Author: Stephanie March

  • The F Word

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    Have you been watching Gordon Ramsey’s show on BBC America, The F Word?

    It’s fucking great.

    Some may think right away “I hate Gordon Ramsey, he’s such an asshole.” Well yes, but if you’ve only watched Hell’s Kitchen, don’t be so quick to judge. It should be clear to anyone who has even a little kitchen savvy that the FOX cooking competition is stacked with losers specifically meant to fail and frustrate the head chef.

    He does have a rough manner, an old-school kitchen charm, a loud and spicy vocabulary. But he’s all about the food and the guest, what more can you ask for in a chef, let alone a TV chef.

    All the Rachel Rays and Tyler Florences and Paula Deens who primp and play to the camera are there for themselves and the audience. Even Bobby Flay, the “bad boy” of the Food Network is rather simpy and concerned for his best side.

    Let’s face it, Ramsey doesn’t have a best side. The show is part survival competition, part cooking lesson, part food magazine. It opens with a bunch of cocky home-cooks who think they can handle working in a professional kitchen, with Ramsey. He quickly deflates all ego with his demand for perfection. The rate of success is judged by real diners who decide whether or not they would pay for the food. REAL RESTAURANT STUFF: Not a panel of snobby judges, but people with money in their pockets, the only people that truly matter to a real chef.

    In another segment, Ramsey goes head-to-head with someone on similar dishes, last night saw different versions of Beef Wellington. If a table of diners likes the guest cook’s dish best, Rasmey has to put it on his menu. It’s great when he loses, if only for the stream of cuss the comes from his grinning face.

    He’s my new Sunday night habit, that fucking banana.

  • Halibut

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    big, flat fish

    The Alaskan halibut season opened this past weekend, and for fans of the flakey, white fish that means gold!

    I have a friend who is a pilot for NWA. A few years ago he switched out some routes so that he could fly to Alaska, just to get some halibut directly from the guys on the dock. He brought a big pack home and proceeded to batter and fry the chunks at a five-family picnic. The memory of that creamy flesh and the crispy, malty batter still haunts me. I remember burning my mouth trying to eat so much, so quickly.

    But halibut is just as memorable in finer dishes. Oceanaire will do, but I bet it will be good. Be sure to listen carefully to the servers in places like Kozy’s, Chart House, Stella’s Fish Cafe, and Jensen’s Supper Club where halibut will surely make an appearance as a chef’s special. Personally, I wouldn’t mind a month of dinners at the Dakota, waiting to see what Jack Riebel does with the beautifully flat fish.

  • Scouting

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    Where are my Girl Scout Cookies?

    My mom’s cookies have been delivered. I saw the Springy green box of Thin Mints on her table yesterday. And yet, my little scout has yet to show up.

    I saw a woman in the orthodontist parking lot horking down a sleeve of Do-Si-Do’s, the peanut-butter sandwich cookies. I was jealous, I can admit that.

    From the minute the doorbell rings and the little scout and I enter into a cookie contract, I wait. I’m a patient woman, but if I don’t hear from her soon, I may start stalking her. There are shortbreads out there with my name on them, dammit!

    Would they be this special if you could get them year-round? I don’t know if I want to answer that.

    And they’re not just for snarfing anymore, either. Look what this culinary student from Woodbury did with the peanut-butter sandwiches and the Caramel deLites. That’s patience.

  • Let's Play Hockey!

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    It’s tournament time, people. You know what that means … St. Paul restaurants will be packed with out-state hockey kids and their hockey parents. That’s a lot of Coke and Pepsi, my friends.

    But I actually have a great place for you, even if you’re all painted up and ready to WHOOP. If your team happened to draw Warroad, or worse yet Holy Angels, in the first round, you might need some help: get to the Great Waters Brewery.

    Great Waters’ beer is blessed. The brewery sits on the site of the original St. Paul Cathedral and still uses the old natural spring well. Seriously, kick back a pint of Fire & Ice Ale, throw down a couple of Hail Marys for your team and see if they can’t shut down the Rosemont machine.

