!

2008-10-30T10:49:00.001-07:00

I live. The last few times I've tried to post stupid blogger wouldn't let me. Admittedly, I haven't tried all that hard, or all that often. Like pretty much everyone else in the world the disposable income is running a little short over here. Also, it's not seasonal mood problems, but I've got something going on that results in my watching hours of TV marathons (so far, I've watched the entirety of The Stand, Top Chef, Biggest Loser and a string of Steven King movies from Christine to Pet Cemetery. That little boy in that movie is no freaking joke. Scared the CRAP out of me. Geeeawwwhhhd.)

So, more on me and my laziness some other time. I'm not sure about elaborating on my medical reason for malaise on the Internet. For one - who cares, right? Suck up and get to eating, chicky! Secondly, I wonder if occasionally I should dabble in that thing called privacy. While I'll publish my underwear color on Facebook, Matt refuses to even start an account with them for fear of the alien monkeys stealing his thoughts, or something like that. Honestly, I stopped paying attention because the commercial break was over. M-o-o-n! That spells shut the L up.

On the food front, I have been out. I went to Barrio twice with the intention of writing it up. The problem is that both experiences were totally - meh. The food was good, but what I had wasn't great and I tried damn near everything. The prices seem relatively cheap, unless you go hungry. Eric and I were quite hungry on our first trip there and ended up laying down $70 and only a drink for each of us. Nothing made me come close to swooning. The queso fundido made me a little angry. $7.50 for a thin layer of warm cheese and a dixie cup full of chips is not my idea of value.

The service was fine, the room is pretty cool, but it just wasn't anything that excited me. (Do I blame the malaise?) Judging by the crowd, they do not need my endorsement. They have some prime downtown real estate and both nights I went the place was packed. The room is super cool and the lighting is flattering for both food and first dates. This is the view from the balcony.

I think out of all of the food, beer, wine and mixed cocktails the best two items were the homemade guacamole and the blackberry mojito. That drink was divine.

I guess I figure, if you're into Solera or looking really good while shelling out a couple of extra bucks, then this is a great spot for you. If you're feeling poor and hungry, these aren't the tacos you seek.

What I'm looking for is food inspiration to remove my ass from the couch, but so far not much has struck my fancy. I've been meaning to get to the new Pop, but it's downtown St. Paul, who goes there, right? Oy, this complacency must end before the snow falls and I really ramp up my excuses not to leave the house.

I'll do my best and keep you posted. Until then, I've ordered my Thanksgiving turkey from the St. Paul Farmer's Market, carefully packed my own eggs at Mississippi Market and wring my hands in evil glee as the new Trader Joe's rises from the dust between Lexington and Randolph near my house. Until I get a few more pennies in my pocket I'm left to my own home cooking devices and since my oven is a prop on loan from Evil Dead 4, I'm pretty much screwed.

3 Squares in Maple Grove

2008-10-10T09:46:00.001-07:00

In a rare attempt to be fair I figured that I should try another restaurant run by the Blue Plate people - the ones that own the Highland and Edina Grills. My friend Penny was coming in to town and we'd agreed to meet at the Arbor Lakes shopping complex. I suggested lunch at 3 Squares.

I was running a little bit late, misjudging distance from St. Paul to the western suburbs. I had the directions written down, but was soon overwhelmed by the remarkable scale and sameness of the entire complex. "This place has got everything," I remarked while the strains of "Can't Turn You Loose," played from the radio.

There is every kind of chain everything out there! I was reminded of when I was last in the suburbs of Palm Springs, or that time I drove from Denver to Boulder and stopped for a little shopping - or that time - WAIT. Where the HELL am I? A left turn on the deceptively named "Main Street" and I could have been anywhere. I was overwhelmed, confused and cursing the suburban developers in general. My blood pressure was near nuclear by the time I finally found the place. I stepped out of my car and gaped.

"Joy!" Penny had just arrived, feeling similar to me. "This place is crazy - how do we get in there?" (We are but simple, small town girls.)

The entrance was much easier to find. We were immediately greeted by a few smiling faces. A nice girl walked us through the large and well lit dining room to a spacious booth in the fall sunshine. We cracked our menus and surveyed the scene. There was a bar on the other side of the room - it looked entertaining. I could see the glistening, jewel colored bottles through the wall.

Our waitress had to check on us four times before we were finally ready to order, but she was very smiley and upbeat. I ordered the chicken and dumpling soup special and Penny got the Italian sub sandwich - another monthly special.

I surveyed the room of happy families. There were children everywhere, but the acoustics were such that it wasn't at all noisy. I liked that while the room had a couple of nods to the kitchy diner feel that the other restaurants have, the towel wrapped silverware, the room was more suburban - and I mean that in a good way. Clean, mellow colors and all brand spanking new.

I sipped on tangy lemonade from a glass that was never less than half full. Penny, smart girl, had ordered a refreshing glass of their fruity, dry Pinot Grigio. It was perfectly suited to the Indian summer type weather we were having.

Our food arrived promptly. I was a little surprised that my soup was cream based.

It was kind of a dumb thing to order on a nice day. It was really thick and super creamy... kind of a giant bowl of heavy cream with a couple of hunks of dough thrown in. The dumplings were a little grainy and undercooked in the middle and there were only a few. I didn't hate it, but it wasn't coming home to meet mama, either.

Penny's sub on the other hand was exactly what we'd expected. The layers of salami, mortadella and prosciutto wrapped around a gooey blanket of mozzarella cheese that oozed onto the plate after every bite. The bun was lightly toasted, but still soft and gooshy in the middle, perfect for sopping up and holding all of the delectable juices swimming around all the cured meats.

The side salad was orzo, roasted peppers, caramelized onions and olives. The onion flavor over whelmed all of the other ingredients. It was good, but compared to that sandwich anybody else is left playing second fiddle.

Needless to say, I ate more of her sandwich than I did my soup. Which was just too heavy and bland for me. Still, I left happy and full.

The service was outstanding, the food was good, a little high on the price side (while my bowl of soup was $4.50, Penny's sandwich was $12.95.) I have to say, I'd go back. You know, if ever I had to spend an afternoon ensconced by retail and strollers, a hearty lunch or late breakfast at 3 Squares would be just the fuel I needed to survive in a happy state - and believe me, I did.

*As an epilogue: we spent hours out wandering around all of these stores. My favorite bits were shopping for clothes for Penny's impossibly cute daughter and scarfing free samples at the Williams Sonoma. I am telling you: buy their Pumpkin Pecan butter , make these and you're welcome at my house any time.

Bye jP's

2008-10-09T06:39:00.001-07:00

I just read in the paper that jp's closed. I'm not surprised - that construction was a pain to deal with. Still, it's sad. They had a great room, wonderful service and fantastic food. It's a shame to see a place like that go.

Highland Grill - Same as it Ever Was

2008-09-15T10:34:00.000-07:00

On a drizzly miserable Saturday, Laura and I decided to band together and bombard the St. Paul consignment stores. We needed our own version of Back to School shopping and wanted to save some money.

First things first, we needed lunch. Who shops for skinny jeans on empty stomach? (Except maybe those that can actually wear skinny jeans.) We had talked about going to the Strip Club, but that was just a little too far. I suggested Jay's, but then drove by the Highland Grill. They had a new sign out front advertising a new menu. I was intrigued.

My hesitation to mention this restaurant were a few fold. One, I used to live in this neighborhood and every time I'd attempted a meal here I left disappointed. In fact, the only time I can remember ever dancing out of this place, high on life was when Matt asked me if I'd be interested in moving in together. He was going to take me back to the Uptown of my youth! Yes! I squealed as the lights went out. The kitchen was powerless and we were forced to go for greasy/wonderful Vietnamese egg rolls at Vina across the street.

Plus, the parking sucks, the seating is cramped and sometimes the college aged waitresses are kind of idiots.

Still, I seem to be in the minority here. Also, Laura, Andy and I had a phenomenal evening at the Edina Grill, owned by the same people. I figured maybe it was time to give it another try. I warned Laur to bring her parking patience and to meet me there in a few minutes.

I was seated at one of the small tables in the middle. I gazed longingly at a booth. Again, only once have I not gotten stuck at one of these cramped spots. It was the One Happy Experience.

Laura breezed in just after me. She was all dolled up in a pretty shade of deep salmon, jazzy earrings swaying against her golden hair. I pulled my baseball hat lower and wished for lipstick. Who goes shopping looking so glamorous? I came ready for the Step Up 3 - Over tha 3-0 straight to DVD shoot.

After a whole lot of dillying about we settled on our orders. I struggled to figure out what was new about the menu other than the newly elevated prices. Elvis burger, turkey burger, Ahi tuna melt were all there. Nothing struck me as new or inventive compared any other time I've been there.

Laura had the herb marinated chicken on ciabatta and I got the bison burger. I also ordered a glass of wine and she had a beer to ease us into the shopping groove.

The building was bustling and full even though it was nearing 2:00 in the afternoon. There were kids laughing and shrieking and LOUD TALKERS discussing the mundane. We spent our wait catching up, but considering we are in almost constant contact, there wasn't much we missed. I was starving, so the food took longer than I wanted it to.

Finally, it arrived. My first problem, does this look like a $12 lunch?

The buffalo patty was puny. The French fries weren't much, but I wasn't really expecting anything all that fancy, but did expect some substance. The greens looked beautiful and tasted fresh and light.

Laura put together her first gooey bite after arranging her various dipping sauces before here. Garlic mayo, chipotle "pesto" (I still do not understand how blue cheese and chipotle makes a "pesto") and good ol' Ranch dressing. She is nothing if not a condiment appreciator.

I put together my burger for my first bite and it was... sweet kind of sickly and off putting. The already dressed greens and the caramelized onion that appeared to have been doctored with sugar were just way too much together. There was about four times the bun to burger ratio and even beyond that - EW - the entire thing did not work. I tried scraping the onions off, but nothing was improved.

Remember in college, or maybe it was late high school when your one friend was flirting with every guy at the party - including the one that you told her you really like, so could her skank self please back off this one for once? Then after she's been doing shots of Rumpleminz and Butterscotch Schnapps all night you catch her with her tongue down his throat even those she pinkie swore promised she would never do that to you? So there you are, trying not cry and find you jacket because although you drove her there, she could find her own fucking ride home. When all of a sudden that girl from Honors English, or maybe it was Bio, anyway she tells you that your friend is passed out in the bathroom and you'd better go check on her. You go into the bathroom where she whimpers something indiscernible and starts to heave again. And that is when you find yourself crouched on some strangers bathroom floor holding a frienemy's hair back while she pukes. She turns to you and breathily proclaims, "You are the best friend ever." That smell? That's what I tasted on this burger.

So I scraped off the mayo drenched greens, but still. The flavor was there. I guess I was grimacing because Laura said, "You don't like it do you."

"No. How's yours?"

"It's okay. The chicken is cooked well."

I don't want to be spending $12 on a sandwich that I could have better done for $6.

I felt so dumb. I knew I didn't like this place. I knew I always thought it was overpriced and yet, because I'd had some good times at this kid's sister in Edina, I thought some how things had changed. I thought that maybe I'd get to leave with that feeling of triumph. Instead I ended up eating nothing but French Fries while moaning about how the whole world was against me.

Don't Feed the Animals

2008-09-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

7:00 am - Wake up with dutiful husband and start coffee pot. Fight over toothbrushes and wrangle frizz bomb. Kick Tabby out of kitchen. "Move-it fat ass!" Feel superior.

7:15 - Husband declares scrambled eggs for breakfast! Assemble sandwiches from leftover chicken, French bread and herb garden rosemary. Slather with Hellman's mayo - am awesome wife.

7:26 - Happily enjoy creamy scramblers and toast with mom's homemade strawberry jam while making note of Matt Lauer's hairline.

7:27 - Slurp coffee from Elvis meets Nixon mug from Graceland gift shop.

7:34 - Kick cat while hauling dirty dishes to sink, "Elijah! MOVE! Go find your sister." Ponder black cat's whereabouts.

7:37 - Smooch husband.

7:40 - Commute while reading Food and Wine.

8:23 - Yawn through main door wishing for second cup of coffee. Wave at awesome receptionist.

9:32 - Stomach makes contemplative rumble.

9:58 - Starving

10:12 - Rationalize eating lunch early despite lack of petty cash.

10:30 - Feeling... weak

10:32 - Spring from seat to retrieve glass of water. Kitchen smells like blueberry bagels. Gross and yet - YUM.

10:48 - Catapult from chair in kitchenal direction. Nearly take out company president when rounding corner.

11:12 - Brilliant sandwich. Teeth hurt from crusty bread.

11:25 - Confirm dentist appointment.

12:15 - Oh, you have got to be kidding me!

12:26 - March to food court next door.

12:28 - Nearly topple slow moving She/Man while trying to exit elevator allows plenty of time to examine odd/leathery in desperate need of Pro-Activ skin.

12:29 - Order sauteed spicy green beans in honor of Shim. Count out $1.93 in small coin change.

1:00 - Entire collection of beans eaten with chop sticks and now attempting to pick up tiny, salty chili garlic hunks from bottom of plastic container.

1:01 - Wipe spicy oil stain from work pants, desk and floor.

1:16 - Husband sends text message, "Chili Good. Herpes bad." Wha? Technically true, I suppose.

1:47 - Contemplate client snack foods stored in desk door.

2:12 - 100 Calorie Packets of Doooo-ritos-itos-itos-itos

2:13 - Hate Rihanna

2:14 - Guide little, baby Doritos by the half dozen from tiny bag into mouth.

2:16 - Those are just stupid.

2:20 - Chuck second tiny baggie with great disdain.

2:35 - The Old Dutch bags are small.

2:45 - Old Dutch potato chip bag crowns heap of discarded food garbage in bin by desk.

2:47 - Artfully camouflage garbage with used label sheet.

3:12 - Is there Ben & Jerry's at home?

3:21 - Will.Not.Eat.Candy.

3:38 - Laura sends email is having root beer float. Bitch.

3:43 - Haven't had any rum cake in at least a year and a half.

3:44 - Really am fond of rum cake.

3:45 - Not a cake sort of day anyway.

4:09 - Accidentally lick self-adhesive envelope.

4:13 - Husband sends lovey text message about day.

4:14 - Respond, "You are the mayo on my sammy." Hopeless romantics.

4:23 - Seriously. So done with this.

4:57 - Shut down.

5:03 - Clamor onto over-crowded train destined for Chili and homemade chips sans the HPV.

(There will probably be some Ben & Jerry's involved in this night. I ain't gonna lie.)

Away at Sand Lake

2008-08-29T09:15:00.000-07:00

Or What I did on my summer vacation

I hope you've managed to keep yourselves busy with legitimate day work while I've been so absent with decent distractions for you. I was lucky enough to spend a week up at our family's cabin which has meant severe fund restriction and a complete lack of Internet connection. So, please forgive me a moment of bloggity blog it's-all-about-me blog post. I haven't been to a decent restaurant for an entire month and I'm sure my eye twitch would be more severe were I not lucky enough to have this escape.

The first night we were there, my namesake Auntie Joy (90 some years young and Grandma Gidgie's baby sis, if you're keeping track) came out to visit with us. Some of my California cousins were staying at the cabin as well - a rarity we're hoping to repeat next year. My mom and I had every intention of grilling up some venison steaks until Joy (rascal) convinced us all to head over to the Oasis for some fried chicken and great rock n roll music.

I can't go here without getting Friends in Low Places stuck in my head. Inevitably, I spend the rest of the week yodeling, "Let me slip on down to the OOOAAAAAsis." Imagine how annoying this is.

The band was fantastic. They played mostly classic rock covers with an emphasis on Neil Young with a few Johnny Cash and Creedence songs thrown in for good measure.

Here's my cousin Greg, son Geoff (clearly a fan of the music) and Matt - looking and feelin' groovy. A special thank you to Geoff for pointing out that I am old. You have no idea, kiddo.

Laura had driven up to join us for the weekend as well. It's so unfair to post a picture of the ladies when we've all got cabin hair, but this must be documented for posterity.

There was a lot of dancing, but Laura, Mom and my sister Jules and I headed back to the cabin pretty early. We were pooped and I couldn't wait to get to sleep in my cabin room on the water. We were staying down in the boathouse, that has since been converted into bedrooms. The waves washed away all city stress I'd carried up with me and I fell into a heavy and sound sleep.

Of course, the downside of such happy sleeping circumstances and country beer meant waking up at the crack of dawn and hobbling, quickly up to the main cabin, legs crossed and hopping the last few steps.

For breakfast I whipped up a bunch of custom ordered fried eggs and bacon from F&D Meats. Their bacon is some of the best that I have ever had - not to mention really reasonably priced.

We spent most days lounging about and reading. While the day before, the sun had been shining and the Cali-crew were able to get out on the water, the wind had switched and now it was too cold for swimming.

Here's Matt hard at work:

I'd like it noted that I do not endorse, nor condone this shirt. Sleeping next to him is Reggie, my mom's new puppy and on the back of the couch is Coby. We're not usually the sort of family that travels with the house cats, but Julie couldn't find anyone to come check in on him, so up he came, car sickness and all.

After hours of Jenga marathons and spotty TV reception the sun came out. Most of us ladies grabbed our magazines and headed for the shore (Julie was sleeping - she sleeps when most people are active, not unlike the bats that live above the fireplace.)

The boys headed off for the fishing boat. They had great success. Matt landed a near record sized Crappie, but it was Geoffie's big success with the Northern that thrilled us all. He'd had a smaller one on the hook when this big feller swum up from behind and chomped on the tail of the smaller one, refusing to give it up.

The guys were able to coax it into the net and voila - our biggest catch of the week:

For lunch, rather than a fish fry (because we did let the big fella go) I boiled up some Kramarczuk's Polish sausage in beer and onions that Laura had been kind enough to gift us with.

There was eating, beer drinking and then back to the reading. Julie woke up and stoked up the fire for us before starting the sauna.

We try to have a sauna every night we're up there. The building we use is converted from an old playhouse that was dragged down to the beach and adorned with a wood burning stove. Julie's theory is that you have to stoke it for hours to get the just perfect fire - cooking the rocks until everything is a good 180 degrees.

