The Rake Magazine

Month: November 2007

  • Take off the Costume and Honor Thy Dead

    ART
    Day of the Dead

    An amalgamation of indigenous ritual, Catholicism, and Mexican tradition, Día de los Muertos celebrates and honors those who have traversed the line between life and death in Latin American cultures. In reverence to this special day, the Altered Esthetics exhibition opening this evening presents more than 30 national artists’ representations of this visually-oriented, festive-yet-spiritual theme. Since traditional ofrendas (offerings for the dead) can include anything from tequila to old household items, expect images ranging from the mundane and comforting to the colorful and sexy. Participants at the opening reception tomorrow night are encouraged to bring momentos, pictures, and collages for a memorial wall commemorating those who have passed in the last year. The gallery is supplying candles and flowers for a community processional. –Danielle Cabot

    1-7 p.m., Reception tomorrow from 7-9 p.m., Altered Esthetics, 1224 Quincy St. NE.; Minneapolis; 612-378-8888; free.

     

    FILM
    An Offering for the Dead

    Also in honor of Día de los Muertos (and a good deal of filmmaking talent), the Walker opens the first session of its Cinematica series of Latin American film. For the next two weeks (and again in January), you can explore a broad spectrum of filmmaking styles from New Mexican Cinema. Quite fittingly, the series begins this evening with La Ofrenda: The Day of the Dead. Directed by Lourdes Portillo and Susana Muñoz, this 1988 documentary "reveals the pre-Hispanic roots of the Day of the Dead and invites us into present-day celebrations in Oaxaca and the United States."

    7:30 p.m., Walker Art Center, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-375-7600; free.

     

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Festival of Lies

    Art meets life in this informal, party-like performance replete with food and drink from the Cedar-Riverside area’s Tam-Tam’s African Restaurant, and a locally produced soundtrack of African music. But the main attraction is Congolese choreographer Faustin Linyekula and his troupe of dancers and actors, who move within a shifting installation of fluorescent light fixtures, electrical chords, and other detritus to communicate, with movement and speech, stories both personal and political. The catch: Some of these tales are true, some lies — Linyekula’s reflection on the collective amnesia that tends to plague citizens of a corrupt, turbulent nation — and it’s the audience’s job to discern the difference. Presented by the Walker Art Center. –Christy DeSmith

    8 p.m. (tonight through Saturday), Cedar Cultural Center, 416 Cedar Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-375-7600; $25.

     

    MUSIC
    Gypsy Mayhem

    We first saw Gogol Bordello at the creatively named Bulgarian Bar at Canal and Broadway, the nexus of downtown New York. It was odd, to say the least, to eat pierogis at a table while watching a new, weird mutation of punk – the kind that was happening in suburban basements throughout the 80s – unfold on a tiny stage, as a small clutch of moshers steadily grew. Within a couple of years frontman Eugene Hutz, who is like a Ukrainian version of Iggy Pop, and his band of collaborators were being mobbed uptown, at the opening night of the Whitney Biennial. More a cabaret of chaos than a typical rock show, Gogol’s live performances fusing punk, Eastern European folk, and avant-garde DJ-ing are legendary. As Hutz once told a critic, "Sometimes we just sit around and think ‘We are this kind of band, but wouldn’t it be great if there were this and this and this kind of band’?" Exactly! –Julie Caniglia

    6 p.m., First Avenue, 701 First Avenue N., Minneapolis; 612-332-1775; $18.

     

    Still Holding Steady

    The Hold Steady are well known for tossing hosannas to the Twin Cities’ landscape and music scene, past and present — from name-checking the "Grain Belt bridge" and Payne Avenue to sonic nods to all manner of local bands. Never mind that frontman Craig Finn, a native of Edina, decamped to Brooklyn some seven years ago — the Twin Towns (and their suburbs) remain a key inspiration. Of course, influences outside our city limits also filter into Finn’s songs: hints of Jersey boy Bruce Springsteen (okay, maybe not just hints) or Ohio’s Guided By Voices, not to mention shout-outs to dive bars and shopping malls stumbled across on countless and lengthy tours. What’s their latest Twin Cities reference? Find out when the Hold Steady plays the State Theatre this evening. While you’re at it, check out frontman Craig Finn’s playlist in this month’s issue. –Christy DeSmith

    7:30 p.m., State Theatre, 805 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-339-7007; $23.50.