    Besides blessed beer, Great Waters has good food that is clearly better than toxic orange nachos from the concession stand. Their Rasta Wings are really hot and you gotta love a place with a house-baked pretzel on the menu. Burgers are big, chicken sandwiches are juicy and, if you’re tucking in for a celebration dinner, try the pork chops marinated in St. Peter Pale Ale.

  • Cho-Down pt.2

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    Just a quick and dirty update on the Chodorow vs. Bruni saga …

    Apparently, Jeffrey has banned Bruni from all of his restaurants. Not only that, but he’s going to post a picture of Bruni on his website and offer a free vacation for anyone who spots Bruni in a Chodorow joint.

    What did I say yesterday about believing your own press?

  • Buca Big House

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    the pope’s table

    Joe Micatrotto was sentenced yesterday to 13 months in prison for his illegal actions as head honcho at Buca di Beppo.

    I have such odd feelings about this.

    As a young something, I believed in the crazy fun and cool world of Buca. I was the first Training Coordinator and running around the country opening restaurants and learning how to grow a national concept.

    It was the hardest work I’d ever done and the most fun I’d ever had. We were Una Famiglia and it was great to spread the Buca love to a bunch of fresh and wide-eyed innocents. I talked about humility and having fun and working together as a team, and I believed in every word I spoke. For a while.

    The restaurant world is a counter culture, normal rules of “office etiquette” usually don’t apply. So you don’t bat an eye when the dirty jokes flow from all levels, it’s really not that big of a deal. But sometimes, when you’re the only female traveling with an all-male executive team, it wears a little thin.

    And when you grow a company, things change, that’s a given. Systems are refined and streamlined to be more efficient. Shorten training to save money? ok. Stick the trainers in the cheapest, rattiest furnished apartments to save money? Uh, ok. Cut a day of learning and add a training party so the Big Cheese can feed all his friends for free? Huh?

    The day I truly lost my religion, the day I realized that every word from my mouth was fluff was a sweet day in Pasadena. For over a week I had spent countless hours in front of the trainees talking about how we were there to support them, giving them everything they would need to be successful and confident in their jobs. That night the training party was meant to be a training exercise: we invite people in and buy their food in exchange for their patience and understanding as we practice on them. The number of people invited is held to a manageable amount, so that each server is well paced but never slammed. That way they have the chance to focus on the smaller things that improve service.

    But Micatrotto lived near Pasadena, and the invite list grew to an absurd amount. By prime time, the entire restaurant was full and there was a two hour wait. The service staff and trainers were overwhelmed and just trying to survive. I knew that Micatrotto’s son Justin was holding court at a booth in the bar (the tables were supposed to be no more than 4 people, his held 8 or more) and that the server happened to be one of the weaker ones. But instead of having the chance to learn from her mistakes and become a stronger server, she was crushed by the pressure and the disdainful glare of the King of the Company.

    Of course she screwed up, that’s what they are supposed to do at training parties. Isn’t it better to mess up on someone who isn’t paying anyway? I went into the kitchen to plead her case with Joe, when I saw him in a fury at the front line. He was checking up on her ticket and realized she had forgotten to order something for Justin’s table. He then started kicking the kitchen equipment and shouting “that f**king c*nt!”. Over meatballs or pasta. Una Famiglia.

    I wanted to walk right out the door, but I didn’t. In fact it took me a few more years to realize that I couldn’t save the crazy cool and fun culture I’d loved. The company I’d believed in and helped grow was rotting from the head down.

    But I feel sorry for the guy. Prison is a high price to pay for a big ego. And yet … choices were made.

    I still crave the lemon chicken and could eat many wheels of the aromatic garlic bread. Under the new management Buca is again a happy place, I am told. In a way I have to appreciate my time under the Micatrotto regime, if only for the lesson I learned: Don’t believe your own press.