Of course, Greg the California Authority things this is a huge waste of wood and just get it in there, get it hot and get going! There was a lot of debating, but Julie got her way and subsequently spent the remainder of the afternoon hauling a faded Red Flyer wagon up and down the hill until she appeared at dinner, sweating and declaring it ready.

"Joy, are you gonna sauna?"

"Um..."

"God DANGIT!"

"No, okay, I will." Nothing gets my sister going more than me skipping the occasional steam. Personally, I don't much enjoy being sweaty and stinking, while knowing that I won't have a shower for another good week. Plus, I may be over 30, but that doesn't mean that I don't enjoy needling the baby sis every once in a while.

Before the big steam we finally grilled up the venison that had been marinating in fresh rosemary, oregano, Worchestshire sauce, tarragon red wine vinegar and tons of fresh ground pepper.

Bloody wonderful. We did a big steak for the faint at heart as well.

Then we all donned our suits and shuffled down to the sauna. There's a hilarious picture of me sporting a giant American flag beach towel, but I'm sure as hell not posting it here. Trust me, though, it was the size of a comforter and swathed around me, beet-colored moon face and look of annoyance. It's a wonder no one jumped to their feet and started singing the minute I walked into the room.

We sweated our asses off - my cousin Marilyn's husband Dave just dousing the rocks and stove with water. The steam smacked us in the face time and time again, no one wanting to be the first to go. I'm not a big sweat-er, but rivulets drained into my eyes and dropped the the sappy wood below me. Finally, someone called uncle and we all raced out in the early autumnal evening, steaming and shrieking. I dodged my slow mother and raced into the frigid water and swimming a couple of breast strokes before breaking the surface of the water and howling.

The big moon was covered by clouds, but usually, this is the best place to see the stars. It's like you can reach out and yank off Orion's belt for your own accessory. You just don't get stars like these in the city. I was momentarily nostalgic for my own childhood of growing up on the shores of my own large lake, until the water shocked me back into the present and sent me careening towards the sauna for one more steam.

In the morning, my skin felt heavenly and I'd slept even harder than the night before. (Although, again, there was the six am hop/dash up to the main cabin.)

The next day was colder than the first and I think it was that which drove the California cousins home, airline tickets be damned. It was hard to say goodbye because I hadn't seen them in years. This summer we lost our grandma and not long before that, they'd lost their mother (my Aunt Peggy) their larger than life father (one of the great personalities ever to roam the earth - my Uncle George), and before that my dad. We were all keenly aware in the holes that stretch through the wearing fabric of our lives. We're thankful to have the opportunity to knit together our bonds. It's easier to remember that we're all family and in this together when we've got this quiet time in the wilds of Northern Minnesota, the wall of old photographs smiling down at us.

Oh, and of course, there is cooking

I think if you look closely into those coals, you'll see my Grandpa Dunk's face, smiling up at the two of us in the sacred family space he left us, doing what he enjoyed best. Eating, drinking, laughing and loving.

Q&A with the Me at the Minneapple

2008-08-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

CindyMN commented on my last post:

Hey there!!We are heading down to the big TC's this next wk. Would you mind giving me some restaurant recommendations? I would love to hear what you think. We'd like to try something different then the normal red lobster or olive garden. something FUN. We have 2 teen daughters. So something not too spendy, but fun in the bloomington/south metro area.I would love to hear your thoughts!!THANKS

First - thank you for even asking. That's so cool. I've had a few people ask me about where to eat when in the Bloomington area and I always struggle because I don't go out there often anymore.

When I very first moved down here, after fleeing my picturesque hometown because they just don't get me and no one here will ever understand my pain I landed in Bloomington. Actually, to be honest, first I landed in Richfield in what used to be the Tressman Music dirt parking lot in a 70's era RV with a broken sewage system and two buddies, Jerome (who wished that James Hetfield was his long lost father) and Guido (not his given name, but better than.) Anyhoo, after tiring of the acrid smell and bathing in the Super America sink we decided to get an apartment and found one nearby in a complex that housed mostly immigrants who worked at the Mall of America. Eventually, I, too would become employed there.

Those were some weird times. I have so many stories that I could get in to, but will save you the gory details other than that I thoroughly apologize to my parents for what I put them through.

Anyway, that's not what you asked. There are actually a couple of good spots that have stood the test of time in the Mall of America. I know, shock, right? Me, enjoying big mall dining? But it's not the chain spots that eventually die. And it is most certainly not the Rainforest themed restaurant where I was once fortunate enough to dine in the path of some stampeding elephants.

One of my favorite suburban restaurants is the Twin Cities Grill on the first floor, North side of the MOA. The food is Minnesota focused and varied enough to please all palates. They have great burgers with delicious malt vinegar soaked fries, dusted with a little season salt. My jaw muscles twinge at the thought. The perfect salty, sour food combination. The fish is also incredible, the walleye does not disappoint. They are a little bit more expensive than Ruby Tuesday, but not that much and the welcome reprieve the restaurant offers can't be beat. You and your girls can get some serious shopping in and then step inside this coolly lit room and the din of the mall just melts away.

The service is polished, too. I've never been treated rudely and the food has never been anything but delicious. Last time I was in the mall, I lasted longer than my usual 20 minutes before I start regressing and yelling at rude customers to back up OFF the cash register and get in LINE you will get checked out AS SOON as it is humanly possible YOU CREDIT CARD WAVING PARASITES! (You can see why I eventually transitioned out of the customer service industry.)

Other restaurants in the Great Mall that come to mind are yummy burgers and shakes and Johnny Rockets. No matter how many times I've eaten there, when the guy draws a little ketchup smiley face to go with my plate of fries, I'm utterly charmed.

Tucchi Bennuch are owned by the same group that owns the Grill, Lettuce Entertain You. They know what they're doing. The pasta dishes are not far from what you'd find at the Olive Garden, but way better. Man, the last time I ate there was right before I saw Eric Clapton play at the newly christened Xcel Center - what a wonderful night that was. He played Sunshine of Your Love just for me, I know it.

If you'd rather not hit the behemoth mall, then my recommendations get a little sketchier. Because of the bizarre nature of most of my memories of this time of my life, I don't head back there too often. (Or... exactly remember every thing.. precisely.)

One more place that should not be missed is if you can get in to the West Side of St. Paul for breakfast is Mickey's Diner. The original dining car is just about impossible to get in to, but most people don't know that there is another Mickey's on West 7th (take 494 E, follow 5, which turns into West 7th, watch for it on your right, about 2 miles in, just before a Famous Dave's. It's a really quick trip from Bloomington) They serve the same out of this world malts and the hashbrowns... Oh, the hashbrows. They're made every day, on site and fried in lard. They are the holy grail of hasbrowns. You never have to worry if they will be soggy on one side, or slightly cold in the center. These little tender beauties fry up crisp and brown with just a thin layer of tender, homey taters. And unlike the surly/kitchy attitude the original Mickey's promises, these ladies are loving and quick to warm up your cup of coffee. Watch for the Gov. When he's not out campaigning, I've caught him in there a few times, hair still spiked from sleep and sweet looking kids by his side.

I hope I'm at least a little helpful. And, if your girls grow up and one maybe doesn't want to live in a dorm right away? I'd really stick to your guns on that one. No young lady should be rooming with a guy named Guido.

Mom - I'm sorry! I love you! You were right! You were always right! But then you knew that, didn't you? Thanks for letting me figure it out on my own.

And now, as penance, I give you a picture of 19 year old Joy dancing at her friend's wedding in an ill-fitting, handmade, blue, satin, with gauze overlay bridesmaid dress. Looks like two pigs fighting over a blanket.

Hacienda Del Sol - Duluth

2008-08-07T08:25:00.000-07:00

Minneapple goes on the Road!

Last weekend I traveled up to my adopted home town of Duluth to join the other hoards of tourists viewing the historic "tall ships."

They were pretty cool. Not standing in line for hours on end cool, but I'd definitely say they were neat. Mostly we just wandered around looking at all of the people. This was people watching on a State Fair kind of level. I saw a spiked haired mullet not unlike a wandering hedgehog and the a fanny pack the size of a steamer ship loaded on the back end of a human pontoon. It was extraordinary.

The weather was gorgeous, too. It was perfectly sunny and no humidity. I'd luckily landed there on one of the five days where the weather is nice. After all the oogling, I was starving. We wanted to have a sit down lunch, but somewhere a little off the beaten path. All of Canal Park was packed, so we decided to head in to town. Matt said he hand a hankering for Hacienda Del Sol and I remembered that they have one of the best patios in town.

The restaurant is located in a cute little store front sort of kitty corner from Fitger's brewery on Superior street. The thin room belies the expansive patio in back. You walk through the room, out the back door and up the steps to a little Mexicano oasis.

It's entirely fenced in and there is barely a view of the lake, but there are trees and landscaping. The walls are covered with Aztech inspired murals and tables are each adorned with a little pot of blooming flowers.

The waitress was kind enough to keep us knee deep in chips and salsa as we waited. All of their food is made from scratch and made to order. The salsa was very fresh and very mild. While Julie was reading us an entertaining story about baby pictures on Facebook from the Weekly Reader, Matt slapped his knife, which spattered the salsa all down the front of him. His pants, shirt, even shoes. He furiously dabbed while we pretended to study the landscape.

I ordered the special, enchiladas rancheros, my mom got the chili rellanos, Julie had the beef enchiladas and Matt ordered the chorizo burrito. Here is what they all looked like:

Good thing the waitress knew who got what because I couldn't tell by first glance. My enchiladas were covered with a chunky tomato sauce and underneath were two corn tortillas wrapped around gooey cheese. The beans were creamy, smokey and lovely. The rice tasted fresh - nothing like that Tex Mex crap you get at most middle of the road restaurants. It was good, if not particularly interesting. Mom gave me a bite of her chili.

The mild green poblano was stuffed with cheese, lightly breaded, fried and served under a blanket of the red sauce. The freshly fried flavor came though, no sodden evidence of ever having been frozen.

I think my favorite dish was actually Julie's enchiladas. She scooped me up a few bites onto the tortilla chips. They were simply ground hamburger with cheese and enchilada sauce, but boy were all of those things done well. On the chip, they were my new favorite nachos.

I wouldn't say that the food is a good enough draw to get me to drive all the way up for a day trip, but it was comforting and familiar in a gorgeous city on the water. The patio should be savored on these few, perfect days of sunshine.

Love is...

2008-08-04T11:39:00.000-07:00

Love is parting ways after lunch with a chocolately kiss and saying, "Bye... I'm going to go get a cookie!"

Rare Bird

2008-07-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

It's been a wild couple of weeks over here at ETMA HQ. There have been many trips to the range and back. This year we've watched my dear grandma Gidgee's health deteriorate. It was time. She was 103 years old and I hope to poop out long before then. She had an amazing life and it was spent mostly surrounded by loving family, tons of friends and the occasional vodka gimlet.

It was a long goodbye. I can't tell you how many times I protested, "But MO--oooommm!"

Only to be answered with, "You don't know how much longer we're going to have your grandmother!" She's only been saying this since 1978.

This weekend I went up to her home to gather with my extended family and toast a remarkable woman. Paging through her photo albums, I saw all of these pictures of raging parties. There was the Halloween where grandpa Dunk had dressed up as a Native American woman and refused to get up off the floor or speak to anyone all night long. (Not entirely PC, but what do you expect for the 50's?) There was Nicey, tanned within an inch of her life in California, handing her delighted husband Tink a cocktail. Paul Brown's head thrown back laughing. My great Auntie Joy, Anne and Bob Michaelson dressed head to toe in a garish lime polyester to celebrate St. Patrick's day 1972 in Borrego Springs. They were all people I was too young to know. All these parties, these fabulous times roared through by a crowd the likes of which this world will never see again.

She was the last of that generation, the final card played. There will never be another like that one. They knew life without cars, television - heck, electricity, but they also knew how to have a hell of a time.

Looking around her home, it was hard not to want to cram every knick knack or cracked plate into my suitcase. I just wanted to make it last. I wanted to save our times - and all of her great times, but that's the thing about a party. It always has to end.

Instead I ate and drank way too much, laughed my head off and cried. The entire family came home for Gidge. Even my Duluth family and close friends made the drive over to the Iron Range to pay their respects and give us all some much needed hugs. We laughed at Gidgee's funny little sayings, crazy as a coot, colder than a billy goat, dark as a pocket - I don't understand where any of these came from. The one phrase of hers that I used the most, was that she was a rare bird.

Exhausted from the arrangements, stuffed from the fabulous food from Paul's Italian food in Eveleth - who knew that Iron Rangers could be so gourmet? (Salty, heavenly spiced Porketta and a whole platter of prosciutto, mortadella and aged cheese.) The potica from the Virginia Co-op was so good, we had to make an extra trip back to town. And it only seemed like minutes had passed before it was time for us to go.

Two of the memories that people shared with us were how Gidge would often feed people tasty lunches of cold steak, crackers and sweet onions dusted with Lawry's seasoning salt. Of course we had this for lunch on our first day of making funeral arrangements. I'd never stopped to consider that this wasn't a normal staple for most people. The other thing, so fondly remembered were banacks.

Banacks are a the love child of a biscuit and some fry bread. It's a simple, but careful mix of yeast, flour and water that is then fried in lard until puffy and golden brown. There's even a specific eating technique. You stab your fork into one end and slowly saw it back and open with your butter knife. Then, you slather the whole thing with butter - good butter counts here and drizzly rich maple syrup, boiled down from the area trees. The rich amber oozes into the airy pockets. Each bite is crunchy, chewy, sweetly salty and heavenly. I'm proud to say that I hold the family record for most banacks ever eaten in one sitting - 13. You got that right, buddy - THIRTEEN and don't even think about trying to take me down. I am the Banack Queen and her majesty has deemed you worthy of sharing the recipe. I know chances are good that you'll never attempt these, but trust me when I say, this is the stuff that legends are made out of. This is the thing that my grandmother gave to sustain me.

Banacks

1/2 cake of compressed yeast dissolved in warm water

3 1/4 c. Flour
1T. Sugar

1t. Salt

2 c. Lukewarm water
Beat until shiny. Mix at 8 PM. Cover and let stand in a warm place.

In AM turn out onto a well floured surface. Cut in rounds. Let rise 1/2 hr or more until doubled. Fry in hot lard in cast iron skillet, shaking constantly until puffed and brown on all sides.

With my first bite I closed my eyes.

Screen door on the back porch slamming. Small bare feet pounding over the mahogany colored hollow wood floors. Dishes clattering. Grease sizzles, spits and snaps. A soft, arthritic hand, cups a small round chin. "There was a little girl that had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead." The banacks are laid out, taking up the entire counter, puffing beneath tea towels. Coffee on the stove top, poured through a mesh strainer into chipped cups. Chairs scraping, oil cloth sticking as warm plates are set upon it. Little pitchers and the orange yellow bottomed butter dish are passed around. The golden banack steaming as the lid is pushed back little fingers pawing it open, sticking to the green glass plates, smearing onto shirt, face and eventually blond hair. Family chortles, teases and recite sonnets for last night's dinner. Lists and debates are begun over the next dinner to come. Summer morning breezes brush the oily air outside and over the greens. Those glorious gone days at Eshquagama.

Meritage - Good Times

2008-07-16T06:59:00.000-07:00

I am just about ready to pop Jim Cramer one. I've been watching too much NBC lately. He's all over the place, neither the Today show, nor primetime are safe from his screeching brand of financial advisory. From what I've gathered the economy is in the toilet and we're probably all going to end up by the side of some railroad track heating Hobo Soup remembering the good ol' days when the credit card collection agents phoned us at work, begging for the dollars we didn't have. Soon the jackals will be at the door, wielding blunt interments and accepting only Euros.

"Ahh... remember when I drove my car? Sure, it makes a decent jungle gym for the kiddies, but those days before I had to hoof it to work 17 miles each way.... Oh, those were the glory days."

So, yes, fine - there are some things that kind of suck right now. It seems like there's a ticker constantly flashing over my head indicating my shrinking checking account balance and the steady flow of incoming bills. Things keep getting more expensive, but really, is it that bad?

Maybe it's just me. I have a small car, so $45 to fill up, while irritating, isn't going to leave me homeless. Thankfully, I'm not anywhere near foreclosure, neither is anyone else that I know. We still get together every now and again and have some laughs. I'm just glass half full type person, unless of course that glass is full of wine, then it's just gone.

The one major cut back has been more meals at home, less out on the road. Matt's birthday came and went and all we had to show for it were some crusty leftover pork chops and a finely pruned herb garden. I vowed as soon as my paycheck came in, we were going to have a really fine meal. I'm happy to report, my vow fulfilled, there is a new fine dining destination in downtown St. Paul.

I'd enjoyed my one experience at Au Rebours and had been sad to hear that they hadn't been able to make it, but was wary of the new restaurant that took its place. I'd eaten Russell Klein's food a few times while he was working at W.A. Frost and had always left disappointed. I knew it had to be a "It's me, not you" sort of problem because everyone else I spoke to seemed to rave about the food. I couldn't figure out what I was missing.

Perhaps, what was missing, was a place to call his own. I must have been receiving food from the fledglings while at Frost because everything that had at Meritage was superb.

I began with a glass of Prosecco and was delighted by the fizzy little droplets of spring in my glass. The aromas were all bright peachy, pear and golden. The flavor was refreshingly fruity with hints of musky whimsy at the back of my throat. It was refreshingly chilled and light on my tongue.

To amuse my palate I ordered the tuna tartar taco, Matt got the Bloody Mary oyster shooter and we agreed that we'd better try the pommes frites, too.

The raw tuna was lightly dressed with a creamy sauce, loaded into a taro chip and placed upon a bed of shaved spring carrots. The entire thing was just amazing. It was a revelation after the disappointing attempt at a similar dish when I'd dined at Sanctuary. This was heavenly. It was light, sweet and obviously ocean-y. The sweet little carrots were almost like nature's candy, so naturally sugary, they complimented the sweet, raw meat.

Matt chugged his shooter and stared at me, eyes round and bulging from behind his glasses, "Oh, you have to get one of these." When the waitress returned we ordered our entrees and he asked for two more shooters. He was right, I did need to try it. They were silky. Again, there was a faint, fresh taste of the sea, this time it was highlighted with spiky flavors of horseradish and bright saucy fresh tomato juice. "I could eat 6 of these," said Matt.