  • Chuck 2006: Admirably Mediocre

    Have I mentioned how much I hate Trader Joe’s?

    A little over a year ago, when the California-based grocer moved into Minnesota, and located their inaugural store about a mile from my house in St. Louis Park, the POLICE had to be called in to direct traffic. It was like Lourdes: people streaming in from St. Paul, from Red Wing, from Kansas, for all I know, to witness this retail wonder. The streets in our neighborhood were a mess for weeks. I had to drive to Golden Valley just to buy coffee and bagels.

    So about a month later, when I finally walked into the place myself — this magnificent edifice that so many had traveled so far to experience — I expected to see a bright light and hear a chorus of angels. Instead, I found myself inside a garishly-painted space stocked with haphazard piles of "natural" foods. Only this was the thing. I’m used to my natural food being, you know, natural. But here, at TJ, the apples weren’t bare-naked and glossy and gloriously orchard-like; they were packaged four to a bulbous plastiform container. There were aisles full of fancy [high-fat] multi-colored chips and pre-assembled kits to make various incredibly basic homemade things — salsa and guac and such. Also chocolate "energy" bars, pressed packages of cheese, pump bottles of lotion.

    I passed up the fruit encased in crude oil and went to the dairy section for some plain yogurt. Not yak-milk yogurt, mind you, nothing fancy. Didn’t even have to be organic, though that would have been nice. But I was out of luck. This place had Chocolate Eclair yogurt and Nut-Berry Crunch. All the Lucky Charms varieties of yogurt in bright, rainbow colors. No plain.

    In addition, there was no bulk section: no whole wheat pastry flour, no rice, no white popcorn, no loose leaf tea. There were, however, dozens of different flavors of Trader Joe’s sauces, soups, mixes, cookies, and cakes. In other words, junk. Finally, I bought some tangerine-scented lotion, just to say I’d been. Took it home, used it, broke out in a rash, threw it away. Until this week, that was the last time I was in Trader Joe’s.

    Finally, the traffic’s died down. There are two more Twin Cities TJ locations — an outpost in Maple Grove and brand-spanking new one in Woodbury — so the burden on St. Louis Park has eased up. Plus, I’ve been hearing and hearing (and hearing) about the so-called Two Buck Chuck, which because we’re in Minnesota actually is THREE Buck Chuck (or, more precisely, 2.99 Buck Chuck — but that doesn’t sound as good), and especially the Charles Shaw Chardonnay 2005 which won all sorts of blind taste test wine awards.

    So yesterday, during the sunny, windy peak of a gorgeous autumn afternoon, I walked over to Trader Joe’s and stepped inside. I’d love to continue grumbling, but I must admit, things have improved. The apples were piled in a respectable pyramid this time; the dairy case did contain a couple containers of plain yogurt in and amongst the sparkly, sugary tubs. The aisles, once again, were stack-packed with chips, crackers, and Annie’s instant dinners — the original ersatz organic fare. But Trader Joe’s is, after all, not The Wedge, but rather, I’ve learned, the Super America of sandal-wearing yuppie-hippie-Boomer types who love their psychedelic mac and cheese and wouldn’t know how to cook a pot of quinoa (or pronounce it, for that matter) if their lives depended on it.

    Next, I went into the wine store, where I learned that the 2005 Chard that was so widely talked about has all sold out and what they’re hawking now, for $3 a pop, is the 2006. So I bought a bottle, which the cashier kindly double-bagged for my mile-long walk home. I treated this wine like a prized White Bordeaux from 1998: chilling it at a careful angle, opening it as dusk fell, decanting it gently into a crystal glass. I took a sip and then another. And I had to admit, grudgingly, that it didn’t suck.