  • The Other White Milk

    Despite the fact that March often brings the year’s biggest snows, I cling optimistically to an idyllic vision of spring. The sun coaxes me into a daydream involving windswept hills fresh with fragrant clover, buds bursting forth, and butterflies dancing their jagged jig while the goats and I frolic in a bracing breeze. The goats are there because to me, as much as melting snow, mud, and the returning robin, goats embody spring.
    That’s not just a personal fancy. Goats have been associated with springtime for eons. The astrological sign of Capricorn is represented by the goat as he rules the sun’s ascent from the darkness of the winter solstice forward the spring equinox. The ancient Greek deity Pan was believed to be a satyr, a half-human, half-goat creature, and the god Dionysus is often pictured with a herd of playful satyrs cavorting about. Both were symbols of unbridled nature, lust, drinking, and celebrations held to honor the returning spring. It wasn’t until medieval Christians tried to stamp out nature-lovin’ religions that the horned goat became a demonic symbol.
    Despite that association with the devil, goats—or more precisely, their milk and their cheese—feed into my vernal dreams; its pure whiteness makes me think of fresh innocence, a clean slate, renewed life—the essence of spring. Though I eat goat cheese year-round, a particular craving for it develops in the springtime. Thankfully, with the help of so many other fans, this stuff has evolved from an exotic food trend of the eighties to its current status as a grocery-store staple.
    Beyond the popular acceptance of goat cheese, goat milk (a food source for about seventy percent of the world’s population) has become a real answer for people who are allergic to or can’t easily digest cow milk. Goat-milk proteins provide all of the necessary amino acids, with fats that are more readily absorbed and lower lactose levels. According to the Wisconsin Dairy Goat Association, this growing market is driving the industry in that state, making it second only to California as the highest producer of goat milk in the country. Jumping on the trend, some traditional dairy farms are moving toward goats because, though it takes roughly ten goats to produce the same quantity of milk as one cow, the cost and amount of feed for that one cow can be spread among fifteen to twenty goats.
    So not only are goats a bargain, they’re also just more fun than those big, plodding bovines that seem to chew endlessly with vacant eyes. Goats play. They are far more sociable than cows and tend to form strong bonds with their owners. They jump and climb and race and seem to actively celebrate a warm, sunny day. When Mary Doerr started her Dancing Winds Farm in Kenyon, an hour south of the Cities, she named it for her frolicsome goats and the continual gusty winds on the prairie where they live. Doerr has been producing Dancing Winds goat cheese for nearly twenty years, at one point churning out nearly four hundred pounds a week. But then she realized that she wasn’t having as much fun as her goats, and so she scaled back the business to a more manageable level, now selling cheese only at the St. Paul Farmers’ Market or directly from the farm.
    There seems no bounds to the contributions of the goat to the culinary scene. If you’re ever near Madison on a summer Saturday, or just fancy a cheese-focused drive, Fantome Farm has a market booth where, if you’re lucky, you will find—and snatch up—its Fleuri. Dusted with ash and cave-aged for a richer flavor, it is rated by the American Cheese Society as one of the top goat cheeses in the country. One of the loveliest uses of goat’s milk has to be LaLoo’s ice cream. Available at Whole Foods and Lakewinds Co-op, LaLoo’s takes all of the healthy benefits of goat’s milk and turns it into sinfully delicious ice-cream flavors like black mission fig, molasses tipsycake, pumpkin spice, and chocolate cabernet.
    At local restaurants, goat selections have been moving off the cheese plate and appearing throughout the rest of the menu. At Spoonriver, they stuff wasabi goat cheese into orange blossom apricots and serve them on a green salad. For an antipasto, try Brix’s pecan-crusted goat-cheese truffles with warm rosemary honey. And while I haven’t yet fully tested this theory, I am convinced that the frittata on 128 Café’s brunch menu wouldn’t be anywhere near as satisfying without its roasted garlic goat cheese.
    But enough about cheese. There’s no reason to rule out the rest of the goat. Most commonly known in our country by the French name chevon or the Italian name cabrito, goat meat is enjoyed in dishes worldwide, including Spanish, Middle Eastern, Asian, Greek, and Mexican cuisines. Far less gamy than some might suspect, young goat is tender and lean with a mild flavor. A great way to try it is in khasiko maasu, a Nepalese goat meat curry served at Everest on Grand. The curry flavors play particularly well with the goat without masking its slight sweetness. At Mexican restaurants around town, a favorite dish is birria de chivo, a specialty from Jalisco that calls for steaming the goat over a spiced tomato broth. The drippings from the meat are usually incorporated in the broth and the dish served as a hearty stew akin to pot roast. Head to La Perla del Pacifico on a weekend, the only time they make birria de chivo, with meat that is fall-apart tender and just a little crisp on the outer layer. If you can’t wait for the weekend, grab lunch at El Nuevo Rodeo and order tacos with birria meat. The meat carries the smoky tomato flavoring well, but also has a slightly richer, rounder flavor than the carnitas you may be used to.
    If, after all that, you still wish to connect in a more direct way with the spirit of the goat, head on down to the Dancing Winds Farm. Doerr renovated a portion of her farmhouse into a guesthouse, which she runs as an educational farm retreat. I, for one, am convinced there is no better way to celebrate the spring (and my inner goat herder), than to wake up to a farm-fresh breakfast and a good goat frolic.