The fries were good, not great, but the Bearnaise sauce was exquisite. Lemony butter with globs of fresh tarragon jacked up the fry flavor to fancy. The people declaring that Salut's pommes frites are the best are in for some serious competition. These are the same as what they've got, but made by a much more talented hand.

Matt ordered the rabbit saddle stuffed with bunny confit over summer vegetables, while I ordered the chicken. I know, who orders chicken at a restaurant of this caliber? I had heard that this was the crispiest chicken skin that I would find in town. I had to know. Chicken skin is second only to bacon at my alter of the Fat Salty Crisp.

Logically, I know that this is simply chicken under a brick. I should be able to do something similar to this at home, but I know that I'm never going to. For one, I do not have a brick and don't really know how I would go about getting one. Secondly, it could never possibly be this good done in my home with that abomination of a kitchen. Every bite - every nano inch of skin was seared and puffed up crispy like a cracklin. There wasn't a single soggy or chewy bite of chicken. The meat was juicy and after a swim in the pool of juices, delicious.

The barely sauteed spinach was flecked with crunchy bits of salt and pepper. The potatoes were luscious with hunky cloves of melting, roasted garlic.

The rabbit was expertly prepared, there's no question that I would never attempt such a meal at home, either. The tender young meat was wrapped around the succulent confit over bright, incredibly fresh veggies and smudged with a springy fennel sauce. The meat, tender and lovely, the sauce, sprightly, together? Food alchemy. Each flavor bounced off the other, singing springtime carols and doing the mambo. It was a wonderful specimen, highlighting the way that local, fresh flavors of the season always compliment each other best.

Ah, yes, summer is here and indeed, the l-i-v-i-n is easy. Our rich Midwestern soils are springing forth all matter of early season veggies and herbs, each flavor encapsulated in this meal, raw, moist earth, crunchy, dewy, tart, feathery tastes. Now is the time to celebrate this usually chilly patch of land we call home. The promise of wholly locally sourced meals shimmer on the horizon like an oasis. All those long barren winter nights seem to melt away from memory, replaced by fennel fronds and garlic scapes.

We should have had dessert, but I was stuffed at this point. I was talked into ordering a cocktail, though. It was made with Hendrick's gin, lingonberries and elderflower. It was sweet-tart and crisp as a new twenty dollar bill. I took a long sip and settled back into my seat.

I was chatting with our server, Jenn, who is regarding the upcoming Republican National Convention with some trepidation. She said already, people are beginning to arrive in town for it and the restaurant is expected to be packed nightly. Although she's looking forward to the uptick in tip money, she's a little nervous about how she's supposed to be getting to work. The anarchists are constantly threatening the bus schedules, and all parking ramps are going to be closed. Things are looking grim for the locals - tight crowds and big money as far as the eye can see. It will be difficult, but hopefully once the big show is over, people will remember the little gem of a restaurant located in the heart of downtown St. Paul.

I take comfort in that. I'm also heartened that between Meritage, the Strip Club and Heartland, the "other" twin city finally has some achievements to brag about. And, while I know that times are tight and I'm really going to be missing the loot I spent on this dinner a couple of weeks from now, I'm determined not to get too worked up about it. Sure, times are a little difficult and scary, but I've got the love of a good man, great friends, healthy family and a tummy full of the crispiest chicken this small town girl has ever tasted. I'd say things are gonna be alright.

Brasa in Northeast

2008-06-25T11:36:00.001-07:00

This is my bonus Mama, also known as Matt's very own mother. As you can clearly see from this picture, the woman is awesome. She and Matt absconded with me around 11:30 and headed to Nordeast. Many times I've eyed the bright yellow Brasa sign, but had never had a chance to go in.

We were the first group for lunch and able to score the best table outside. It was shaded with a faint breeze whispering through the trees above us. We were eager and I was starving.

The way the menu is set up, you order an amount of meat (Quarter/Half/Pound)and however many sides you wish (sizes of sides feed either 1 - 2 or 3 - 4 people.) There are sandwich options, but wanting to maximize the food I could taste, we went for the meat and pick the sides option. Ever the democratic group we each ordered a different meat and agreed to share with the table. I called chicken because there was no way I was sharing any crispy skin with anyone. Matt got the beef and Carol got the pork.

I'm very thankful for the glorious day and the opportunity to fully catch up with Carol, but my Lord did that food take forever. All the other tables that were seated after us were served before our plates finally arrived (considering the short menu list, I really don't get how we were last.)

Our first arrival was my chicken.

(Guess who finally remembered her real camera?)

I ripped all the skin off the thigh and stuffed it into my mouth. Herbs sang past my tonsils and down to the gullet. Smokey paprika and thyme partied hardy with the succulent juices dripped off the edges. I stabbed at the potato salad that was the special side of the day, creamy and studded with hard boiled eggs.

I'd also ordered one of the corn cakes. It was so lightly sweet, dressed in shiny honey butter and flecked with corn kernels. The texture was crumbly soft and surprisingly moist. It was like an early dessert that came to hang with the rest of the meal.

Matt's beef arrived next.

This wasn't an easy picture to snag - he wouldn't get his hands out of the shot, immediately shoving the fried yucca into his mouth. They were like a modified French Fry. Crispy on the outside, downy on the inside.

He'd also requested a little fried masa cake. We've been enjoying the fried masa goodness so much at Los Ocampos lately. It was toasted all around, but still soft and warm inside. The firey sauce that topped the masa crackled on my taste buds and punched his poor mother in the mouth, "It's not that hot," he lied.

The meat was smokey and zingy as well. It was tender, falling apart and dripped with sauce. Smokey in a Mexican flavored barbecue kind of a way. The creamy cilantro dipping sauce worked equally well for the fried yucca and my chicken.

Carol's pork arrived just after Matt's beef. She'd chosen yellow rice and beans as her side. The pork was husky and tender, incredibly moist. The rice and beans were sophistication and comfort, simplicity and brilliance. By tasting exactly like wonderful dense black beans and fluffy rice the flavor was what I always read the great chefs strive for - incredible simplicity raised to greatness because of the caliber of the ingredients.

My fork darted from beef to yucca to chicken over to the rice. I was eager to have more of each flavor, floored by the straight forward flavors and the gluttonous harmony they created. Building, racing, stretching until my stomach hit the crescendo like the height of A Day in the Life by the Beatles.

I picked away at my half eaten muffin. Sweet low final note. Satisfied and refreshed for my work afternoon we tried to flag down the waitress for the check. We wouldn't see her again for another 20 minutes and although Matt's iced tea was said to come with free refills, he never got a one.

Everything we found on the menu was sourced locally, from the butter to the meats. The freshness was apparent. Like the ability to taste the soil that encourages the grape in a great wine, each bite was Southern inspiration, but still reminded me of the wild woods smell of the forest where I grew up, the lapping waves and late night warm winds carrying loon calls. Everything tasted like home, but better.

Once we had finally settled up we'd been at the restaurant for over an hour. As much as I enjoyed the flavors, I think the service might have been a little better. It's not the sort of day that should be hurried, either. The bit of humidity softly brushed the back of our necks, while the occasional breeze eased the heat. It would have been a wonderful afternoon to sit back and enjoy all day, but not me. Oh, no. Unlike some people I know who are retired or on summer break, I've got a job to do. So, sadly, and eventually, I made it back to the office still humming.

Fresh From Your Grocer's Freezer Isle!

2008-06-25T07:21:00.000-07:00

Bulldog NE - we need to talk.

Okay, I know that things have settled into a nice pattern of business for you. The kids are pouring in on Fridays and Saturdays and you're getting a decent happy hour business from nearby workers. Maybe it's not necessary to try to tinker with good ol' bar food any more. I know that the original menu seemed to push the idea that straight up burgers and fries could be brought to new heights by tweaking ingredients and playing with expectations. And, boy, that was fun wasn't it?

But now, that crazy mustard spouting chef that started it all has been gone for a while and the new hot spot shine has worn to a comfortable glow. Why not just sit back and bask in the consistent business? I understand - innovation is hard work. You're exhausted. Here, have a seat. I get it, I feel you, but I need you to hear something.

When I order the black bean burger, I do not think that it's acceptable to give me Morning Star Farms® Spicy Black Bean Burger with a Sriracha mayo, a handful of sprouts and a mealy pink tomato. Why I expected that the vegetarian burger would be house made, I don't know. What says dining experience better than being served something that could be microwaved at home in under two minutes? Worse, I get the truffled tots which arrive with no truffle oil. So, basically I just got a meal that I could have made at home for about $1.95 and am being charged $10 plus tax and tip? Don't you think that's just a wee bit lazy, Dog? Yet, somehow, I can't entirely blame you because I'm the idiot that's still coming here after numerous mediocre visits.

And while I've got you here, that bacon you're putting on top of those burgers? Yeah, don't. No. Seriously, bacon should never taste like someone accidentally dumped an entire bottle of liquid smoke over it. I love bacon - bacon is love and you've ruined it for me! That's why I didn't order the usual Junk burger in the first place. That bacon tastes like plant processed burnt leather!

So, I'm gonna give it straight to you. Either get a real chef back into that kitchen or drop the act that this is a real restaurant anymore. It's a bar that serves bar food. Haul out the Heggie's pizzas and call it a day.

Nibbles at Salut

2008-06-24T12:16:00.000-07:00

Sunday arrived as unsure as the weather. It had been a weird weekend. Matt worked Friday and Saturday nights. I'd gotten to spend some really great time with Laura, but missed my usual partner in gross misdemeanors. Because we only had this one day to cram all our fun into, we couldn't figure out what to do.

One minute, it would be raining and gray outside, then the clouds would break and there was a glorious summer day. Soon, the wind would pick up, the sun would disappear and the fat droplets would explode on the sidewalk.

We eventually cleaned the house and made up errands to run - FUN. Stupid being a grown up and the stupid stuff to keep ones house from descending into hovel-like conditions.

Around 2:30 I decided we needed to capre some part of this diem before I had to return to cube life the next morning. I knew that the new Salut had opened up on Monday and figured that now was as good a time as any to scope it out.

The patio that had once been Sydney's faded '80's color was now surrounded by a tall wooden fence and populated with tables. They looked inviting, but there was the random rain thing to consider. We walked inside. The hostess and waitress guarding the podium had a very lengthy discussion on where to put us before sending us to a nice little table at the edge of the wall that opened up to the patio. It was wonderful to be able to enjoy the warm air.

There was a gaggle of servers lounging in the booth across from us. Reluctantly, they left their spot to get back to work. It must have been a slow afternoon.

We decided to order a small plate of the mussels and the pommes frites. They boldly advertise that they were elected the best fries in the cities. Well, we'd see about that!

More appetizing than the food menu is the drink menu. There were so many delicious sounding options. So, because it was a special Sunday and because this was the closest thing to a date I was going to get out of the weekend, I ordered a specialty drink. Our waitress, who was wonderful, quickly brought it over to me. It was fruity without being cloying and boozy without knocking me on my rear. It was Currant liquor and fresh juice and for the life of me, I can't remember the cutsie name given to it. We sipped out of our two straws, the adult version of a milkshake date.

The fries arrived with a frothy side of Bearnaise sauce. The mussels were steaming, wafting a luxurious roasted garlic and fennel perfume. They were tiny little guys and so succulent. Our waitress brought us more bread for the wine wine sauce at the bottom of the plate. Sadly, there was very little of it. Smearing the roasted garlic on the baguette helped ease my disappointment.

The fries were tasty and fresh. The Bearnaise was brightly acidic and lusciously downy from the butter. I wouldn't say that they are the absolute best fries in the cities (that has to be jP's) but I would say they are the best fries on Grand Avenue.

I'm thrilled that the new Salut is here. The bar space is much more open than the Minneapolis version and all that outdoor seating is going to be lovely in this warmer months. I've long lamented that there weren't any restaurants that I loved on Grand. What is there has always felt a little homogenised to me - even though, I know, most are not big chains and this restaurant is brought to us by the Parasole group. Still, it feels different and very right for this area. The prices are a little out of my dinner range, but so are a lot of things on Crocus Hill.

Just then the sky opened up again and all the poor suckers seated out on the patio got drenched. Ha! It's good to feel superior. I sipped by boat drink and hummed Foux du Fafa.

Sweet Summer Getaway

2008-06-18T07:00:00.000-07:00

The rains seem to have finally lessened and the sky opens up blue and bright these days. I think it's safe to say that Minnesota has finally reached summer, or at least the close approximation of warmer months here that pass from gorgeous, mosquito drenched to unbearable humidity. These past few days, though? It's been breathtaking. There are these cardinals that have been hanging out around my house and every morning I wake up to hear them calling to one another. I'm so thankful not to have to worry about warming up my car, or getting that squeaky windshield wiper replaced. I simply don my new Marc Jacobs sunglasses and glide outside. (Currently obsessed with these ridiculous glasses. I stalked them at Marshall's for about a month before the price finally dropped to something more reasonable than $120. Mwa ha!)

Despite the soaring gas prices, I can't just let that car of mine sit unattended in the garage, we had to take her out for the first no destination summer drive. I clenched my jaw and hummed my I'm-Getting-Away-With-Something tune (Doo, doo, doot, do dooo) and filled up the tank. It still cost slightly less than the sunglasses.

We had the top down, my tresses tamed by an old floral scarf and Matt's nose slathered in SPF 35. We took Hwy 55 out and eventually turned the car towards Red Wing. It was late afternoon and our stomachs started to rumble. Matt knew the perfect spot to go. He'd once been home on a summer afternoon watching the Food Network when he saw this place on a food destinations show. He's immediately gotten in the car to go investigate. We've been back a couple of times since and it is such great discovery.

What you do is drive through historic downtown Red Wing and take the Wisconsin turn. The minute you get over that bridge, hang a left (follow the bikers.) There's a sign for a Fireworks stand that has since relocated. You twist and turn down the short, swampy road and arrive at the Harbor Bar. It a decent dive inside, lots of space and rocking Aerosmith tunes, but outside is where the party is at.

There's a dock out back and it's right next to a camp ground, so the atmosphere is very come as you are. There are hammocks and hanging chairs for seating and a glorious view of downtown Red Wing, just across the river. Reggae music pulses through the air and soon you find yourself feeling down right irie.

I took a seat in a brightly painted chair while Matt bellied up to the bar to order us a couple of drinks. I looked to the big grill where there is usually a one legged Jamaican guy tending the meat. "What do you want?" Matt asked.

"Summer Shandy," I responded. I'd gone back to the Leinenkugel's brewery in Chippewa Falls in mid-May and found that they do make one variety of beer that I find tolerable. I thought it might be a nice summer drink.

"No, no, that's okay - that's okay - no - really..." I looked over at Matt who was waving his hands around. Standing up a bit, I was horrified to realize that the one legged man was actually the one tending bar. Here he was upended at the back of the bar, digging under boxes and boxes of beer cans to try to find my request. Matt finally convinced him that we'd be fine with two waters and came back to the table. I guiltily sipped from my plastic cup.

A waitress approached us with some menus. For me, there was no doubt what I would be ordering. With the mouth watering smells wafting off of the grill, how could I order anything but the jerk chicken? Matt got the steamed grouper, touted as a Jamaican specialty. When the waitress came back I requested a Blue Moon, since that was listed on the menu as a beer option. I wasn't going to puff a fattie, but felt that there needed to be some sort of imbibing to properly appreciate this summer locale.

She granted my request and I leaned back and put my feet up, soaking in the sun. Kids were running around, playing and the adults were leisurely sipping their afternoon drinks. Every so often the whirr of the blender would break the easy lull. Nothing like a long drive to a slow moving destination to allow for the proper appreciation of a summer afternoon.

Then, our food arrived:

I had a whole half a chicken doused in their Jerk sauce accompanied by red beans and rice and a cabbage side. Matt's grouper was covered in what he called a Jamaican Gihardinara. There were all matter of peppers, veggies and incredible flavor. It punched up the fairly boring slab of fish that lay beneath it.

My chicken was a wonderful combination of sweet, savory and spicy. The blackened skin sang from the earthy coals that it had crisped it into oblivion. The tender meat, slightly pinked tinged from the long, slow roast just fell off the bone. It would have been a little dry, were it not for the extra swab of Jerk slathered over the top.

While I can't go so far as to say it's the best jerk you can get around here (that honor goes to Toney at the Whistling Bird in of all places, Gilbert, MN.)

It was, however, the furthest I've ever gone after only having been in the car for around an hour. We talked about maybe, one of these days, taking a vacation down to the Florida Keys. We've never really gone on a real vacation, out of state, involving an airplane together. Maybe we could go to the Hemingway house and see the cats.

Knowing the likelihood of this happening, I starting musing, instead that we need more destination dining options. We have road tripped to the Monarch just for one of their fabulous burgers and would drive up and back to Duluth were it not for the fact that my family is there and I can't just dine and ditch. These gas prices are kind of difficult to manage, but who knows how many of these glorious sunny days that I'm going to get before either my convertible dies (it is a Volkswagen) or the weather craps out on me again?

Bellies full, fingers licked and sunscreen depleting, we climbed back into the car and pointed it Northeastern, we had some back country Wisconsin roads to traverse and only so much sun left in the day.

Sea Salt Eatery by Minnehaha Falls

2008-06-02T07:10:00.000-07:00

What a glorious weekend. The sun was shining, the temperatures finally felt like summer is a possibility and I got to spend some time with my favorite dining companion. Matt & I had not seen each other conscious for three days straight. I did get a nice, quick dinner at the Strip Club in last Tuesday, but that was about it for together time. Once Saturday rolled around I was just dying to see him smile at me.

We spent a lot of the day driving around in the convertible and beaming at each other. For dinner, we decided to give Sea Salt another try. We'd been there for lunch over Memorial Day weekend and it was nice, if crazy busy. The food had been good and the atmosphere couldn't be beat. That had been mid-day on a Friday, though. I was worried about attempting to find a table on a Saturday night on a gorgeous early summer day.

There was a long line snaking through the restaurant interior. Rolling Stone's Hot Rocks was blaring and a few ladies couldn't help but shake their hips to Jumpin' Jack Flash as they waited for their turn to order. We ordered a pitcher of Bell's Oberon, a crawfish po' boy, the crab roll (a special that night) and two oysters on the half shell.

