Eat Your Ouija

It’s not often that someone reads the Gastronomer’s mind; it’s more likely that someone will read The Rake, if that tells you anything. But a fit of Weltschmerz left me unable to decide what to eat one recent evening, and lucky for me it was a Tuesday, and the psychic Ruth Jordan was at Santorini, a Greek restaurant in St. Louis Park. I drove on over, explained my situation, and she kindly offered to help. At 55, she’s dashing, slim, and disarmingly candid.

“I see you are obese,” she observed right away, before she even read my palm. When I sat down at her table, she went into more detail. Ruth explored a miniscule bump in the palm of my right hand with her thumb and discovered self-esteem issues in my past, and a current need for my wife and I to have another baby. “Actually, that’s a piece of glass that’s been lodged under the skin right there for years,” I told her.

“I wish it was, but it’s a little girl that your wife wants. She’s ready to raise another baby.” Well, maybe she is. But I was ready for something to eat. Could Ruth forecast what I would order? “No,” she said. “I’m not going to forecast what you would choose. I’m going to forecast what you would like.” So I decided to have Ruth order for me.

Having divined that I had snacked recently, Ruth went with an appetizer plate. At a glance, it looked like two strikes against her; there are few things in the world I dislike more than eggplant and red caviar, and this plate featured both. A third strike came when she had the waitress fetch a glass of Nema, a red wine from Corinth. Apparently, she had not received the Retsina-seeking wavelength I had been transmitting since I walked in. But when the plate arrived, I found that the caviar had been whipped with a smooth cheese-spread topped with capers. It was salty and smooth and went nicely on the cucumber and pita wedges served with it. Next to this, I found a generous scoop of feta spread, a favorite of mine wherever it can be found. The Nema turned out to be another pleasant surprise. Light bodied, a little fruity on top with a tannic finish, it washed the cheeses down perfectly.

The next thing that happened made me suspect that not only had Ruth chosen well, but that she was also exerting some sort of occult influence on me. I kept involuntarily snagging my little wedges of pita in the repulsive-looking eggplant spread. I liked it. It balanced the richness of the cheese and gave the wine another nice counterpoint. Ruth’s psychic power was the only explanation, and with a second glass of Nema I became a believer, at least regarding affairs of the stomach. Another daughter, though? Not telling. Just keep your eyes peeled for Mpls.St.Paul’s cover story on food critics’ babies.—Joe Pastoor