This season, as you know, black is the new black. That puts local artist and object d’art Scott Seekins in a bit of bind. A sartorial and tonsorial marriage of Tom Wolfe and Marsden Hartley’s Adelard the Drowned, Seekins has long stood out here in the land of the bland, with his trademark seasonal shift from summer whites to winter blacks. Hoping to avert a fashion crisis, we stepped in to give this icon a makeover—one that would allow him to continue to march to his own drummer (and retain the divine garnish of his signature headband, which simply cannot be improved upon). With varied patterns and a palette of rich autumnal colors, Seekins will still stand out at art openings and blend in with the fall foliage on his frequent out-state snake-hunting expeditions.
Year: 2005
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Water of Life
Every time I take the boat down Stranraer Sound, I think of Saint Brendan. A Celtic monk, Brendan set sail toward the setting sun with fourteen of his confreres in a whimsical endeavor to find the Island of the Promise of the Saints. Spoilsports (i.e., my academic colleagues) tell you his charming tale is an allegory for the development of the soul, like Pilgrim’s Progress. If so, then what, one wonders, is symbolized by the whale called Iasconius, whose back the monks mistake for an island where they can light a bonfire and cook up fish stew? Silly sooth, I would say.
Saint Brendan was sailing away from Ireland into what we call the Atlantic, whereas Stranraer is the dour wee burgh on the bottom left-hand corner of Scotland, from which you get the car ferry across the Irish Sea to Northern Ireland. The town is emphatically unromantic, though the corrugated countryside behind it, the land of Sir Walter Scott’s “Old Mortality,” is appealingly wet and green, and the inlet down which you sail after leaving the harbor is lined with long, low hills that feel they might well be the last of land before you pass, like Turner’s Fighting Témeraire, over the edge of the world.
In Saint Brendan’s time there were, of course, other, more deadly sailors trekking westward. The Vikings got to Minnesota a bit later (1961, according to the team history), but they were certainly in Newfoundland a thousand years ago, where they lived in a seaside settlement now called L’Anse aux Meadows. If you fly Icelandair back from Europe, not only will you find that Iceland (at the right time of year) is green and Greenland is covered with snow, but you will see the rippling gray whaleroad in between them that they rowed over, laid out like a gelatin print.
Less adventurous Vikings got no further than the hills of the Scotch-English border, where they started families with names like Nicholson and became noted for sheep stealing and cattle theft. They still sing ballads in the border country about the most vicious of these “reivers”: “My name is wee Jock Elliot and wha’ daur meddle wi’ me’” (in English, “who dares meddle with me”; and in straight Latin, “nemo me impune lacessit”).
When James VI of Scots became James I of England in 1603, he started to dream up schemes to make his kingdoms a touch more prosperous—Jamestown in Virginia was one of the less lucrative enterprises he chartered. Introducing a market economy to Northern Ireland was one that paid better (though, of course, at the expense of the Gaelic population). Among those transplanted from southern Scotland across the narrow sea to northern Ireland were quite a number of the vigorous folk who had made life on the Scotch-English border so exciting in earlier days, when men were men and sheep were afraid.
Some of the settlers moved on further during the next few generations, especially to the more southerly of the Thirteen Colonies of North America. But plenty stayed. Like their Scottish ancestors, the Protestant settlers in Ulster had a talent for distillation. No surprise, then, that they soon got into the whiskey business (whiskey with an ”e” because it’s Irish). The first license to distill in the northern tip of Ireland, in the area around Bushmills in County Antrim, was granted in 1608. The present Bushmills business, which claims to be the oldest distillery in the world, is first mentioned in 1783. Nowadays it produces several different whiskies: a standard blend of malt and grain (Bushmills Original, with a white label); various single malts; and a superior blend called Black Bush.
Black Bush is the one I like best, and can be had for less than $30 locally. It is mostly malt whiskey with a certain amount of grain whiskey to lighten the taste (not that it is as light as Cutty Sark and other blends of Scotch popular in the United States). It also has real bite—though, like Irish whiskey in general, it is innocent of the reek of peat that makes connoisseurs of Laphroaig, the Islay malt from the Scotch side of the water, gasp for air. Having been thrice distilled (unusual, though not unique), Bushmills is clean and clear. There are no frills, no superfluous sweetness. It must be something like this they drink in the Island of the Promise of the Saints.
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Stronger Vines, Tastier Wines?
The tradition of growing grapes is almost as old as the hills on which they’re planted. But when we picture those vine-covered hills, most of us would sooner conjure Tuscany, Bordeaux, or the windswept Carneros Valley of California than Hastings, Minnesota. Yet increasingly, places like Hastings, Putney, Vermont, and Long Island, New York, are being transformed into grape-growing regions, thanks to a driven and ambitious generation of viticulturists. These against-the-grain growers need more than just good weather and great marketing to be successful; they need science and, like Hastings’ own Nan Bailly of Alexis Bailly Vineyard, faith.