Matt carried the beer as we set out to find a place to land. At the front of the building a man was setting up a mic and a guitar who soon broke into Neil Diamond cover songs. We wandered over to the side of the building where there were many tables with no chairs. Every available space was occupied by young families. The little kids were all so cute in their baby Tevas or Crocs. I pointed to a bench and suggested that we just hang out and watch for a table. One couple and their baby girl were just digging in to their food. I doubted that they'd linger, and hoped we'd get a table in time for our feast.

There was this long haired guy in front of us selling hammocks that looked suspiciously unsteady. "You want a seater or a layer?" he asked the guy that approached him. We watched as his wife convinced him to sit in the display model. He promptly freaked out as the guy helped wrap him in the flimsy material. "Wait, wait, feet first, don't fall dude." The guy was extracted, his wife barely containing her smile. She gestured for him to try the "layer." As he sat down is sank nearly to the ground.

"Man, does that look uncomfortable," I noted. His wife was openly laughing at him now. Needless to say, the poor hippie guy didn't close the deal.

There was a distant wail of storm sirens. "Oh, far out. Here comes the weather!" He smiled at us, "Drippity drop - drippity drop!" He began to disassemble his operation.

It was hard to believe that there was weater coming in. The skies were still bright and sunny and a slight breeze licked our bare toes.

The young couple had just finished their food and were packing up. I asked if they minded if we moved to their table, just as our food had arrived. I realized that the breeze had stopped. Maybe there was something to this rain business after all. I looked up over the pavilion. Brooding gray cloud chugged up behind it. We had to eat fast.

We dabbed the oysters with a little horseradish and a bit of their cocktail sauce and slurped them down. They were huge - way too big to just take in one bite, but that was just fine. They were tender and salty as the sea. The fresh taste was like no other oyster I've ever attempted to eat here in the Midwest.

I greedily dug into my po' boy. The roll was toasted on the grill, charred and crusty. The sweet, tender fried crawfish were splashed with a bit of hot sauce (I added a little more.) The spicy tang, mellowed against the crisp greens, juicy tomato and creamy mayo - the whole thing pounded out a little Zydeco in my mouth. I couldn't believe how much flavor those little bugs held even after being fried and competing against all those other flavors.

Matt's crab roll was good - but my sandwich was better. It was big enough for two, so we shared it. The shrimp remolade salad that I'd had on our other visit was also good - but just nothing compared to this po' boy.

The clouds were tumbling in as we finished the sandwich. We grabbed our pitcher and glasses and headed back to our bench as the storm broke. Fat raindrops exploded onto the washed out wood on the deck. Soon there were mud puddles and gushing streams of water pouring down from the gutters. It wasn't windy, so we were able to just sit there, sip our beers and enjoy the weather. A couple of little girls kept running up to the edge, splashing, getting their hair wet before squealing and running back to their mothers.

Soon, the clouds broke and the sun began shining. The rain didn't let up, though. There was a rainbow over the park and we were treated to a sun storm.

Eventually the clouds drifted away and the raindrops shrank in size before ceasing to fall. Trees shook remaining droplets onto the pavement. People spilled out of the shelter and danced in the early evening sunshine.

Sanctuary on Washington Avenue

2008-05-30T06:46:00.000-07:00

Eric's been raving about Sanctuary one of the new restaurants that has sprung up over by the new Guthrie. They have a tasting menu Monday through Thursdays for only $35 with the option of pairing it with a flight of wines for only $12. This sounded like a fantastic deal, so I agreed to meet him there last night.

Parking was kind of weird, but I found the lot behind the building was free, you just have to traverse a little mucky hill. The interior seemed a little weird, the exposed wood and brick makes it look old, but there were all of these contemporary touches. I think mostly it worked, but I wouldn't know because I couldn't stop staring at the gargoyle that welcomed me.

A nattily dressed gentleman eventually arrived with a flourish of warm conversation, "Welcome! Yes, I do have your reservation, would you prefer to wait at the bar or be seated? Right this way. I'll let Eric know where you are when he arrives." The reservations were under Eric's last name, so this guy remembered it from somewhere along the way. He was good. "I've saved you one of our little booths, these are recycled bishops chairs. We could seat you in the dining room, if you prefer, but I always think these are so much more private." They were very tall and wide chairs placed on either side of a small table. I thought it looked great. It's a tight spot, but the tall chairs make it feel like it's just the two of us - and of course the kitchen staff. We were right outside of the open kitchen. I ordered a glass of pinot noir and waited.

Eric wandered in from the back of the restaurant. "Where'd you come from?" He looked confused.

"I went through a door that said 'restroom' and ended up here."

"That's odd... kind of like Eric did it in the Conservatory with the lead pipe."

"Yeah... I don't quite know how I feel about that." He settled in and ordered some new/old cocktail that he's taken to ordering lately. Eric loves Campari (one of four individuals in the known world that does.) He read about it in Details magazine - the bible for the "in" metro dude.

We ordered the pre fixe meal that wasn't so much a tasting menu as what the chef wanted to make that day. I still remember my chef's menu at Corner Table as one of the greatest meals of my life.

Poor Scott. I never call. I never write. I haven't been in for far too long. I beg you to be my best friend and then I get so freaked out when you seem to have actually read what I said about the artistry of your food and I chickened out and never even said hi. I just hid behind my menu and delighted with food. Oh, Scott - my unrequited teenage love is left only to inspire sonnets and badly rhymed poems for your food. Don't go changin.

Sanctuary, is no Corner Table, but I digress. I was excited to see what food came out of the kitchen. The New American, Asian, Mediterranean fusion promise was confusing, but I just wanted to try some good food, with great ingredients, no definitions necessary.

Our first course was a taro chip taco. It was a fried slice of taro root topped with chipotle seasoned chicken, pea shoots and a slice of tomatillo covered in a wasabi creme fraiche. The chicken was very tasty, despite the bone that nearly choked me. I didn't care for the cream, but it's because I've come to terms with the fact that I don't enjoy wasabi. I know, it's a personal problem and I'm probably missing out on many delights because of this character flaw. The fume blanc that was supposed to be paired with it didn't arrive until after we had finished them. They were pretty small and impossible to eat with utensils or hands. I did my best to just shove the whole thing in and then chew carefully, seeking out other bones. It was delightful. The wine was good. It was served at a nice temperature, and would be lovely on a warm summers day.

The next course to arrive was the salad. We'd been warned that this course was the only one to be served without a wine pairing. That was fine because I had my little fume buddy to get me through. It was a pretty presentation. Eric described it as wind blown.

It was composed of little watercress, "pickled" apples, grape and white asparagus. There was some kind of tomato saffron vinegar over the whole thing. I was excited because I just had a salad the night before at home out of some fresh watercress that I'd picked up at Kowalski's and it was fabulous. And pickled apples! I love pickles. I love vinegar. I tossed it around together and took a heaping forkful into my mouth. One eye bulged, the other kind of sank, the tendons in my neck strained and the corners of my mouth pulled back in shocked horror. It was so bitter. The watercress was really, really bitter. The pickled apple didn't quite work for me, the asparagus was raw and the saffron dressing was in startling short supply. I might have been able to choke down more if there had been more of the familiar sour of vinegar present. Then I made the mistake of taking a sip of wine. The bitter bomb exploded through my palette like the A bomb of Acrid-topolis. Oh, God. I chugged some water. Now, even that tasted like dirty river water. Make it stop! Luckily, there was a wee bit left in the breadbasket. That was wonderful. Ciabatta and a edamame hummus saved me.

"Eat it with the grape. That makes it better." I rooted around in the bowl. There was one sliced in half grape. Cute. It didn't help. I did the whole round again and soothed the acrimonious flavor party back down with another swipe of this hummus concoction. I loved that. It also went well with the wine. The server noticed that I didn't finish my plate and asked if she could get me anything else. I just said that it's way too bitter for my palette. Somebody else tasted it and must have thought it was wonderful. That person just wasn't sitting in these bishop chairs.

The next course was a shrimp served under crispy egg roll wrappers and drizzled with a zesty ginger sauce. I almost toppled it before Eric reminded me to take a picture.

Trust me, it was so much more appealing to look at in person. After my fourth attempt to take this picture, Eric said he should bring his digital camera next time we go out. Yes, this would be extraordinarily helpful.

In stark contrast to our last course, this was out of the ballpark delicious. The spicy hot sauce over the crispy little strips all blended in sweet, sweet harmony with the lightly seasoned little shrimp at the bottom of the pile. I happily ate the whole thing, leaving not even a pea shoot or scrap of crispy yummy left. I was also delighted with the Toad Hollow Chardonnay paired with it. I'm not a big Chardonnay fan, but the oaky notes balanced ever so lightly over the heat of the dish.

Our concern was that there was the one and only shrimp and just two courses left to go. We were considering that a trip to Triple Rock for some of their kick ass bar food might be in order before the night was through.

Our beef course arrived next with a glass of Ravenswood Zinfandel.

The one piece of beef was cooked perfectly. Again, I blame me. I'd made some beef and lamb kabobs for dinner the night before and I'd miraculously cooked them to perfection - and I'd done the whole thing for relatively cheap. It was good, not great. The wine was fine. I'm not a big Ravenswood fan (and know how much a bottle goes for.) I was hoping it was some special vintage that made it way more interesting than the $8 from my local L.Q. I kinda doubt it, though.

I could see the concern in Eric's furrowed brow. He loves this restaurant and has been delighted by them in the past. This is the problem of my not being anywhere near professional or getting any cash for this gig. This was my one shot at eating there. Finally the dessert came.

Eggnog flavored ice cream. What a weird choice for spring. It was so heavy. The wine paired with it also wasn't really very sweet. It was a dry rose that neither of us enjoyed paired with dessert. The one strawberry was good. One. Sigh. Time to go.

I was too tired (from all the wine sipping) to make it to Triple Rock. I was able to salvage the night because my awesome bestie was with me. I love Eric. He's so gracious, caring and punny. Thank God his jokes are like fine wine, they get better as he ages. Still, he wasn't too mature to share in my delight of the new Flight of the Conchords CD or "Business Time." Ah, funny old marrieds that we are.

Then the check came. $125. $125! ... !!!!!!!!!!! Tired left quickly through the secret passage in the Hall. I checked the bill and it was entirely right. I can't believe I spent that much money on a meal when I've got bills, plans, vacations coming up. There have been some layoffs at my job, I'd like to have kids someday and my mother's not getting any younger! What the heck was I thinking? $35 seemed so reasonable. Tack on an extra glass of wine, that wine flight and Eric's stupid drink - $125! I'm an idiot.

So, again, broke, hungry and mildly annoyed I went home in the drizzling rain. I don't have any Tom Waits in the car, so instead I rolled home to Inner City Pressure.

What is this?

2008-05-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

What is this only blog on Thursdays bullshit? Hunh? You pull that crap on me? I take that French fry away from you, shove it up your nose and twist the salty stick 'til you go, Ick.

No blogging on Thursdays... fine. That's okay. Me and Liam, we gonna fry your Frenchie ass tomorrow.

Tha's right, man! You no fry with the Jesus!

This could also be called - Eric and I are going to Sanctuary tonight! Actual post available for your work avoidance pleasure tomorrow! Love and greasy kisses on your bowling balls!

This Gnome Ain't Too Happy

2008-05-15T13:18:00.000-07:00

After flaccid, disappointing wings and doughy, bland pizza we bailed on the Happy Gnome and headed to McGovern's where the clientele is mostly dude and what wasn't dudely was mostly blond, except at the roots.

We started out in search of a patio. Matt suggested the CC Club, which I do agree, has the best patio in the Cities. But I was hoping for something above bar food. I suggested Il Vesco Vino where Jimbo told me the small plates are wonderful. There is also W.A. Frost, the most beautiful patio in the metro. I've been wanting to try their food again now that Russell Klein has moved on. Matt countered with McGovern's. This wasn't at all in line with my request that we avoid bar food. Moscow on the Hill? I added that I would not go to Sweeny's. That place breeds assholes the way a barnyard cat births shelter dwellers.

I grudgingly agreed to go to the Happy Gnome. While they do have a nice patio, the food leaves me empty and bitter.

We arrived, top down, enjoying the harmonious assurances from Flight of the Conchords that we were the prettiest girl in the room. Anxious and hungry we made our way through the front door, the restaurant and outside again.

As soon as our waitress arrived I ordered the Summit Scandia. It arrived in a sunny, happy little glass. I love the spicy hints of cardamom. It was delicious. We ordered a starter of wings while perusing the menu. I was happy to see that they have added a bar menu. For just a little moment, I allowed myself to hope that maybe, maybe this time the food would be good. That was about the time that our wings arrived.

Notice the alluring pool of grease. I'm not even sure where that came from. The wings that were described as "braised" tasted more like "boiled" with a sticky sweet sauce over them. Although they were cooked thoroughly, the skin had the unmistakable texture of being raw. I'm still wanted to scrape that sensory memory off of my tongue. They were inedible. I'd never until this day met a chicken wing I didn't like.

Because we're gluttons for punishment (and starving) we also ordered the chorizo pizza. It took a while to come. I tried to take in the scenery as well as the other patrons. I didn't see anyone enjoying their food. A plate of fries was ignored and half a sandwich lay abandoned.

When our pizza did come, the "chorizo" wasn't very spicy or flavorful and the crust was just barely cooked - it was warm and crispy, but still gooey in the middle. The tomato sauce tasted like fresh crushed tomatoes, and paired nicely with the basil they added. There was a combination of Parmesan and fresh mozzarella cheese on top. It was not great, but not absolutely terrible.

Still, we were hungry and I was ready to bolt. After landing safely at McGovern's we ordered a (super cheap) plate of wings with a side of ranch. We filled up on fries and I sat back sunning on their lovely patio.

Next time somebody brings up that Happy Gnome, just knock me unconscious until it's over. Please?

My Morning

2008-05-14T07:41:00.000-07:00

It was surprisingly easy to pull myself out of bed this morning. I crashed pretty early, snuggling in with my cuddly husband. I fell asleep quickly.

I went about my usual morning routine of making coffee, kicking the cat, trying to tame my hair into a presentable shape (really need to get a haircut.) I'd make a lovely little fried egg from the eggs that I got from Bar 5 Farms at the St. Paul Farmer's Market this weekend. I grabbed my New French sourdough toast and headed to the couch, where it's my custom to watch about five semi-tolerable minutes of the Today Show. I got to the coffee table and found this:

The note says:

For the Record

I don't know nothing about no Jimmy John's. It was an accident. One minute I'm chillin on the couch and the next there's a man on the porch with a big sandwich. What was a supposed to do?

Worst Lunch Ever

2008-05-09T14:28:00.000-07:00

A few of my friends and I have decided to wage our own Biggest Loser type competition to slim down a bit for our dear friend Aisha's upcoming wedding. I'm in it to win it and would like to brag that I did win our first week. I already know I fit into my bridesmaid dress, I just want the cash prizes.

It's going to be tough, though. For one thing - dieting sucks big time. "Oh... well, you know? I could have the fried chicken from Rooster's, but instead I think I'm just going to suck on this frozen cup of coffee. Yeah, that'll be real satisfying."

Currently, I'm starving. It might be because I haven't drank my Weight Watchers recommend seventeen cups of water today, or maybe it's because I've been eating like Karen Carpenter for the last week.

Andy's been helping me with some negative response therapy. She sent me this website. Click on the N word for Next. Or maybe it's German for Nausea, I can't tell. It brought me to this picture, which I happily share with you now. Please refer back whenever you have the ridiculous idea to shun actual food for something that arrives in a shelf stable tin.

Wurst is right.

Fun at the Onion

2008-05-08T07:48:00.000-07:00

First, I'd like to say you're welcome for another stunning example of my photographic prowess.

Yesterday was so achingly beautiful that I just couldn't stand to stay home and watch the paint dry. On a whim, I'd driven in to work and the minute the clock ticked five, I dashed downstairs, hopped in my buggy and threw back the top. There was still that sting of spring air, but the warm sun washed over me and seeped into my black hoodie sweatshirt. I put the Scissor Sister's Ta Dah into the CD player and cranked it. I didn't care who saw me. I sang and car danced all the way home, imaging that I was some vampy queen kissing a bad loverboy off. (I get dramatic if I've been out of the sun too long.)

Despite what I usually consider a decent cadre of friends, I couldn't find a single taker for some patio happy hour action. I cooled my heels at Skinner's where Matt was working.

"He sure does have a nice tie on," the guy next to me said. I looked at the brown strip of fabric sporting a dapper gentleman and a model T hanging around my husband's neck.

"That depends on your definition of 'nice'."

I held my cell phone in my hand trying to patiently wait for Laura's promised call. Finally, she rang. She was on her way to St. Paul and would be meeting Bobby-Wiz at the Wild Onion. She invited me along. I was thrilled to have somewhere to go, but the Wild Onion? Really? I hadn't been there since my friend Rachel turned 24 and we took her there because if you bring five friends, the birthday person drinks for free. (This was a stupid idea because Rachel doesn't drink. I ended up trying to get her to order fruity booze mixtures and then slip them to me.)

When we walked in the place I was struck by an unpleasant odor. It was humid and a little vomit-ey. The place hadn't changed a bit, but this time instead of there being lots of poppy rap, there was some kind of Cities 97 on Quaaludes music. The clientele was different, too. There were the early signs of wrinkles and some bald patches. "See? I told you these people were your age," Laura said. "It smells like puke in here. Want to sit at the bar?"

We ambled up and quickly ordered drinks. I was famished and we fawned over the menu.

"What!? Onion rings? Okay!" said Laura. I was hungrier than that and we collectively drooled over the appetizer list. We settled on the Southwestern Springrolls with avocado ranch sauce. I haven't done a proper happy hour with seriously fried near-food in ages.

Laura thought she spotted Bobby. He was with a group of people wearing running club T-shirts. Why would you run and then go drinking? What an odd thing to do. She and I were both leaning over far to our left trying to get a view of Would-Be Bobby. He had the right back of the head. He turned just a little bit towards us. "It looks like the right side burn length," I noted. Yep, it was him.

We sat back upright and sipped our drinks. Well, we weren't going to just go racing over there. He was with a bunch of runners and I didn't feel like crashing that kind of party.

