The Spyhouse

Spyhouse? A house of spies? Yes, Q, they’re everywhere in this place. Spies from Africa, spies from Hong Kong, spies from behind the old iron curtain. Spies who look like Jack Kerouac, spies who wish they wrote like him, and spies who seem weathered enough that they might have hung out with him in ’54. Mostly, the spies look like they fell off a Pucci runway, hep, swankish, and charmed with life in this moment. They go nicely with the dense smoke, the Ero Saarinen decor, and the music of Montovani, Cale, or Mr. Bungle (perhaps in quick succession), typically played at a volume that is not to be ignored. Unlike most coffee bars that pretend to show art, the Spyhouse earnestly shows talent that would make Bond glance over Ursula’s shoulder. Outside, on one of Minneapolis’ most worldly streets, you and your fellow spies can enjoy a table in the May sun while the Vietnamese women make their way to the market or a mysterious shadow slips into the Mexican psychic’s place across the street. And though you can’t get your martini either shaken or stirred you can get an incredible cup of Sumatra for $1.85. The Spyhouse, (612) 871-3177


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