It’s not that grapes won’t grow in cold climates—certain wild varieties, for instance, are indigenous to Minnesota—but rather a question of growing a grape worthy of eating, or pressing into wine. That goal came into focus around 1908, the year the University of Minnesota established its Horticultural Research Center, which was charged with finding ways to produce sustainable food crops from our short growing season and harsh climate. While grapes took a back seat to the more fashionable apple for decades, especially during Prohibition, exciting stuff started to happen in the late sixties. Elmer Swenson, who had been with the research center in the forties, returned with new findings from his own work with grape vines in Wisconsin. Shortly thereafter, a Minneapolis lawyer named David Bailly decided he was ready to take a gamble with his own love of wine.
Bailly bought a few acres in Hastings and planted them with French grapes, including Maréchal Foch and Seyval Blanc. He took to heart the French winemakers’ belief that vines must thrive through adversity—wind, sleet, snow, drought—in order to produce superior fruit. The motto for the Alexis Bailly Vineyard became “Where the grapes can suffer.” Bailly’s gamble paid off, and he began producing enough good wine to satisfy his soul—his Maréchal Foch, in particular, remains a supple, medium-bodied red wine that seems to defy its Midwestern heritage—if not quite enough to quit his day job.
David Bailly planted those vines more than thirty years ago, and every autumn since then, they have been buried in order to survive the winter. This fall, after the harvest, his daughter Nan plans to rip them out. Just as her father pioneered French grapes grown locally, she is leading the next charge in winemaking by using Midwestern hybrids.
It seems those wild Minnesota grapes, which coil their tentacles onto anything that stands still, are very important to the future of grape growing. While the fruit from these aggressive vines is small and inky, not much for consumption, what’s significant is the fact that they not only survive, but also flourish in cold climates. Back in the eighties, as David Bailly’s Maréchal Foch was winning accolades and medals from American Wine Society competitions, the U’s research center jump-started its grape program by building its own winery on the grounds in Chanhassen. Then horticulturalists began the long process of cutting and grafting the hearty Minnesota grape with more refined and palatable varieties. Peter Hemstad, one of the center’s primary viticulturists, believed so much in what he was seeing in Chanhassen that he planted his own vines and opened the St. Croix Vineyard in Stillwater.
Basically, it’s Hemstad’s job to think and drink: What kind of flavor components will emerge if he cuts a slice from a Burgundy vine and grafts it onto the unromantically named Number 1126 hybrid? Will it pick up the Burgundy’s tannic qualities or will it blend to form a completely different profile? Will the fruit hold on to the rich redness or will it mutate into a lighter or even gray shade? In 1995, the Horticultural Research Center released Frontenac, a red wine grape that can survive colder temperatures without being buried and is highly resistant to disease. Its garnet color and pleasant aroma (Bailly’s version of Frontenac has deep berry overtones and a smoky oak finish) put Frontenac grapes at the top of the list for Midwest growers.
The U of M’s little oenology project has become a national leader in cold-climate grape research. The self-proclaimed wine geeks at the research center are having an impact all around the country—even as far north as Quebec, where those who see their French heritage as a God-given right to produce wine use the research center as the ultimate resource. (They probably also encourage the dreams of those people who see starting your own vineyard as the next coolest thing after starting your own restaurant.) The bigger question may be, why bother? While medals and awards are handed out to winemakers from all over the country, when’s the last time someone brought a Missouri wine to a dinner party? Will cold-climate grapes ever produce vintages that are as successful as those from Napa Valley? In such a specialized and, some say, elitist industry, is there enough commerce to support local growers and justify the research?
Here’s where the larger purpose comes in. Maybe growing local grapes and producing local wines will make wine in general less intimidating to the average Joe—and so maybe there’ll be more average Joes drinking wine with their burgers. Maybe a Cedar Creek Syrah from Wisconsin would be an easier or friendlier choice for a first-time Syrah drinker than a bottle with a name he can’t pronounce. It doesn’t hurt that this wine’s big flavors of blackberry and plum and its spicy finish have earned numerous gold medals from the International Eastern Wine competition.
Imagine picking up a bottle of wine at the farmers’ market along with your locally grown and crafted produce, cheese, and meats. Wouldn’t it be a boon for grape growers everywhere if wine culture in this country began to grow because of people supporting their local vineyards? Nan Bailly certainly hopes so. That’s why she’s replacing her French vines with Minnesota hybrids. If the wine industry and the rapidly growing numbers of fledgling oenophiles who support it could lay down their snobbish beliefs that only grapes from perfect coastal conditions can make drinkable wines, there could be a beautiful future for Nan Bailly’s tiny Hastings vineyard, and others all around the region. Now might be a historic time to visit one of them.
Chasing Grapes
Alexis Bailly Vineyards is open on weekends and offers tastings for two dollars. (www.abvwines.com)
St. Croix Vineyards celebrates the harvest with a Grape Stomp festival on September 10 and 11. (www.scvwines.com)
Fieldstone Vineyards celebrates its harvest the last two weekends in September. (www.fieldstonevineyard.com)
Morgan Creek Vineyard is known for its gorgeous landscapes; its annual grape stomp is October 1.