Our fried crispy fun food arrived. Exactly, as promised they were wonton wrappers stuffed with black beans, corn and spicy chicken. In the center of the dish was the real star - lettuce dressed in a zippy chipotle dressed. We moved aside the fried tortilla wedges and fork sparred to get at the little creamy ribbons of greens. The wontons themselves were good, too. There was just a little bit of heat, and then the pale green ranch and silken avocado pairing was just wonderful. I shoved a couple into my mouth with ample dressing. Calories be damned I want to live!

We saw Bobby outside sneaking a cigarette with one of his running companions (I do not get this group at all.) Laura sent him a text message, something along the lines of, "I know what you're doing. I thought you had quit." We watched him take a lazy drag, pull up his cell phone and start at the screen. He looked all around him before spotting us inside, waving at him. Spying is fun.

He and his friend came inside and he introduced her as Tricia She had long, thick red hair and a smiling pretty face. Within moments of meeting we had covered what we do for a living, this little writing outlet of mine, where we went to college and why I should join the running team. I insisted that I do not run, even if it does result in a free t-shirt and pasta dinner at the Wild Onion.

Laura touched my arm with her drink, "You can do what I do. I don't run. I plod."

Soon we were joined by Mike and his friend Kelsey. Laura reminded me that I'd met Mike one night at the Loop. "Oh yeah," I said. "You ordered the pizza." He cocked his head and squinted. "I remember people by their food.... Uh.. yeah. Can I get another drink when you have a moment?"

Laura and Bobby mentioned how they expected some bumpin' music on the dance floor. We looked over, a lonely splay of purple lights listlessly circling the empty wooden floor.

I was shocked to learn that not only had Trisha heard of Skinner's, she'd been there before! I said, "I love it there! The hot bartender is my husband!"

"The one with the glasses? Wears the ties?"

"Yes! Let's go! Bobby? Skinners?"

"Sure, okay."

"You guys in?" Everyone agreed and we left the bar. I told Laura I was sick of the puke smell, but the truth is that, I'd grown accustomed to it. I really liked the fried food, though. I remember seeing people sitting outside sipping Bloody Marys in the summer. I might need to give it another try.

But our night was far from complete. We gathered down the hill at my favorite cheap watering hole, piled up on drinks and went out to the back patio. We traded jokes (none of us are capable of telling a decent joke. I even repeated one of my punchlines twice in case it got funnier. It didn't.)

The drinks kept flowing and the edges of the night soon blurred together. It was like a waltzing bunch of laughter, snippets and wafting cigarette smoke.

"Oh, sure a firecrotch!" Tricia declared.

"What do you mean... those aren't real glasses? You don't need to wear glasses?" We peered at Mike, seated behind his hip rectangular brown frames, sly smile on his face.

"I got a text from Crocheron!" Laura laughed and held up her pink Razr.

Bobby and I shouted at each other in our best Tim Curry English lilts, "And monkeys brains, so popular in Cantonese cuisine are not often to be found in Washington D.C."

It was near midnight when finally I had to give them a raspy, Uncle. I have to work tomorrow... I should go... Everyone's drinks were low and the night air had turned frigid.

We said our reluctant goodbyes and parted ways. I chugged a bunch of water back at the cottage and fell into a happy sleep. And despite it all, I virtually bounded out of bed this morning and have hardly been able to stop smiling since. It was one of those rare, weird nights that only seem to come around when the sun dips nearer and the trees have sprouted their green tippy tops. It's springtime alright. Let the festivities begin.

Fogo de Chao in Downtown Minneapolis

2008-05-02T06:47:00.000-07:00

(Tiny picture courtesy their website.)

I was invited to go to lunch with a few colleagues last week and they suggested Fogo de Chao. I'll admit that I've been avoiding this place, but still been curious. On the one hand, grown foreign men in flouncy pants, on the other, endless meat parade. I knew if I waited long enough, chances were that I'd end up there on somebody elses dime.

While walking over there, the one person that had been there before, the diminutive Amie warned us of what she called a "meat coma." They are serious about the all you can eat meat, and it's easy to too quickly get over served. (Sounds like late night happy hour at Liquor Lyle's.)

The room is impressive, although something about it still reminded me of the long gone Copeland's. The same color palate of shiny, maroon and slick panels. The room has gone through a major change, though. What was once all sectioned off is now almost cavernous open space. There were glinting wine bottles everywhere and the salad bar was huge.

Our server approached and explained how the whole thing worked. There was what looked like a coaster in front of us. Green means, bring me more food, red means I'm verging on the meat coma. The gauchos would leave us alone if the card was red. Before we were to embark on our skewered meat Odyssey, we were invited to visit the salad bar.

These guys are clever. This was without question, the most handsomely stocked salad bar that I have ever approached. While the restaurant appears to be a carnivore's gluttonous paradise, the salad bar is an omnivores dream. All sorts of greens, cheeses, cured meats and veggies. There were carrots, cabbage, tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, sun dried tomatoes and cucumbers. There was spinach, Romain, mixed spring greens and basil. There was prosciutto, sopresseta and genoa. Roasted peppers, marinated peppers, pepperoncini and a jalapeno and cilantro type chimichurri (which was delicious.) Parmesan, gouda and some brie. I mean, these guys had EVERYTHING. I decided to heck with the meat and loaded up a bunch of healthy greens.

The wine list was respectable and there were a few familiar bottles. I suggested to a friend who wasn't certain what to order to go with the Chateaux St. Michelle. It's a respectable, cheap little glass - a great pick for someone who likes wine, but isn't yet the obsessive Surdyk's stalker (or card carrying Wine Thief fan club member. I got a Coppola Cabernet - respectable, as well. $12 for a glass, but a pretty fine specimen.

Soon our salad plates were being cleared. I was the last to finish and could feel the meat hungry eyes on me as I delicately cut up my final sun dried tomato (so sweet, chewy and luscious!) The moment I laid my fork to rest, the plate was gone, replaced with a clean, new one.

Next, the onslaught began. It was almost 1-2-3 GO! And we flipped over our cards like the opening move in Speed. Swarthy men appeared from every corner in the room. It was like a carousel ride of meats. "Sausage and chicken?"

"Um, yes?"

"Which one would you like?"

"Oh, chicken, please?" He slid a piece off, accidentally brushing my boob in the process.

"Lamb chops?" Asked another. They were teeny little chops and looked a little dry. I think everyone at the table was averse to lamb because there weren't any takers.

More men, more skewers and I soon completely lost all track of what I was even being offered. I just know that soon I had a plate full of various slices of meat, I'd yet to see anything bacon wrapped, which I was told was the best cut, and my boob has never been so involved in a meal. I turned my card back over and wondered what the Portuguese equivalent of Uncle would be. No more than five minutes had passed and we'd been virtually swarmed by gauchos, meat, swords and husky voiced accents. It's the restaurant equivalent to a walk on role in the Princess Bride.

I sliced into each of the meat pieces. The little grilled chicken drummy was surprisingly tender and moist. It was really good, and my favorite piece of meat. I had a top round that was tender, lovingly rosy in the middle with a crispy fire char crust along the edge. It virtually melted in my mouth. The pork rib was an unfortunate cut. I think I got the end one because it was too rubbery with fat for me to cut any edible slice of meat off the bone. It might have tasted wonderfully, but I got frustrated and gave up on it. More meat for the meat eaters!

Before diving back into that pool, I tried the sides that they'd placed before us. The garlic mashed potatoes were under seasoned and had no trace of garlic flavor in them. They were just straight forward, nothing special, needing salt mashed potatoes. My grandma's were identical (grandma of the brown lacy eggs are a good thing side of the family.)

The fried polenta was equally unremarkable, fried polenta. It was fine. I realized the sides were to be ignored because this was all about the meat. MEAT GAUCHO! I flipped over my card.

There was a slice of some chewy part of beef, I missed what he said it was. I passed on the lamb again, took another accidental elbow and finally the bacon wrapped filet minion arrived. I was looked for the chicken guy, while batting away the chewy piece meat guy that either came back too soon, or another hunk was already sent from the kitchen. I couldn't even look at their faces, it was just a constant churning of meat being presented to me. (Not unlike the happy hour at Liquor Lyle's...) This time I accepted the sausage.

The card went back over. "Well, I'm done!" declared Amie. I was near there. I tasted my final plate.

The tough looking piece was exactly what I expected. It was from a working part of the animal and it was really dry and chewy. Cooked low and slow, it probably would have benefited and had a delightful, brisket flavor. It was just done too quickly. The fillet was a little bland. I think too often fillet minion is just cooked, served and people are charged too much for it. There's so little fat in the cut, that it requires a little attention, a little love to coax the beguiling flavors from it. The bacon was fine. I don't think it was the best thing. The little sausage had a nice snap and the clear juices roiled out from the inside. It was mildly spicy, with that lovely wood fire flavor. It would have been wonderful for breakfast with gently cooked eggs over easy by a campfire.

I was done. There wasn't so much of a sense of meat coma coming over me, than a heavy gutted, why did I eat so much red meat feeling? Now, I can usually sock away a steak. In my family, it was a dishonor to eat a t-bone and not completely pick the bone clean. Still, it was all so much and so fast! And what was up with the boob thing? Was I sitting at a wrong angle? I'm almost positive it wasn't intentional.

To my shock, everyone ordered desert. I tried to convince myself to at least try the Tres Leches cake, and consoled myself that I could box most of it and bring it home, but I just couldn't. Not another piece of food was making its way past these lips. Instead I ordered the Italian coffee, coffee with Amaretto and whipped cream. I reasoned that the coffee and booze would act as a digestive.

The desserts looked wonderful. Maggie let me have a bite of her cheesecake and it was divine. April's creme brulee looked perfectly done. The crust a nice, even brown and the custard inside smooth and light.

I hadn't wanted to go, but I'm glad I finally did. It was fun and I got a couple of cheap thrills by way of the men with meats. Is it the best steakhouse in the cities? I'm not sure I'd go that far. It's a lot easier to have an entertaining, good steak dinner there than over at Murray's, but I've had better steaks elsewhere in town. It is definitely a great place to go for dinner and a show. Just be prepared to sleep it off somewhere safe, and know that there is a small chance you might regret it all in the morning.

Taste of Thailand Downtown Minneapolis

2008-04-30T07:00:00.001-07:00

Who's got two thumbs and likes to party? This guy!
(Notice, how every picture I have of him involves a beverage.)

My occasional drinking buddy and often time cancel-er of the fun plans ditched out on me for drinks tonight. He's got to go watch his nieces dance in their recital. What single, bass fishin', basketball playin', Financial type dude does that? Well, he has been with his lovely girlfriend Heidi for quite some time now. She keeps him honest and was the one who helpfully reminded him that he'd committed to being in two places at one time.

To make up for it, he offered to bribe me with free lunch. I should have suggested Vincent, but instead offered up Taste of Thailand. I've been there a few times for lunch before and the food was always yummy. The problem is the service is so bad, it's kind of comical. This visit was no exception.

We arrived at about the same time and were promptly seated. I ordered a Thai iced coffee and he a Diet Coke. We hadn't seen each other for a while and had a lot of catching up to do (and I was mercilessly teasing him about canceling the happy hour.) The waitress came back three times to take our order, but we were too busy gabbing to decide. She brought me back a Thai Iced tea, which was not what I wanted, but I figured - coffee/tea, not a big difference. Suck it up and drink it. It was really watered down and soupy. Not as good as the times I've ordered it previously. Oh, well.

Kro ordered a simple stir fry, veggies and chicken. I ordered number 44, the shrimp in curry sauce on a bed of lettuce. About 10 minutes later Jim's Diet Coke finally showed up. This is when the two server girls seemed to completely lose control of the room. A plate of food came out and was placed at the large table next to us. Then, another. Then they both disappeared into the kitchen. The entire time we were there, I only saw these two young, punkish girls working the entire place, which was pretty full for lunch. Eventually, another plate came out to the big table. I noticed that what they were bringing out to the big table were not appetizers, but entrees.

By now, I'm about ready to gnaw my arm off. I hadn't had much for breakfast and our catching up time had really screwed up our ordering. I need to remember - order first, talk later! When our food did show up, I couldn't believe what I got. It was, in all fairness, exactly what I ordered. 7 shrimps, in curry sauce, on four pieces of wilted iceberg lettuce. I don't know what I was expecting. I guess, for the $12.90 the dish was priced out at, I thought that there'd at least be a bell pepper or something to punch up the food factor. They set down one small ramekin of rice and practically ran away. Jim looked from me to the rice to my plate to the rice again. "Is that supposed to be for you or for me? Because... I could really use more rice than that."

The one girl came out and put down another plate of food at the big table, while I was waving at her. The guy at the end of the table looked at her mournfully. He was the only person who had yet to get any food. About half the people were already done with their lunches. I felt bad for him as the waitress promised she'd get his food and disappeared again.

I went back to eating my shrimps. The stomach growled and rolled over. Jim skewered a broccoli floret and tried not to watch. His abundant bowl just sat there, mocking me.

Eventually, I was able to get us another little bowl of rice and had enough rice to make the growling stop. The tab had been brought to us shortly after our food was laid down, but we'd again been talking too much and missed our opportunity to pay.

When we approached the front of the restaurant, I was wondering why this large group of people was staring at the blank plasma TV on the wall. It was actually that they were mobbing the one poor waitress trying to work the credit card machine. It was like something out of a George Romero movie. I'd already seen one guy just walk out of the restaurant. Another angry customer was waving his bill around, "Could you please just take this? We really have to go. Wait - here's cash."

"That probably won't be any faster. We don't have any change." She took his bill and credit card.

I nudged Jimbo, "You know... We could probably just go..." Honest Abe looked at me. My heart rate picked up. "They'd never know.... We could be at Cold Stone Creamery drowning our despair..." He scowled at me, but I could tell he was considering it. I have only once in my life dined and ditched and it took me about 3 years to get over the guilt. Still, the thrill trickled down the back of my neck. Just then, the other girl popped out of the kitchen and took his card. Dammit!

I watched the guy who was the last to get served at the big table. He was standing at the back of their group, holding a large Styrofoam container. I think I saw a tear in the corner of his eye.

She came back with the check. "So, how was everything?"

Jim said, "Fine."

I said, "You know, I think $12.90 for seven shrimp on a piece of iceberg lettuce seems a bit much. I know you don't have anything to do with that but..."

"Yeah, I'd never served served that before... It looked a little deflated." Jim's pen hovered over the tip line as she stared him down.

"You guys sure seemed busy." I offered.

"Yeah, we really need to get someone else in here. Your service was a little... slow?"

"Yeah, we really have to get back." She was intently watching Jim and sort of leaning over toward him. His hand shook as he finally scribbled down a number and ran out the door.

I was laughing as I caught up with him, "You have to appreciate her tipping technique."

He's so far told at least 7 people about this experience. And, with that giant pissed off mob from table 9, I wonder how much longer this place can limp along? I predict that by the end of the year they'll be forced to close. I would like to think they'll get it together, but there have been problems every single time I've dined there. Oh, well, there's always sword wielding Brazilians next door, happy to serve you.

(Up next, I eat at Fogo de Chao. Will I over load at the salad bar and be too comatose to appreciate the mounds of red meat? Will my trademark clumsiness lead me to being impaled by the Prime Rib server? Can I get through the meal without laughing at the puffy pants? Stay tuned...)

Greatest Lunch of the Year

2008-04-24T07:24:00.000-07:00

It's really a crime that I had to work at all yesterday. I haven't even gotten the convertible out for a proper tool around town! Still, dedicated employee that I am, I toiled away at copying competitive ads for a good 8 hours straight. At noon I bounded out the front doors into the glorious sun. I was actually a little warm and wished I hadn't worn my black t-shirt, but instead chosen something a little splashy - a sassy raspberry top with puffy sleeves, or that blouse that looks like Cinco de Mayo threw up on it.

I hiked out of downtown and over to Nordeast where Surdyk's was waiting for me. I picked up some green grapes, Levain bread from Rustica and a French imported brie. I hiked back to a little spot over looking the Mississippi and unwrapped my feast. The luscious brie was oozing over the waxed paper. I the crusty bread exploded as I tore an end hunk off. I dug it into the soft cheese and popped it into my mouth. The slight sourdough tang of the bread melted into the creamy cheese. I followed that with a super sweet grape that burst into my mouth and coaxed just a little more flavor out of the cheese.

Below I watched a Coot and a couple of Woodducks navigate the debris hung up in the fast current. The only thing I was missing to make this the perfect midday meal was that split of champagne.

jP's American Bistro

2008-04-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

Remember that thing I said about maybe not moving back to the Minneapple? I think I must have still be drunk from the Mt. Gay tonics, because I went back to Uptown and all I can say is, "Baby! I have missed you." While all my complaints about the traffic and the people volume still stands, it's still true, that no where else feels so much like home in these fair cities. The neighborhood we're in now is safe and thankfully close to Jay's and the Strip Club, but it's not Uptown. There are no facial piercings or Lake of the Isles. There is a shortage of hippies and an over abundance of 4 wheel drive vehicles.

It's a great 'hood - it just doesn't quite fit. Maybe it's just too close to my hometown that I fled after high school. (Because they can't hold me back, man! No one here gets me. I'm outta heeeeere.)

After work on Friday, I hopped the number 4 and headed down Lyndale. I couldn't get over how nice the bus driver was. The seats were comfortable and graffiti free... No one was loudly discussing how that M*tha Effa was gonna get - whatever. It was quiet. It bore no resemblance to my usual bus ride home. There was, however, snarled traffic as we approached Lake Street. It seems as though this construction has been dragging on for eons. The last three blocks could have been walked twice as fast as they were driven.

I happily bounded off the bus and into the lemony exterior that houses jP's American Bistro. Matt grinned at me from the end of the bar and hugged me. The woman next to my stool happily scooted over and welcomed me. Everyone was incredibly friendly and warm. The Merlot covered walls were studded with these gorgeous Impressionistic style paintings. My favorite was one with a sprightly little chickadee. Chickadees remind me of my mom for some reason.

Wise husband that he is, Matt had taken the liberty of ordering their frites. Moments after I ordered my glass of wine a paper cone filled with autumnal colored stips of fried potatoes arrived with a little cup of creamy aioli. The first one I grabbed was about the length of my forearm. I slathered it in garlicky mayo and bit in. I chewed slowly trying to identify that oh, so familiar and sumptuous flavor. Bacon! They tasted faintly... bacony! Incredible. I grabbed another one.

