Porter & Frye

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

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.

Restaurant Max in the new Hotel Minneapolis

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.

The Strip Club in St. Paul

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.