    Like most inexpensive party wines, the TBC Chard 2006 is a little frothy when it first meets the mouth, and it causes the tongue to go a little puckery as it slides down the sides. It’s bright and simple — like the sun in a child’s drawing — full of lemony fruit and not a lot else. But what’s remarkable is what it doesn’t have: a sour, metallic, or too-sugary aftertaste. It’s rare, in fact, to find a dirt cheap wine that finishes this clean.

    Still, I was cranky about it — that plain yogurt incident just weighing on me — and I wanted to prove myself wrong. So I did a blind taste test of my own. When my husband came home, I handed him a glass and barked, "Tell me what you think." So without even putting his briefcase down he tasted and smiled and said, "Not bad. It’s a little sweet maybe. But there’s something really good about it, like a nice mid-price Viognier."

    Well, there you have it. It wasn’t the California State Fair Commercial Wine Competition, I grant you, but a random test in my living room, performed by a curmudgeonly wine critic (can a woman be a curmudgeon?) and a well-traveled software developer says it is so. If you’re looking for a profoundly ordinary but inoffensive bottle of white wine that costs less than your Sunday New York Times, there is, a legitimate reason to go to Trader Joe’s. Just don’t drive down my street, OK?

  • Protector of Pandas, Friend to Farmers

    We’re sitting at a table in Rice Paper, the little Asian-fusion restaurant in Linden Hills.

    When I asked Jim Harkness, president of the Institute for Agriculture and Trade Policy, if he would talk to me over dinner he said sure, I should pick the place. His house is in this neighborhood, I reasoned, and he lived in China for more than a decade. He heads up an agency that advocates for family-owned businesses. Rice Paper should be perfect.

    The server hands me a menu and I study it for a second. “What looks good to you?” I ask.

    “Well, nothing, actually,” Harkness says. He is staring at his menu, eyebrows beetling fiercely. Then he looks up. “Oh, I probably should have told you, I’m kind of an anti-fusion snob. I mean, generations went into creating authentic, regional Asian cuisines. Can’t we just stick to one? Why do we have to mess them up by mixing them all together?”

    I have no idea what to say.

    Harkness shrugs. “You never know, maybe I’ll be won over,” he says. “But I doubt it.”

    He’s a young-looking 45, with a handsome, unlined face and dark hair. I attribute this to the way he’s lived: single, unburdened by so much as a cat, following a career path based entirely upon his whims and interests rather than mundane exigencies such as car payments, children, a 401(k). But no matter how solipsistic his approach, there’s no denying Harkness is doing great work.

    He’s just returned, for instance, from a summit in Beijing where he was asked to speak about the trade relationship between China and Africa. I ask him for his position. He begins with a sketch of the history: “China’s leaders came up in the 50s, 60s, and 70s, during the Cold War, at a time when the country’s ties to third-world countries were based largely on the movement toward non-alliance. And a big part of their foreign policy has always been this notion of non-interference.” After several minutes, he shifts to the modern day: “In today’s world, a world of global economies, that’s a sort of naïve view and it ends up dovetailing very conveniently with a trade policy that’s focused on getting resources, like oil.” He launches into descriptions of the various groups opposing China and concludes with: “Frankly, I’m not terribly sympathetic to the U.S. or European countries saying that China’s motives in Africa aren’t pure because of our own 400-year history of plunder and colonialism, stretching right up to the present.”

    He takes a breath. The server — who seems to have every table in this busy little restaurant — stops back to ask if we’re ready to order.

    “Not yet,” Harkness tells her. “I’m formulating a theory about Chinese foreign policy here. It takes time.”

    Finally, we choose two dishes, Plantation chicken and a Curry Plate with tofu, and agree to share. He orders a domestic beer (Rice Paper has obtained a beer and wine license since its “dry” opening in 2003), warning me to avoid imported Asian beers because most of them are awful.

    “How did you end up in China in the first place?” I ask.

    He looks perplexed again, then begins at the beginning.