"You know what these taste like?" Matt studied the cone's contents.

"Bacon!" my guttural response as I tried to breathe through my full mouth in a vain attempt to cool them down. Way more than the bacon ketchup at the Strip Club, the flavor combination of the smokey paprika that covered the fries and the abundantly garlicky, eggy, tinged with barely noticeable acid all married together into that whiff of that first dechiperable thing on a Sunday morning. That which draws you from a comfortable slumber that could easily last all day. The memory of mom in her worn robe bending over, Grandma shuffling by or Dad in his saggy whites.

At Matt suggestion, I had ordered the Pinot Noir. Its light berry flavor melded perfectly with the lusty flavors from the fries. The best part about fries at this hour is that they're on the happy hour menu. I ventured a look outside. The spring gray skies hung low over the orange construction barriers and equipment. It's sad to think that patio won't be open any time soon. My gaze moved across the street to the Herkimer. I cursed my small minded stupidity. I've been meaning to get to jP's since they opened. The website now proudly announces they've been here for five years. Five years! Five years! Where have I been wasting my money in all that time? How many times have I sat down inside Herkimer only to be underwhelmed by the food, occasionally satisfied and always desperately trying to remember which beer was the one I hated, but always accidentally ordered. (It's either the brown or the red one.)

All the while, there is this gem with the gorgeous dining room and lovely bar. Friday night, we were sticking to the bar and trying to limit the funds spent. I was throwing a party Sunday for a dear friend of mine, and really wanted to conserve for that. After both digging into an empty paper cup, and furtively licking off salty fingertips we figured we'd better order something else. Even I cannot subsist on French Fries alone.

While we were studying the menu my eye caught the zippy bartender. He was constantly on the move - shaking, delivering, pouring, laughing. He was showily preparing a cocktail for the couple next to us. "This is amazing - you'll love this. I've muddled fresh blueberries, raspberries and strawberries with some mint and a simple syrup." He popped the glass pint glass into the metal base and began shaking vigorously. "Then I added plenty of white rum." He cracked the seal and poured most of the contents into a martini glass and the rest into a low ball. He garnished with mint sprigs. "Here you go." He gave them the martini glass, but slipped us the lowball as he was walking by. I couldn't believe my luck. Complimentary tasting cocktail! Okay! He was right, it was delicious. The berries tasted so fresh, and it wasn't overly minty or overly sweet. I could taste the Bacardi, but just subtly. The entire thing was a sublime summer concoction. I glanced longingly at the street again, vowing the minute the weather turns warm and that construction is gone, I'm setting up residence on their sidewalk.

Another table had ordered the berry mojito and another lowball glass appeared before us. I love this guy! We might have to get him and Dan, my other favorite bartender (well - besides Matt of course) into some kind of a cocktail toss off or something. That turn of phrase doesn't quite work the way I meant it to.

We had ordered jP's rustic pizza with more bacon (because, really, why not) and a cashew currant pesto. Next, I saw the bartender, who I think I caught his name as Jason (either that or Joel), dipping in to what I recognized as a pickle juice jar. I know because my sister and me being pickle fiends, there are often empty jars with mysterious ingredients still floating around in our fridges. Now, a martini glass was placed before us. "This is a sweet and sour martini with Hendrick's gin and just a bit of habinero pickle juice." I think I actually squealed with the delight. The smooth martini taste gave way to the conifer, floral taste of the Hendrick's quickly followed by a soft punch to the back of the palate from the vinegar pepper juice. It was hot, but it was so good. All the ingredients blended softened then sharpened against one another. It wasn't too spicy and nothing was out of balance. I couldn't believe my luck that he was sharing all these treats with us. I wonder if they're about to roll out a new spring cocktail menu or something?

Just then our little pizza arrived. It was happily misshapen and crusty. I took another sip of my martini and dug in. The flavors hummed and then crescendo'ed like a well rehearsed symphony of flavors in my mouth. The low, drumming creaminess of the cooked cashews, the salty, spiked picollo of bacon, the sweet trumpets of pesto and the cymbal crash explosion of each sweet little currant exploding in my mouth. Would it have not been so embarrassing, I would have popped out of my seat into a standing ovation. Bravissimo!

All of this during a busy happy hour and only two tiny courses! Amazing! And yet, the room was so relaxed and comfortable. I could hear the servers asking people if they needed to make it to the show and then swiftly moving along their meals to make the 8 o'clock curtain at the Jungle Theater next door.

I propped myself up on the bar, placing feet on the base of my bar stool and peered into the dining room. Oo, it looked nice. Soft, Meyer lemon lighting and glinting accents. I wanted to go in there. Sadly, we were at the end of the budget. I felt guilty about not paying for more drinks. I vowed we'd be back. It was a promise I had to make myself, before my feet would agree to lead me back outside. I smiled at the chickadee and threw on my jacket before allowing Matt to lead me back.

An Evening with Nellie and Gnocci at The Dakota

2008-04-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

My dear Andy - Queen Drrty Martini, went out and had an amazing night at the Dakota and wanted to share:

My turn! I’m finally asking to be a guest blogger for Eating the Minneapple after accompanying Joy on many an adventure…but rarely venturing out on my own for a newsworthy evening of epicurean delight. Last evening, I wasn’t on my own but asked our friend, Eric, if he cared to take in a show by Nellie McKay at The Dakota - the opener of her three-night engagement in Minneapolis. Eric and I have a history of sharing music. We go back farther than many in our group of comrades, somewhat unbeknownst to even ourselves. Only looking back through old pictures from 1993-1995 is it verifiable in concrete evidence that the flashbacks I have of seeing him as a fellow 10th grader in All-State Choir are, indeed, flashbacks and not hallucinations. Then, we (re-)met again in college and sang together in the concert choir (sigh…we’ll always have Europe). I can recall him accompanying me as I feebly sang “The Phantom of the Opera” in a dorm’s common room, now to only be somewhat reenacted when I have too much wine and make him accompany me on “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered,” a much more pleasant song with which to assault on-listeners.

Back to the point. When attending a Holly Cole concert last month, it was brought to my attention that Nellie McKay was to be gracing the Minneapple with her presence. Excellent! I’d stumbled upon her on a tribute to the 40th Anniversary of the Beatles’ “Rubber Sole,” and have since been delighted by her chanteuse-meets-Broadway style and sound. Even more importantly, though, I was looking to apologize to my palate as I’d shirked eating any food at the Holly Cole concert due to a Diet Night during which I balefully watched plates of appetizers, entrees, and desserts walk past me to other, more deserving (or less stupid) people. Tonight, with Nellie and Eric, I would eat, drink, and be merry.

The Dakota had opened up its entire space for the evening, unlike when we were squished into only half of it for the intimate performance by Holly Cole. I was only able to get us seats in one of the booths near the back of the lower dining room, but we found that they were preferable to the closer-up, but closer-together, tables. We were able to sit back and relax without having to make sure our skewed chairs (for better sight-lines) didn’t make our outer shoulder the next big obstacle for the parade of servers and their steaming dishes. Instead, we only had to worry about getting there before our anonymous booth-buddies in order to get the half of the booth that faces the stage. The unfortunate aspect of going as a twosome to a concert at The Dakota is that if the only tables available are for four, you may find yourself sitting with strangers, which may or may not be savory conditions under which to eat, drink, and be merry. I was hoping that we might end up with a twosome that involved at least one straight, attractive man who likes jazz and food. I can’t complain about how it turned out - our boothmates were no-shows. We had the whole place to ourselves and spread out as our bounty arrived.

The drinks. I’d already perused the drink list while waiting for Eric who was only slightly later than me due to the fact that he scored rock-star parking at a free meter just outside the club. The Minnesota Martini with its Shakers and Alexis Bailley looked delicious, but how could I remain Queen Drrty Martini if I didn’t try one here as well? I ordered mine with Grey Goose (I’ve decided that Ketel One makes them too bitter) and Eric ordered a pomegranate martini which, upon tasting with its sugared rim, was a nice blend of sweet and sour but made me feel slightly sticky the remainder of the evening. The Drrty Martini was fantastic--not too briny or vodka-y--but had only two, empty Spanish olives for garnish. Maybe the ones with pimentos were too expensive, mine were just sad. As we waited for our drinks we studied the menu. It was time for some small dishes and we zeroed in on what we both seemed to be hankering. The server appeared with our drinks and I piped up,

“We’ll take the gnocci...and the fries with béarnaise.”

The server never even flinched but repeated as any good Kindergarten teacher would: “An order of the ‘no-kee’ and fries? Certainly.” I shook my head clear. Did I just order “no-chee?” God, what a gracious man to issue a very gentle correction for which he gained my trust and admiration, (unlike the time my architect-boss ridiculed me for pronouncing the leather furniture line Natuzzi like one would say “Jacuzzi,” rather than as it should be said: “Nah-toot-see.” Can’t we all just agree on our mispronunciations for consistency’s sake?). Eric and I then clarified that we’d rather wait to order so as to enjoy an evening of slow eating to good music…and that we’d decide upon our entrees as we nibbled our fries and “no-kee.”

Nibbling, it was not. Dredging, drooling, scarfing, and swooning ensued. The little brown potato dumplings with black truffle and Pecorino quickly became our shared mistress. The gnocci, chard, and turnip had a buttery texture and nutty flavor…and were smothered in a celery root velouté. Okay, I had to look that up this morning…what was that divine dressing? All became clear when I read its description--velouté is one of the Five Mother Sauces of the French Cuisine. Mon Dieu. Made from a blond roux (I admit, I puff up with pride at the blond reference), this sauce held together the dish without overcoming it like the cheese sauce over hashbrowns at Denny’s. To continue the love affair with our butter-based decadence, at one point we decided to forgo pouring the little creamer-pitcher of béarnaise sauce over our fries, eschewing that technique for just taking a few fries between our fingers, sticking them down the neck of the pitcher, swirling them around, and sending them straight down the gullet. When you’ve got it good, you’ve got it good. If we could’ve decided which one of us would get to lick the pitcher, I’m sure one of us would’ve cast aside decorum for this delicacy.

I should mention the music. As we gobbled our tubers and butter, we had the fortunate opportunity to listen to Nellie’s opening act, The Tropicals, made up of Peter Lawton and Craig Wright. Upon hearing their names, I immediately recalled their performance with Dan Wilson on the CD “Dan Wilson Live @ the CCC,” and a smile crossed my face. Any guys who sing the song “The King of the Yellow Butterflies” were friends o’ mine. I admit that our lack of seeing each other recently meant Eric and I chatted a bit too much during their act, but I’d like to think that we were able to coexist in harmony with our surroundings.

We ordered our entrees with a bottle of Rex Goliath Pinot Noir. Eric ordered the Cobb Salad Burger with bacon, avocado, hard-boiled egg, blue cheese, and some sort of chutney. I decided to get the chef’s special, a beef steak that was coated in a bourbon reduction, and accompanied by a fresh salad and sweet potatoes. We received our wine and entrees during the lull between the opening and main acts. Perfect. We were able to munch and discuss without missing or disrupting the show. Eric’s burger was topless (I didn’t think The Dakota was that kind of place). No top half of the bun only two onion rings as a crown. Interesting. Since we were going halfsies on the entrees, I tasted one of the rings. Sigh. They were a disappointment. Onion rings are sacred and these were blasphemous. Why? It was encrusted in cornmeal…without seasoning or much of a sense of moisture. It was like an Ore-Ida baked onion ring, but not even. Hmm. Suspect. Well, there were only two of them so fifty percent of the offense had disappeared. Eric could fend for himself against the other ring. The Cobb Salad portion of the burger was excellent--almost like a sweet salsa, with bacon and avocado interspersed but not overwhelmed. I took pause, though, when I sliced through the patty and saw red…literally, but not figuratively. I was a little taken aback that “medium” was a deep shade of pink. Thankfully, the low lighting helped to pull the wool over my eyes and I ate what I normally would not--red red meat. Eh, it was worth it. Even Eric thought it was a bit too pink to be considered medium, but we enjoyed the burger nonetheless. *

My slab of beef, on the other hand, was surprising. Perhaps it was too thin of a cut to be ordered medium-well, as it was a little tough.** The sauce had a kick to it, not in a bad way…but in an Andy Way as my Scandinavian taste buds were left somewhat shell-shocked. Good glazing, good flavors, deep and rich and spicy. Not to be left out was the side of al dente grated sweet potatoes with singed edges and their own hint of heat. As reprieve, the fresh side salad of arugula, vinaigrette, and what I believe to have been white cheddar chunks and crisped pancetta flakes was perfection.

Nellie took the stage as Eric had finished his half-bunned burger and I was mopping up the sauce of the steak. Coffee and dessert were in order and we were going to sit back and enjoy the show. The last time I was at The Dakota for the Holly Cole show, my friend ordered the Fallen Chocolate Chestnut Souffle, but rued the fact that she didn’t get the cheesecake with pistachios, white chocolate, and red wine pear compote. So, we made sure to get that last night--I needed closure. The cheesecake was creamy and not too sweet. The pistachios were toasted slightly, and the presentation was punctuated by a nest of spun sugar that was a playful distraction for the two of us. Nellie’s sweet sounds paired with this sweet dish made for a sublime time, though she punctuated her performance with political jabs that rivaled the sour ting of the pears. Particularly of note was her rendition of “Zombie Walk” during which she portrayed the different political candidates as zombies. She’s quirky, but dead-on as far as commentary is concerned. No complaints here, other than that I should pay more heed to the coffee-slurp-to-forthcoming-one-liner forecasting.

All in all, the company was stupendous, the food was wonderful, the service was perfect, and the ambiance was enchanting…much like the chanteuse, herself. Hopefully, our forthcoming evening at Brasa before the Jesse Mallin concert on Thursday will be just as pleasing.***

*JoyEstelle - I'd just like to say that the meat's requested doneness by our guest blogger has no relation to how I believe a proper burger should be ordered.

** Trying not to be sarcastic, but yes, I think you may have stumbled on what happened there.

*** I can't believe you're going to Brasa without me! I expect another post. Thank you so much for sharing. Sounds like a wonderful night!

Second Trip to the Strip (Club in St. Paul)

2008-03-28T06:58:00.000-07:00

It was not a fluke. These guys are good. If possible, my second trip in was even better than my first. The worst thing I can say is that the parking can be a bit hairy. That's it. Really!

While Matt was parking, I walked up the street, observed an ambulance about a block and a half up dealing with a gentleman who appeared to have made a career out of drinking and was now dealing with some of the ill effects. He was sideways in a lawn chair flailing about. The paramedics were standing around, none too concerned. They appeared to be trying to talk some sense into him. "Interesting..." I muttered and walked in the door.

Dan was behind the bar and gave me a wave and a thumbs up. I didn't know if he remembered me or if that was just kind of his new thing. I kind of waved back and nodded. I had no idea what I was agreeing to. It was really warm in there. Really, really warm. The sun must have been heating up the black exterior and the heat had been seeping in all day.

A friendly young guy approached me and asked if I had a reservation. I said no, and looked around. It was pretty full and the space is quite small. I was worried that we wouldn't be able to get a table. I knew I'd been craving this place all day! Why didn't I call? Curses. He checked the computer system and returned, "We have that lovely table for you right up there." He pointed to a small table for two at the edge of the balcony.

"Perfect." I walked up and was happy to relieve myself of my coat and sweatshirt. Matt stepped in and I waved him up. He was wearing his puffy Land's End coat and a thick brown sweatshirt. "I hope you're wearing a T-shirt under that." Thankfully, he was, and it wasn't the "Rainbows are Gay" T-shirt that his brother had gotten him for Christmas a couple of years ago.

"Welcome back!" said our server. I didn't remember seeing him working the last time we were there, so that kind of startled me. "Can I start you off with anything to drink other than the water?"

"Thank you! Do you know if Dan's started stocking Mount Gay rum down there?" All the more thankful that Matt wasn't wearing the afore mentioned shirt.

He said he didn't think so, but he would check. Matt was fine with just water. We lustily scanned the menu. Once again, everything sounded wonderful. I was starving. We immediately ordered the Devil's Eggs to chase away the desperation hungries and I asked for a glass of wine since the waiter didn't think they carried Mt. Gay. Sigh. Fine.

I loved our vantage point. We could watch everybody without them realizing it. There was a photographer taking pictures of everything. There was a foursome in the front window and one of the guys sort of looked like This American Life host, Ira Glass. There was a table of gentlemen behind us that we could not figure out. They were all dressed in similar blue dress shirts, all the same age, clearly moneyed and educated, but not financial types. It couldn't be insurance...one looked like Ben Kingsley. Matt guessed that maybe they were architects. I thought they might be old St. Thomas alumni. We're so nosy.

Our eggs arrived, three were your garden variety deviled eggs and two were a lovely pink hue. Our waiter (whose name I forgot to get) explained that the rosy ones were actually pickled in beet juice. He warned us that they would have a somewhat rubbery texture, but in a good way.

Just then Dan came bounding up the stairs and presented me with a cocktail. "What's this?"
"It's what you asked for." And with that, he was gone. Who was that masked man?

He'd gotten the rum in! He mixed it up with his home made tonic water and it was outstanding. The tonic was lemony with a little ginger, kind of a cinnamony finish. It was cool, crisp, light, bright and really refreshing. This is the kind of drink to be sipped out on the back porch on a hot summer afternoon listening to Big Daddy tell one of his stories about the days before the war.

And this time, I remembered to take pictures. Look at it! "AHHHHHHH!!" Doesn't it just sing? It was just before I took this picture, that the sun started to dip behind the horizon and they opened all the blinds up. The room immediately began to cool off.

The photographer came upstairs and took a picture over us. Then he went behind the table of guys we couldn't figure out and opened up the fire place. It's a secret passage. This place is so cool! And that photographer is a little weird.

Again, we couldn't decide on just one entree, so we decided to get another round of the small plates. We got the fried oysters, fries (with the ketchup - bacon! Yay!,) escargot, the ladies night out shrimp scampi and another round of the drinks.

The oysters were again wonderful and the frisee salad served underneath them was fantastic. The dressing that they use some how managed to taste light and creamy at the same time, shallots, Dijon and possibly red wine vinegar. The escargot were lovely little balls of garlic, buttery heaven with an herby, anise note.