    Dancing Winds Farm, 6863 Cty 12 Blvd., Kenyon; 507-789-6606; dancingwinds@juno.com.

    St. Paul Farmers Market, 290 E. Fifth St., St. Paul; 651-227-8101; www.stpaulfarmersmarket.com

    Fantôme Farm, Rt. 1, Ridgeway, WI; 608-924-1266, www.fantomefarm.com. Lakewinds Natural Foods, www.lakewinds.com. Whole Foods Market,
    www.wholfoodsmarket.com

    Spoonriver, 750 S. Second St., Minneapolis; 612-436-2236; www.spoonriverrestaurant.com

    Brix Bistro & Wine Bar, 4656 Excelsior Blvd., St. Louis Park; 952-698-BRIX; www.brixwine.com

    128 Café, 128 Cleveland Ave N., St Paul; 651-645-4128; www.128cafe.net

    Everest on Grand, 1278 Grand Ave., St. Paul; 651-696-1666; www.hotmomo.com

    La Perla del Pacifico, 6009 Nicollet Ave., Minneapolis; 612-869-5358.

    El Nuevo Rodeo, 2709 E. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612.728.0101; www.elnuevorodeo.com

    SHOP TALK
    Are you keen to see an Indian comedy about two thieves breaking into a pastry shop? Slow Food on Film—a juried selection of international shorts to be shown at the U of M St. Paul Campus on March 24, hosted by our local Slow Food chapter—promises to be much more exciting than it sounds. Visit the events page at slowfoodmn.org for more information … All budding molecular gastronomers and nerdy kitchen geeks (present!) must sign up for a new series of cooking classes based on the teachings of kitchen-science guru Shirley O. Corriher. Understanding the basics of why cakes rise and how chocolate is tempered might just lead you on the path to the ne plus ultra of nouvelle cuisine: foam (Let’s Cook, www.letscook.com, for more info) … The Parade of Homes offers a smart food focus this year, with three kitchen-themed tours to help envision your dream kitchen or take in demonstrations by local chefs, restaurants and cooking schools. Most intriguing, the old Cream of Wheat building, which has been turned into lofts, will feature Cream of Wheat cookies in a variety of flavors (www.paradeofhomes.org).

    CUISINE SUPREME
    Cooqi
    There’s no need to suffer through leaden, tasteless health-snacks ever again. This vibrant, petite bakery touts itself as “the gluten-free bakery of your wildest, most scrumptious dreams,” and they’re not kidding. Even those who go for gluten will appreciate the organic ingredients, whole-grain flours, and lack of preservatives, trans-fats, and refined sugars. Breads like the rosemary focaccia, the dense multigrain, and Ellie’s kid-friendly sandwich bread sell out on a regular basis. The soft and cakey double fudge cookie, which is also available as frozen dough, should be a local legend. 2186 Marshall Ave, St. Paul; 651-645-4433; cooqiglutenfree.com

    Sambol
    So many terrific strip-mall restaurants, so little time. Get ahead of the game and take our word on Sambol. Featuring Indian and Sri-Lankan cuisine, this charmer tucked away in Eagan packs them in for the affordable Indian lunch buffet, offering pakoras, tandoori chicken, and a host of vegetarian specialties. If you go Indian at lunch, come back for a Sri-Lankan dinner. Cravable in every way are the hoppers (appam): rice flour crepes formed into a bowl, with an egg soft-baked into the bottom, then topped with either chicken or vegetable curry and onion chutney. You might also opt for the roti dishes, which are amply spiced without killing the flavor; or select chicken, beef, shrimp or potatoes to be “devilled”—that is, stir-fried with a tangy, fiery ginger sauce. 1260 Town Centre Dr., Eagan; 651-688-8686; sambol.com