    Harkness grew up just a few miles away, in Minneapolis near 50th and Girard. His parents both were the children of missionaries — his father born in Mozambique, his mother in Korea — so their lifestyle, even with children, was peripatetic. Harkness attended Minneapolis Central High School when he wasn’t traveling with his family, and took classes in Chinese. In 1976, the year he was 14, he was selected along with a group of other high schools students from the United States to visit China as part of a “friendship delegation.”

    “That was the era of ping-pong diplomacy,” he explains. “I think they ran out of other ‘welcoming’ things to do, so they invited this group of high school kids over, wined and dined us, took us to the Great Wall. I thought it was great. Had a mad crush on one of the female Red guards — unrequited, by the way.”

    He returned, finished high school, and took up the Chinese again at the University of Wisconsin. In 1981, he traveled to Tianjin as part of an exchange program. But it wasn’t global politics that Harkness was interested in, it was ornithology. He was — and still is — riveted by birds.

    While earning his master’s degree in sociology at Cornell University, he signed on as a consultant to the International Crane Foundation, based in Baraboo, Wisconsin. The tiny nonprofit happened to be launching a project in China and they were in need of someone who spoke the language.

    Harkness glowers and announces, “In the mountain where there is no tiger, the monkey is king.”

    There is a pause. “Which means?” I prompt.

    “Since none of these salt-of-the-earth Wisconsin bird nuts knew Chinese, they thought I was some worldly sophisticate. I became their king. They’d find some Chinese scientist who didn’t speak English, and I’d be sent to translate and help him artificially inseminate black-necked cranes.”

  • Nick and Eddie: The Mystery of Hipness

    I just can’t figure it out. Doug Anderson’s new restaurant,
    Nick and Eddie, manages to radiate hipness — even uber-hipness, but I can’t put
    my finger on just what does it. It isn’t actually Doug’s restaurant —
    officially, he’s the head waiter. Seems that there were some financial issues
    that Doug isn’t at liberty to discuss, that led to the abrupt closing of his
    last venture, A Rebours, so Doug’s wife Jessica, and the chef, Steve Vranian,
    are the owners of record. But Doug seems to be the creative force behind the
    new Loring Park café and bar.

    At any rate, explaining the hipness: It certainly isn’t the
    décor — bare white walls, Formica-style tabletops and a few yards of velvet
    wallpaper thrown in. It can’t be the menu, which reads like the opposite of
    hip: chopped chicken liver ($5), potato pancakes with smoked whitefish salad
    ($5), braised beef cheeks with parsnip puree ($15), poached salmon with
    sauerkraut and brussel sprouts ($18) — you get the idea. My esteemed colleague,
    Ann Bauer, says it’s the sound system, which is supposed to be a high-tech
    wonder; but the night I visited, we could barely hear the tunes above the din
    of diners.

     

    Maybe it’s the staff. The servers, all dressed in black,
    definitely contribute to the cool factor. On my most recent visit, we were
    waited on by Daniela from Brazil, with a hint of samba in her voice, and Ian
    from Ireland, whose roguish charm and musical brogue was one of the prime
    attractions of the late, lamented Emma’s Café — especially for the ladies.

    Anderson has assembled a stellar team to run the new
    operation. In addition to Jessica Anderson, who doubles as baker and pastry
    chef, there’s chef Vranian, whose resume includes stints at the California
    Café, Murray’s, North Coast, and Jeremiah Tower’s Star’s in San Francisco,
    where Doug and Steve met. General manager Scott Ida worked with Doug at
    Aquavit, and has also worked at other top houses, including Goodfellows and the
    510 Restaurant.

    The food may not be hip, but what I sampled was impressive.
    Call it comfort food with a twist. The beef and cabbage borscht added just a
    hint of spice to a very flavorful meaty broth, while the Belgian endive salad
    with persimmons and hazel was refreshingly light and playful. And I loved the
    beef cheeks – the tenderest meat I’ve had in ages. My wife, who doesn’t eat
    meat, was less impressed with the only vegetarian entrée, billed as wild rice
    and hominy with parsnips roasted beets and Swiss chard. I actually liked that
    dish, too, but it probably would work better as a side dish than as an entrée. But we both loved the dessert, a chocolate
    Ho-Ho, that was just like the real thing, only better.