This was a better batch of bacon ketchup. It tasted bacony and tomatoey. They were really wonderful and studded with big rocks of sea salt. (Matt's not really that swarthy, there's something odd going on with the light.)

The scampi were bathing in a super lemony, light butter sauce. I usually love a more traditional and tons butter and hunks of garlic, but all that brightness made it taste almost like it was something healthy for me. The shrimp were sweet, fresh and they actually crammed a ton in there. Happy little shrimp delights.

While I was sucking them down, Tim Niver came up to ask us how are meal was. We raved about everything from the food to the service to darling Dan down at the bar. We thanked him for bringing something like this to Saint Paul. He did his best not to look embarrassed for the raving lunatics and thanked us for coming.

After we were done eating, I felt really bad about making the waiter and the plate runner girl come up and down those stairs so many times with all of that stuff that we went down to the bar. Plus, this gave me the perfect chance to talk to Dan. (Love Dan. I'm thinking about getting some buttons, T-shirts and starting a fan club.)

Immediately, he poured me another glass of wonderful and set it down before me. "What's this?"

"Try it! I made my own version of Sprite."

Again - exquisite! It did taste like lemon/lime, but also of a bright kicky little hunk of crystallized ginger. He was enthusing that he's also working his own version of Cherry Coke. "It should be ready... well, it might be ready now. Definitely by Monday."

"We'll be here Tuesday," Matt said. And he wasn't kidding.

This is the first restaurant that we've found in St. Paul that has that Minneapolis neighborhood place buzz. You know, it's not fair, really. Minneapolis gets Corner Table, Al Vento, Barbette, Cafe Maude, Broder's - the list goes on and on. There are tons of little gems nestled into these great neighborhoods. While, I do love a lot of the places we frequent around our own zip code, the amazing pizza at Red's Savoy, Skinners, of course, those types of joints. It's great, but it's also very close to what I grew up with. Great American food, just not very adventurous. There is the artistry of Heartland, but I can only afford to go there once in a blue moon and there's Jay's, which I love, but it's only one tiny place that isn't open on Tuesdays, when Matt and I often have our date night. Here, we have all this talent oozing out of this beautiful Gothic structure. And it's all Saint Paul. With this restaurant just down the street from me, maybe I won't be moving back to that Minneapple any time soon.

Problem solved

2008-03-27T11:34:00.000-07:00

Just got the below email from Pat:

Patrick wrote:

I gave a full uncut response to Open Table's requeston "how was your lunch at P&F". I'm sure they'll get it all squared away.

I'm sure those tough nuts at OpenTable.com will go on over and crack some bad service skulls.

Cafe Maude

2008-03-26T10:39:00.000-07:00

Despite my hopes, there were no Bea Arthur photos gracing the entry way. Eric and I arrived at Cafe Maude at the exact same time (a rarity.) Seeing him walk towards me, squared off shoulders, familiar, but matured smile, made my shoulders and nose scrunch up. It'd been too long. Where we used to dine together. Not too long ago, Eric was my number one dinner companion. Funny how married life changes things. I hugged him tightly and we walked inside.

The noise level was bustling and every table was packed. We were early for our reservation and there weren't any tables open. Luckily, there were a couple of spots at the bar. We sat down and ordered a bottle of wine and the fries. Everyone that had even glimpsed Maude's menu had suggested the fries.

Moments after we sipped our slightly heavy (but in a woolly blanket kind of way) wine a booth in the back of the restaurant by a large table of women celebrating a birthday.

I'd been sitting on my purse with my phone set to vibrate when Laura called. It was an unnerving sensation. She said she'd just finished up drinks with a friend and wanted to know if we'd mind if she joined us. Firmly believing in not only, is more better, but another mouth meant we could order more food, I told her to move it down to 54th and Penn.

The fries arrived while we were waiting for her. They were delicious, house sliced potatoes dusted with sea salt and what seemed like fried parsley accompanied by a little dish of melted cheese. We dug in. "Oh...?" Eric said.

They had a kind of unexpected flavor. We mulled it over- "It's white truffle oil!" I proclaimed.

"Really," he frowned at his fry. "You know they say most truffle oil isn't the real thing - it's artificially flavored. You can't get real truffles in olive oil for only $10." I raise my eyebrows at him. "Okay, maybe you get the real stuff, but mine at home doesn't taste like this. Pierre has banished it from the kitchen." The real stuff, thank you very much, is a pronounced, distinctive flavor that was now slowly rolling over my palate. Besides, I only spend my money on ridiculously high quality and mostly unnecessary food products.

(Here's a picture of Eric maowing down the fries and our first wine.)

The fries were excellent and at $5 a great little start to the meal. They were also a distant memory by the time Laura arrived looking more gorgeous than anybody has a right to at 8 o'clock on a Tuesday night.

The entire time we caught up and mulled over the menu, our waiter was near at hand, but never intrusive. My wine glass was never empty and I knew that once we did finally decide on what to eat, he'd be right there, ready.

We couldn't decide on whether to order lots of small plates, or our own entrees.

"I want the beet salad." Eric's always been partial to beets. "I don't care what you guys want. I'm having the beet salad and the lamb skewers." That decided it - we went for a few small plates to share. We ordered, sipped and chatted.

Suddenly, food seemed to be materializing out of thin air. Everything arrived at once. While we mused, it might have been nice if things had come out more staggered, we were already threatening each other with the tines of our forks. The first thing I tried was the mac and cheese. It was wonderful. A nice little bed of penne pasta wrapped in downy blankets of creamy, cheese sauce. The top was crusty and accented with croutons. Laura declared that this - THIS is what you're looking for when ordering fancy mac and cheese." (We'd been burned before.)

At the moment I couldn't be bothered though, because I was slicing into my first croquette. The crusty, brown outer shell gently gave way to the creamy risotto and the gooey little bit of cheese tucked into the center. The mouth combination was exquisite. Gooey, creamy and crispy, with just a little how-do-ya-do from the red bell pepper, just a little added veggie sweetness.

"Ohmygodyouguysthisissogoood!" I shoved the other half into my mouth for another texture explosion. I imagined that if I was lucky enough to have grown up Italian that I would so totally have been made this by my loving mother from the previous nights leftovers. "Manga! manga!"

Eric was happily nodding at his lamb skewers that were ground, spiced lamb meat. He offered me a bite with a bit of the coleslaw accompaniment. It was spicier than I expected, but in a really good way. There was a little bit of heat, corriander and it was all cooled off by the sweet, crispy, creamy cabbage. The yogurt in the dressing gave it just a bit of a tang, but it was the perfect cool compliment to the racy little lamb skewers.

Laura was moaning and pointing to the tuna, "Oh, oh - oh, my God you have to have one of those." On little wedges of grilled bread there was a tiny bit of an avocado mixture and on top of that was a small hunk of just barely seared tuna. I popped half of one in my mouth. The crispy bread folded up, and abated like a wave, unleashing the creamy avocado and the fresh, ambrosial tuna. There's something about the pairing of the flavors of the green, smooshy avocado and the tinny red tuna that pairs so well together. (wine lovers note - do not accompany this by a sip of your Grenache, or what was once beautiful will devolve into fish tank grodey flavors in your mouth.)

I gaped at our plates trying to determine what to approach next. What would be my favorite? I stabbed a bit of Eric's gorgeous beet salad. It perfectly dressed. The golden beets radiated from the salad plate like the promise of spring. They were expertly prepared tender crisp and lovely. The goat cheese that dotted the salad was also wonderful.

Still, for my money, I'm going for real cheese. I stabbed at the penne, around Laura's arm - she'd clearly picked her favorite. And soon it was all over. Croquette, Ahi, Ahi, mac and cheese, croquette, croquette gone! There was a collective sigh of disappointments (can't we just keep eating) and satisfaction, (I want to live here.) Bit by bit, our empty plates were taken away until all that remained was the dessert menu.

I'm not usually much of a dessert eater, but my companions are. Eric claims to have an entire dessert compartment. They ordered the Chocolate Pistachio Torte. Oh, why don't I eat dessert more often? It was a beautiful dessert, pictured here, but prettier in person. It was artfully dolloped with creme de menthe. The ice cream, chocolate and crunchy little nuts came together and sang the taste buds home. The chocolate was dense and supple, the nuts were slightly toasty, but still had that distinctive pistachio meatiness to them, the light minty, syrup flavor cut through the whole thing that otherwise, would have been awfully sweet and rich.

It was decadent, wonderful, captivating, delightful and full. Just like us.

Porter & Frye

2008-03-21T14:09:00.000-07:00

So, of course, with all the controversy, I just had to go check it out. Luckily, my attorney and occassional brother in law, invited Matt and I to meet him for lunch this week. Even though I was lucky enough to get today off of work (Spring Day! WOO HOO!), I had no problem making the trip into downtown Minneapolis for the chance to dine at Porter & Frye in the Ivy. There was no menu available online and every review I've read thus far has been for dinner. I had no idea what to expect.

We're experiencing this annoying March snow storm. The heavy, wet snow is beautiful, but it's also everywhere. I think we're supposed to get 9 inches in all. We parked accross the street from the restaurant in what had been for a very long time, that abandoned builded accross the street from the parking ramp attached to the orchestra. "God, I've always thought this was the ugliest building," I said.

"Really? I've always thought it was really cool. It looks so old and different. It's always been chillin' doin' it's own thing."

"It's a giant rock collection. It's pavement." I squinted and was sloshed our way accross the street to the entrance. "Please use the Ivy entrance" the sign informed us. So, we aimed for the next nearest door. It was locked. Great, the Ivy's entrance was around the corner and practically about a block away. It was sopping wet and cold. My shoes were soaked. What was I thinking wearing the cute ones on a day like today?

The double doors slid open and there were four black clad men standing there. Heads still down, we marched towards the lobby. One guy broke away and was trying to stand in front of us, "Hello, how are you doing today?" Fine (cold, wet and hungry, but fine.) "May I help you with anything today?" No... no we're good. Please stand aside - I need food!

"Hello, how are you today?" Two women were blocking the entrance. "Yeh, hi - there he is!" Matt said and we tried to weasel our way around them and get to the table where Patrick was waiting for us.

"Oh, your party has already arrived." Like he's a VIP or something? "May I take your coats for you?" Okay, yes, that was nice.

We settled into our seats. I looked around the room. It was nicely lit and pretty. Despite the concrete surroundings, exposed piping and walls, mostly painted off white. The wood was dark and polished on the tables and chairs. There was a little divider between the dining room and the bar. There was a gorgeous flower arrangement there. We talked to Pat about his work day - he was excitedly looking foward to suing some people this afternoon. He really likes his job. He asked after my good friend, who is a paralegal. I said she's good - getting married this summer, we're all happy for her. Matt was telling him about some of the classes that he's taking at the U - he was explaining some of the different directions he could end up going - watershed management would most likely be involved. Back off ladies, this one's taken.

Not in any of this time does anyone show up at the table and offer so much as a glass of water. After a couple of attempts, I finally grabbed a guy and said, "Can I get some water?" I was really parched.

"Oh, no one has brought you any water yet? Do you have a server?"

"No," what kind of a question was that?

He grabed a guy that was walking past and steered him to our table, he put his hand on my shoulder, which, for some reason felt creepy.

"How are we doing today? May I get you something to drink?"

"Yes. Please. I would like some water."

"Sparkl-"

"Just tap is fine." Finally somebody showed up with a cold pitcher and I downed it fast. It's been like 20 minutes so we were more than ready to order our food. I wanted the Chicken Little sandwich and the chowder to start with. The chowder wasn't clam, but prepared with shrimp and sausage. Matt ordered the Ceaser salad and the arctic char with jalepeno sofrito. Pat had the Greek salad and the gnocci. When the waiter took our menus the wine list in the middle knocked the tiny salt shaker over for about the fifth time. I thought, "Hey, I don't have to work. Why not?" I started to look over the list when the waiter grabbed the menu out of my hand. "Um, I was reading that."

"Oh," he handed it back.

They continuted to talk family stuff while I started studying the other tables. A man and woman that had walked in after us were tucking into their salads. Hey, was that bread? I looked around. Hey! They have bread! And it looks good... We're past the half hour mark and I'm sipping my ice water jealous of bread. At this point, I'm getting crabby and thinking of all the other first impressions that I've read of this place. Yes, it's still a new place, but come ON!

Our waiter reappeared, "I am so sorry. We are all out of the shrimp roll."

We looked at each other and all re-ordered. "And I had the chowder and chicken sandwich." He crossed out French Onion and wrote down c-h-o-d-e-r.

I went back to reading the wine menu. It was a different set up than what I've seen before. There were four different catagories, each listing red, white and sparkling wines. Each different catagory has a different price. You can order 3 oz, 6 oz pour or a bottle. I grabbed the waiter guy and requested a 6 oz pour of a middle priced red. Matt did the same.

We went back to waiting. Fifteen more minutes of breadless waiting. I couldn't even pay attention to what they were talking about at that point. "I don't want to be an asshole," it felt odd swearing in such a nice restaurant, "but am I going to have to go behind that pour my own glass of wine?"

"Yeah, what is going on with this place?" Pat asked. I think he was a little relived that I was ready to drop the charade and acknowledge that this service was terrible.

The waiter re-appeared on cue carrying a tray with two glasses, a wine bottle and a glass of Coke on it. He strolled over to another table, delivered the Coke and seemed to be having a lovely little chat. What.the.hell. Seriously. Eventually, he came over to our table. "Would you like a bottle, or just the two glasses?"

I wanted to hit him. Matt laughed in his great disarming way.

"No, we'll just go with the two glasses," Matt said.

A nervous young man set a white bowl full of sliced bread in front of us.

"We do get bread!" Pat squealed. We lobbed the little balls of butter at each other and began stuffing them into our faces. I was starting to get worried about Patrick. He had to be in court later this afternoon. I wondered if he was ever going to be able to get fed.

Just then our first courses arrived. Matt was presented with a plate of charred romain covered in cheese. Patrick got this really odd plate with a wedge of Iceburg lettuce, a peeled whole tomato and two little ribbons of curled up cucumber. I got this wide plate with a little hole in it filled with what looked like cooked merpoie, sausage and these little teeny tiny shrimps. What the hell? Where was the soup part? A guy leaned over me and poured a cream colored broth into the hole. The waiters vanished and Matt dug into his lettuce with a concerned look on his face.

I picked up my butter knife and fork and looked at Pat, "What's wrong with this picture?" He covered his mouth and started laughing. Matt lept from his chair to chase down someone - I think he practically went into the kitchen - requesting a spoon for me. He seemed kind of mad. Aw, chivalry is not dead.

Our bumbling waiter laid a gigantic spoon next to me. I picked it up and stared at it. This had to be a joke - it was a serving spoon! And it was an odd shape, kind of rectangular. Here's a picture with my butter knife for scale.

It was HUGE - and it's unweildly nature made it impossible to eat with. I kept spilling soup all over the white expanse. The shrimps were those little teeny kind and tasted like they had until recently been frozen. The broth was pleasant and not overly creamy. The sausage had a lovely, smokey flavor, but kind of overwhelmed everything. After a couple of ladle fulls I just quit. It was kind of stupid and mediocre.

I tried Matt's salad. It was wonderful. The whole thing was covered in this little crumbled, mild cheese. The flavor combinations were delightful. It was served with four slices of heavily buttered and grilled bread that was also fantastic.

"I'd let you try some of mine, but I can tell you what it tastes like," offered Pat. "It tastes like bland." Honestly, I didn't want to taste it. I couldn't even tell you what was Greek about it. The peeled tomato looked a little green and there was all these little black things all over it. They weren't poppy seeds, not seasame seeds... maybe little shaves of black truffles? I ask you this, when was the last time that you thought to yourself, you know what I"m really craving? Man - I could go for a whole head of iceburg lettuce! Yeah.

I waved down the server and handed him my plate. Patrick just kept staring at his plate blanching. Matt was hungrily gobbling up his lettuce and mopping up the cheese and dressing with his buttery toast.

Two waiters, our gomer and the first guy that I had approached. They looked at the finished plates in front of the guys. I could see the other guy looking at gomer like, "Aww, man - you moron!" Still they served them, while Matt and Patrick held the old plates aloft. I was guzzling my wine. The wine was delightful and thankfully distracting.

Chicken little:

The toasted warm bun was yummy and the chicken had a delightful citrusy flavor. The problem was trying to eat it. I had to keep shoving the wilted, warm lettuce, watery tomato and Munster cheese back into it. On my third bite the entire contents shot out of the bun and across my plate. It was annoying and no where near worth nine dollars, but tasty. The fries were super salty and doused in malt vinager. At first I liked them, but the salt started to get to me. I had to dip them in ketchup to cut the saltiness.

Matt's arctic char was beautiful and served in this huge bowl/plate thing.

(And notice the appearance of the bread "basket." All slices of bread had odd dried fruit in it.)

The fish looked fine, but not being a huge fan, I didn't try it. The odd beige pastey lump was pretty good. I have no idea what it was. Really, we tried. Was that supposed to be the sofrito? I dunno. Matt enjoyed it and I avoided any more bites. The wilted greens were delicious. Cooked down and delicate, with a delightful spicy and lemony notes. Really good.

Pat's gnocchi was good, but not great. "It's good, but I think I've had better at Pazzaluna."

The picture didn't turn out very well, either. (Hey! Nice tie!) There seemed to be a sauce of sorts made out of sundried tomato and it was topped with a cheese that tasted like Humbolt fog. It had a rind and tasted a little bit like crumbly goat cheese. It was good, but the gnocchi were completely bland and a little rubbery. Meh, it was okay. Man, for the guy that was picking up the tab, he was really geting screwed over.

We weren't even done eating when Matt asked for the check. The guy came back, dropped it with Pat. Pat gave him his credit card. After a few minutes he returned and dropped the bill on the ground. God, this guy was so bad that it was just getting really uncomfortable now. He picked it up and laid it on the table.

"May I get you anything else?" he asked.

"How about my credit card?"

He fumbled about a bit, when the other waiter came up behind him and handed him Pat's card. "Ahhh... Then I'm going to need to run that again."

?

Finally, we got it, Pat paid and agonized about the tip. He didn't stiff the guy, but it kind of hurt to give him much. The guy was terrible. What were they thinking? I was anxious to get the hell out of this place. I wanted go home. I wanted tons more of that wine, but somewhere else.