(www.morgancreekvineyards.com)
For more Minnesota wineries, see the list on the
U of M’s Enology website: http://winegrapes.coafes.umn.edu
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LoTo
David Fhima’s slick space in Galtier Plaza is near perfect, the kind of place geared toward you and your hunger rather than what the chef thinks you should be eating. Here, your dinner date can dig into a big seafood linguine while you gleefully ponder the beauty of a honkin’ slice of cappuccino buttercream cake, and no one will mark the inequity of your selections. LoTo is all things to all appetites: coffee shop, bakery, deli, restaurant, bar, and more. Pressed panini, innovative pizzas, hearty pastas, Edina Creamery ice cream, and sinful pastries all work together to fill your need for good food and a cool, urban place in which to eat it. 380 Jackson St., St. Paul; 651-209-7776
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Kabobi
Kabobi has arrived in Eden Prairie to save the khaki-clad office teams from yet another giant burrito. This warmly stylish joint offers two main dishes and a bevy of sides. Order the Kabobi sandwich and you’ll get seasoned, fire-roasted chicken, beef, or lamb cradled in flatbread with tomatoes, onions, cucumber, and a creamy herb sauce. Or go for the shish kabob and have your protein skewered alongside grilled tomato. Sides are fresh and oh so snackable; don’t miss the Persian pickles. Add a decent selection of beer and wine, plus the candle-lit ambience of the dining room at night, and this place becomes more than just a lunch spot. 13250 Technology Drive, Eden Prairie; 952-937-1414
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Dakota Jazz Club & Restaurant
What’s hotter than the jazz at the Dakota? The new menu. When longtime chef Ken Goff departed, young hotshot Jack Riebel (formerly of La Belle Vie) stepped up to undertake a gastronomical renovation. His grilled lamb confit tart with goat cheese and tapenade strikes an earthy, rich note, and the ham and sweet pea soup plays sweet against dusky with white truffle oil. The downtown lunch crowd is going for the porcini burger with Tallegio cheese, while those who intend to skip out on work for the day choose the tequila-marinated shrimp ceviche from the bar menu. And fear not, longtime fans: the apple and brie soup endures. 1010 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-332-1010; www.dakotacooks.com
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Cirque du Soleil
With shows in Las Vegas and Disney World, performances on cruise ships, and six globe-trotting productions, what was once an artsy, small-scale French-Canadian circus has blossomed into a seriously big business entertainment. And, while it’s not exactly the exotic spectacle it once was, the troops enlisted by this troupe still put on one hell of a show. The latest production to sweep through Minneapolis bears the same kind of mysterious, seemingly made-up name (Corteo) we’ve come to expect from the troupe, along with contortionists, Euro-clowns (i.e., not the scary sort), child acrobats, tightrope walkers, aerialists, and the like. Actually, “Corteo” is the Italian for “cortege,” which is itself a French word for a procession or parade. But what, exactly, is The Grand Chapiteau? Why, that would be French for “big top,” which Cirque folk will erect, appropriately enough, on the Parade Stadium grounds. 600 Kenwood Parkway (west of the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden) 800-678-5440; www.cirquedusoleil.com
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The Best of The Second City Touring Company
In a showdown between Saturday Night Live and Second City TV, SNL comes out the shrill, monotonous loser with the long, embarrassing sketches. SC was born onstage in Chicago in 1959, and expanded to the small screen during the seventies and eighties. Eight seasons of inventive ensemble comedy featured young comics like John Candy, Eugene Levy, and Martin Short. While the TV show has been relegated to DVD, the live show goes on, starring up-and-comers who no doubt toss coins into hotel fountains and wish for a contract doing more tedious work on SNL. Until then, they can tour with this live rerun, which revives some of the funniest skits from the SCTV archives, along with new and improvisational material. 2004 Randolph Ave., St, Paul; 1-800-277-6874, www.secondcity.com
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Bankrupt City Ballad
Could the origins of reality TV be traced back to Depression-era dance marathons? These events played out as grueling contests, in which curious onlookers watched young, desperate couples compete for prize money by bopping, literally, til they dropped. Bankrupt City Ballad recalls those days as Peter Rothstein, the brains behind Theater Latte Da, and Mathew Janczewski, ARENA Dances mastermind, hook up to transform the Southern Theater into an old-time dance hall. With a penchant for pretty music and bittersweet plot lines, Rothstein’s singers promise to unearth any tenderness that might be flickering among those Darwinian foxtrots. Southern Theater; 1420 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-340-1725; www.latteda.org
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Nordic Roots Festival
In a herculaean feat involving customs negotiations, visas, and all sorts of other international red tape, the Cedar manages to import a couple dozen Scandinavian musicians each year for its Nordic Roots Festival. The music itself is even more amazing. This year’s lineup includes traditional players like Norway’s Knut Hamre (a master of the lovely and lugubrious Hardanger fiddle) and modern stylists like Sweden’s Hoven Droven, a groovy, giddy bunch of rambunctious folk-stomp-rockers. This year’s highlight, however, may be the collaboration between Swedish fiddler Ellika and Senegalese kora player Solo, who will be joined by Bill Frisell on guitar and Bruce Molsky on guitar. Obviously, this isn’t the festival’s most chilly, purist Nordic experience, but it should be a fantastic border-crossing experience. 612-338-2674; www.thecedar.org