So, I don't care if it's still too early to judge this place, or if it isn't fair to judge after just one trip - I wouldn't ever eat there again, even if it is on somebody else's dime.

Bloggers Blogging about Blogs

2008-03-14T07:04:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I fell down another rabbit hole thanks to Andrew Zimmern's blog. Say what you will about his personality or TV show, but this guy's blog has become ground zero for inside news of the Minneapolis food scene. It was on here that the big kerfuffle between him, Anne Bauer at the Rake started.

This post was in response to Kathie Jenkin's "Small Bites" review of the new Steven Brown venture at Porter & Frye. There's this perception that Kathie Jenkins is a lazy writer. I've also heard before that she seems to have it in for fine dining. I'm torn because Kathie is probably the only food critic in town that would ever bother wandering into Skinner's and finding that it's actually a great little neighborhood joint with good pizzas and, as she discovered, the most ludicrously sized nacho order in the metro.

Also, she liberated me from feeling like the only person who didn't get what the big deal was about Russell Klein's food was when he was at W.A. Frost. All three times I went there, I was so disappointed by my meals that I either wanted to cry or throw those stupid cracker bread sticks at somebody.

But that's neither here nor there, unlike most of the commenters after Andrew's post, I know nothing about the inside business of running a good restaurant. And, unfortunately, nobody pays me for this, so I do write a bit like Kathie, in that I usually only go to a place once before reviewing it.

But you don't come here for the professionalism, do ya? Nah - I'm lucky if you come here at all with the serious lack of writing and insight I've been giving you lately. There were all kinds of $ tumult at our little St. Puddlian home. Things have calmed down now (and I won't be moving back to Mpls this year), I can go back to eating out on a semi-regular basis and I will try to continue to give you the completely biased, lazy writing you've come to expect from me.

Just one more thing. Lenny Russo and Doug Flicker are fucking rock stars and anyone that doesn't agree with that is a moron.

What Russo has done for Saint Paul is a gift from the culinary Gods. The man is crazy enough to take the local eating thing so seriously that he creates art out of what most people would have considered provincial country folk food. What he has created, does and is committed to nurturing is something so outstanding, so precious that even hyperbole fails me. All this - and I can't even afford to eat in the main dining room! I have to take small plates over at the wine bar and still - STILL I'm always charmed by what arrives before me. I can wonder what a wild boar fromage de tete is, but have faith that the plate that is placed before me will contain something to make my every taste bud sing. The man is a mad genius. He actually makes me proud to be on this side of the big river. And if Kathie Jenkins can't recognize that, then she probably does need to have her head examined.

Sigh. I feel so much better now.

The Strip Club in St. Paul

2008-02-29T11:45:00.000-08:00

Finally! I made it! I went out to eat. There were linen napkins and everything. It was wonderful - glorious - transcendent!
Restaurant week has been agony on me. (Andy telling me about her meal at Lurcat made me tear up a bit.) No longer working in a place where I have a large expense account has been a bit of an adjustment. I'm probably never going to dined at the new r. Norman's or see the inside of Porter and Frye, but I'd be damned if darling J.D. Fratzke and Tim Niver's joint venture was going to open up just a hop, skip and jump from the hovel and I wasn't going to get my ass in there. I refused to be denied no matter what that damn ATM machine kept telling me. I do not have insufficient funds! I will fund this venture - dammit!
Thankfully, Matt's actually the one who funded it. Wednesday night was the first evening in months that he was relatively busy slinging drinks to actual, paying patrons. He made just enough in tips for me to beg - DATE NIGHT! PLEASE! Darling husband, it will make me so happy. Don't you want to see me happy? You don't want me to be angry. You wouldn't like me angry.
Nice guy that he is, he even drove downtown to pick me up so my delicate feet wouldn't have to be bruised by climbing onto the train platform and be squished in with the slush and scads of other people. Tushie protected from hard bus seats, we headed to the East side of St. Paul.
The Strip Club is nestled into a little block just across from Metropolitan University. It's one of those neighborhoods that could be fixed up with a lot of public money and some crazy, devotees to the Victorian architecture. Those people have not yet arrived. Matt described the area as a "Demilitarized zone." (Which reminded me of a line in Ghostbusters, which made me laugh, which drew an odd look.)
We were even lucky enough to get a parking spot right out side the front door. This was almost too good to be true.
The soft light beckoned and Tim greeted us at the door before letting us choose our table. We picked a cozy looking spot right next to the bar. I noted that Mike Doughty was drifting through the air as we were seated, soon followed by Wilco's Sky Blue Sky. As I love this music and play it often, I nestled into my chair, sighed and let go. It was over. The long search through the desert had landed me in the middle of my Oasis. I ordered a glass of the Valpociella. It was delicious, mild blackberry notes and ... I can't even explain it. I hadn't ordered a glass of wine in a restaurant in over a month. I slurpped it up and I was happy.
After consulting the menu and listening to the dazzling array of specials, we decided just to order a few of the small plates. We had fried oysters, mussels, the meat on a stick and the fries with bacon ketchup (Bacon! Ketchup! Genius!)
First to arrive were the fries. I was a little worried. They looked to be the usual McDonald's wannabes out of a plastic freezer bag. They came not only with bacon ketchup (Bacon! Ketchup!) but also a remoulade.
"Isn't remoulade like a seafood thing?" Matt asked.
I couldn't answer - mouth full of bacon ketchup. The fries were better than they looked, but not extraordinary. The bacon ketchup was pretty good, but I didn't get much of a bacon (BACON!) flavor in there. It was just a sweet, husky little home made ketchup. It was good with just a little whisp of smokey flavor. It tasted almost a little bit like curry.
The remoulade was a delight, though, creamy and full of herby notes. The fries were really just a vessel for the remoulade.
Next arrived our little oysters. I was a bit concerned because I imagined they would be sloppy and taste old. We're not exactly seaside here. I was so wrong. So very, very wrong. They were crispy, salty crunchy on the outside and achingly tender, briny and delicate on the inside. They actually tasted like the sea, but better - because, ya know, they're fried. Incredible. They came with a little swipe of a rose colored sauce on the plate that further accented the flavor. It was wonderful!
Then arrived the skewered meat and the mussels. The meat was strip steak (naturally) and served atop a darling little mixed salad, radicchio and curly endive - buddies! Where have to been? The steak was cooked medium rare - perfection. Perfectly tender, expertly seasoned and lovingly prepared. I tried to cut it into tiny bites and savor. This was all rushing by too quickly! I knew that soon our money would be gone and I'd be forced back onto that couch watching Dr. Drew and those wacky druggies on VH1. (Weirder - when we did eventually return, we actually watched a Toby Keith biography. I cannot begin to explain this decision to you. I even had the remote control! The hell was I thinking? I do not care to know about the life and times of a guy who came up with the genius line, "We'll put a boot in yer ass." Probably still on a food high.)
Matt wasn't as concerned and horked it down like he did everything else.
The mussels were all jumbled into a tiny little bowl and dressed with falling apart stewed tomato, concentric ringlets of fennel and some little slices of sausage. Our server asked if I'd like another wine. I inquired about my favorite rum and he said they didn't carry it. He elaborated that his best friend had just been deriding him for not stocking it. Apparently, he makes his own tonic and the friend suggested that Mt. Gay would be the perfect foil.
"Wait, I have to address this. I'm a bartender," said my gorgeous husband, puffed up, full of mixology talents. "Did you say you make your own tonic? How do you go about doing that?"
He happily explained what he did, make a simple syrup, some bark from Brazil and lemon grass - voila! Tonic. Matt asked if we could try some. It was amazing. Seriously, nothing like what you normally get. There was no cloying sweetness. It was herby, with just a hint of bitter a the back of your throat. You can really taste the lemongrass and the ... bark. "Oh, yeah," Matt said, "Can I get that and some Beefeater?"
"I'd love it with some Hendrick's. And your friend is right. You need to start stocking Mt. Gay."
We chatted a bit more with our server - Dan. Dan really, really knows his way around a bar. He's obviously way more than some guy who waits tables, but is more the guy that runs the entire bar and could probably be making big, big bucks working from some corporate restaurant, but he said he really admired what J.D. and Tim were doing.
Back to the mussels - I think I only got about four because Matt was so busy shoveling them into his gaping maw that I was afraid to reach for another, fearing he'd take off a finger. The fennel gave the broth a gentle anise flavor paired with the musky beer (Summit,) and slick butter flavors. The sausages were billed as spicy, but weren't hot spicy. I thought they would be like a chorizo, but were more like a Fraboni's garlic sausage. They were gently spiced and paired really well with the fennel. After slurping up all the broth, we sipped our expertly made cocktails and breathed deeply.
From where I was sitting I had an excellent view of downtown Saint Paul. Cars zooming, lights shimmering in the inky winter evening. The last few snowflakes were dancing under the streetlight.
We were tempted by all of the deserts - blueberry crumble with Izzy's Cinnamon ice cream, flourless chocolate cake with framboise strawberries and a decadent triffle that I can't fully describe because as Dan was telling me about it my eyes rolled back into my head, my tongue draped out of the corner of my mouth past my chin and the garggling made it difficult for me to concentrate. All sounded heavenly. But, alas, it wasn't meant to be. We had to pack up our remaining pennies and head back down the hill. Our moment of glory was fading, back to the realities of life on West 7th.

Would You Like to Smell the Bottlecap?

2008-02-28T14:16:00.000-08:00

Oh, thank God. After weeks in restaurant exile I'm going out tonight! Matt's promised to take me to a restaurant that I've been obessing over. I hope it's good. I hope they have straws. Talk to you guys tomorrow!

Saturday at Midtown Global Market

2008-02-22T13:27:00.000-08:00

This despicable weather is said to finally be breaking this weekend. Hurrah!! Time to get out and EAT! I've found that the absolute best way to shed the woolly winter gloom is to spend an entire Saturday at the Midtown Global Market. I always show up famished and inevitably leaving before I'm ready. Like a child at Chuck E. Cheese, I just want one more fix! (Although I'm also gluttonously full.)

Here's what usually happens, I wake up, roll over and stare at Matt. Sometimes this works. Other times, I've forced to either give him sweet angel kisses, or pull his pillow out from underneath his head.

"I'm hungry," I'll mew.

"Good morning, Sweetheart."

"I'm huuuuuuuunnnngrrrrryyyy!"

"Me, too! What should we do about that?"

The goes the conversation of breakfast, yes, but breakfast where? Day by Day cafe isn't worth the money, Barbette is too far, Bennett's isn't to be trusted, Mickey's is a God send, but I don't know if I'm hungover enough to admit I'm eating lard.... And so on, until it's past 11 o'clock and I'm getting crabby and Matt starts thinking about lunch. Which usually leads to talk of sandwiches.

But, where oh, where can we get the eggs and bacon we'd already be enjoying were we not so lazy, a sandwich, something cheesy - possibly fried and get it all without going broke?

"Let's go to the Midtown Market!"

He reaches out and shoves me, "Yes!" I've learned to brace myself, so I don't usually fall of the bed anymore.

We take the winding, interesting and somewhat dangerous drive down Lake Street. The parking lot is located in some kind of mean wind tunnel that whips those chilly temps down even further. And, although you might be tempted to curl up in that fluffy looking snow bank, do NOT go to sleep.

The door whooshes open and past the cool, blue entry way, is the warm tropical beginnings of your latest culinary adventure.

The first restaurant that you will happen upon is A La Salsa. This is the little sister to what I consider the best Mexican restaurant in town, Salsa La Salsa. It's also the only full service restaurant in the place. You can sit down, order a margarita and the incredible, garlicky, butter, snappy, hot little Shrimp Devil Mary Style. Munch on warm chips and try to decide which is better, the smooth green salsa, or the choppy little pico de gallo. Last time we were there we tried the pupusas. They were tiny little masa cakes, filled with cheese and topped with lettuce and avocado. They were divine. The crisp on the outside, creamy on the inside masa gives way to the most heavenly gooey queso. It strings from bite to lip like a spaghetti noodle you have to slurp up. Their tamales are also good, but there's another place where they are even better.

If you don't feel like being waited on, there are plenty of other options. Grab a cup of the I'm-Not-Kidding-You'll-Be-Up-For-Days espresso from Mapps coffee and venture in, past Holy Land deli. The deli case filled with different varieties of olives and feta cheese is impressive, but prepared to have your socks totally blown off by the buffet of food. Swarma, gyros, chicken all piled high in bins flanked by fresh pita. There's also a part of the deli where you can buy their wonderful hoummus and pita chips.

We usually veer left, though. Past the Chinese place that seems to serve only Americanized Chinese food (the cream cheese wonton lovers need to eat, too) past the delectable desserts made by Muslim women at the Starlight Cafe to La Loma.

La Loma serves a Oaxacan tamale. It's a tamale wrapped in a banana leaf and stuffed with masa and spicy, moist shredded chicken. Traditionally, this is where we always start. Matt and I can't stand not to have them. We split it, and sit at the near by tables surrounded by families, people clicking away at laptops (taking advantage of the free wifi) or watching whatever TV is being projected onto the wall. Last time we were there it was bowling. Our lips still tingling from the heat, we're ready to move on.

Having dealt with the crazy hungries, we can choose our next food item more carefully, the edge, the desperation has been held at bay. We have time to wander.

At Farm in the Market I usually pick up some farm fresh eggs, local organic half and half and some of the Pastures a' Plenty meat stuff, so at least on Sunday, we can have a more traditional breakfast. There are all kinds of amazing fruits there, too. The organic tangelos I picked up were other worldy sweet. The juice ran down my forearms as I tried to inhale it.

On the other side of the market is Manny's Tortas. For my money, the only torta in town. The meat is hammered thin, quickly fried, and then put into the perfect sandwich. This goes back to Matt's thing about the club sandwich. On the bottom of the crispy baguette style bread is the hot meat, then a layer of cheese, then the cold ingredients, in this case, jalapenos, lettuce, onion, tomato and chipotle mayo. All served with a bag of Barrel O' Fun potato chips. C'mon! When was the last time you had some Barrel O' Fun? These little fried salt bombs are the perfect foil! And, I insist you order an orange Jarritos to wash it down. The experience is incomplete if you don't have it. They are also quite filling. Don't stop there! There's so much more to see, smell and taste!

United Noodles has a bunch of fun Asian stuff to buy. Skip Lund's for your fish, oyster or soy sauce needs. Here you can get better products for an even cheaper price. Have people over tonight? Pick up a package of mochi, the greatest entertainment desert ever. It's slightly sweet ice cream inside some kind of a fondant type coating. My friend Nami served them once at a dinner party and I can't get enough of them now. No mess ice cream! How can the white carpeted people of the world resist?

I love perusing the meat cases at the subtly named Bymore Meats. It's next to a heavenly smelling pandaera and I can never identify all the meats that I see before me. I always drool over the chiccarones. (That's fried pig skin to you laymen. Do NOT roll your eyes until you've tried it.)

I skip the seafood market with the milky eyed fish and frozen stiff shrimps. The place can't get everything right.

The next food destination could be West Indies Soul for a Ploughman's lunch. It's a savory pastry filled with juicy, mildly spiced meat that is served inside a warm fresh baked bun. (That's right - a pastry is wrapped in bread.) It's like what I imagine the Hot Pocket was based on, except edible. They serve it with a thimble full of their green hot sauce, and boy howdy, they are not kidding. I can handle some spice and this stuff is slap-yo-mama spicy. Incredible! And incredibly filling. If you order one, plan on sharing or going home for a long winters nap.

Another not to miss spot, that I only recently discovered, because geez, how much can one person eat in the afternoon, is Los Ocampo. All of their items seem to be a variation on a theme - fried masa cakes. You'd think that this is something that could get boring, but that's hardly the case. There are all different sorts of meats and toppings for you to mix it up with. I allowed Matt to order. We decided on the sopa, rather than the more traditional huarache because it was smaller, and I'm never ready to get full or stop eating at this place. The wait is a little longer than at the other food stands, but the reason for this is gently explained by sign by the pick up window (or by the register if you read Spanish well.) Everything at Los Ocampo is made from scratch and fresh. It's worth the wait if you're going to get something quality. (At this I sneared at West Indies. Last time I had ordered the meat pie at an off time of day and it had clearly lost its luster an hour or two before being served to me.)

What we were served was nothing less than revolutionary. I'm not kidding. Now, every time I go, I'm going to have to order one of the tamales and one of these Sopas. It was somewhat like the pupusas we'd had at A La Salsa. They were fried masa enveloping stringing, viscous cheese and topped with an incredible smokey, crispy, meat slathered in red sauce. That was topped with lettuce and a drizzle of sour cream. Usually, I pick up the lettuce as it's usually superfluous (and why eat a superfluous veggie?) I didn't in this instance because it played an important role in cooling down the mouth. The meat was generously spicy. I could feel the last icicle clinging to me break off and melt into the floor. Ahhhhhh. I couldn't get over how great this thing was! I asked Matt what kind of meat he'd ordered.

"Chicharron." Naturually.

Our last stop, if I can muster it, is Café Finspan, which I always call the Swedish place (or Andy's place, even though I've never been here with her. It's just very Nordic.) They have the most amazing little sweets - not to mention their refrigerator pickles! Everything is sensibly sized and hard to resist. I love the little carmelly cookies dipped in rich chocolate, or the little almond flavored cakes! Heaven.

At this point, I'm exhausted and know it's time to leave. It will be many, many hours before my stomach settles, let alone begins the call of the hungry again. I watch children pointing at pinatas, and tired punk bikers searching for vegan. Matt pointed out that as cliche as it sounds, this really is a place for everyone.

Times Are Tight

2008-02-22T09:57:00.001-08:00

Aren't I always complaining about being broke this time of year? It's because it's colder than Posh Spice's heart cockles outside and nobody is spending any of their time out and about, cavorting and tipping bartenders a living wage. Matt and I are in the purgatory that hits us every year. It's the Death Valley months between the holidays and spring fever. It sucks. But, I'm trying to budget accordingly. Therefore, I saved my money on my lunch today and brought in some instant noodles.

I'm happy to report that my Mom, originator of all of my food obsessions in driving in for the weekend with me. I have all kinds of adventures planned for us. Until then, I penny pinch. And that is how this appeared on my desk at work today:

That's right. I'm having ramen dusted with kibble. YUM.