    Jake O’Connor’s Public House
    True devotees will appreciate the traditional Irish breakfast with imported Galtee rashers and sausages, but nearly everyone can enjoy the properly crispy fish ‘n’ chips. Murphy’s Stout is as good in the food as it is in the glass, as evidenced by the hearty beef and stout pie or the tender braised lamb shank smothered with a stout demi-glace. These guys know enough to offer plenty of non-traditional menu items as well—and bless them, even the chicken tenders boast a remarkable, slightly sweet beer batter. 200 Water St., Excelsior; 952-908-9650.

  • Cinnalove

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    It’s my Megan’s day to bring breakfast treats for her 1st hour English class. Is there something wrong with me that I can’t settle for the donuts at SuperAmerica? Krispy Kremes are too predictable, and over-rated besides, and bringing cereal and milk would feel like a sad surrender.

    Of course we hauled our keesters to Isles Bun & Coffee this morning for what is arguably the greatest breakfast treat in the known universe: the Isles cinnamon bun. Roughly the size of a dodge ball, the warm buns are all doughy-love on the inside and flaky buttery cinna-swirl on the outside. Slathered with gooey white icing, it is the perfect sweet bomb for a class of high-school juniors.

    It might have been cheaper to buy 30 pastries from Lunds, and it definitely would have been easier not driving all the way to Uptown and back by 7:30am. But how many of those stuck-in-the-suburbs kids have ever seen an Isles bun? How many even understand the wonders that exist beyond Toaster Struedel? When I moved 20+ minutes out of the city, I adopted a mantra: good food is always worth the drive.

    I think of it as community service, expanding young minds and palates through artful cinnamon.

  • Jeffrey vs. Frank

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    rocco and jeffrey forever!

    Just for fun, from Gawker

    Jeffrey Chodorow is unhappy with NYT food critic Frank Bruni’s review of Kobe Club, Chodorow’s new steakhouse.

    THROWDOWN! Jeffrey, of the Rocco’s-media-fabulocity-failure and head of China Grill restaurant group, has taken out a full-page ad in the Dining section giving Frank the what-for.

    Salient points may have been made, but when you start a blog that stalks Bruni with the intention of delivering e-razzberries, you’re just some kind of nutty.

  • Last Word

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    So now we’re freakin’ enough for a KARE11 Extra? Batten down the hatches, the world of dining is under siege! There’s nothing but tater-tot hot dish on the horizon … why have we been forsaken?

    Good God. Three restaurants closed. It does not signify the coming apocalypse.

    Franks-a-Million closed. Remember how the city burned and any self-respecting hot dog lover fled for the first Chicago-bound commuter flight? Oh, the hot-dog draught and how we never recovered from it! Except for Uncle Franky’s. And the Bulldog. And Joey D’s.

    And then Goodfellows closed. Remember the homeless fine-diners, wandering the streets aimlessly searching for foie and white table-cloths? Remember how all the hotels boarded up and everyone stayed locked in their homes for 362 consecutive days? It was sad how no one wanted to carry on. Except at La Belle Vie. Or The Oceanaire. Or WA Frost. Or Mission. Or Vincent.

    But now, now some Vaunted Independents have closed. Farms are converting to parking lots and co-ops are becoming strip clubs. There absolutley IS no future for an innovative cook who just wants to put out some humbly fine fare. Except at 112 Eatery. Or Restaurant Alma. Or Willie’s Wine Bar. Or Heartland. Or Lucia’s. Or Spoonriver. Or Cafe 128. Or Corner Table. Or Fugaise.

    Sophia closed, say goodbye to music. Chico Chica closed, that’s the end of spice my friends. Awada’s closed, no more suburban dining, it’s over. Tiburon closed, we hate Aruba.

    I went through the restaurant database recently, and cleared out 38 restaurants that had closed or changed hands. That’s 38 plus the ones I’d done immediately upon closing over the last two or so years. 38+

    Because that’s what restaurants do, they open and close. They ride the tide or they fail as businesses. They are businesses, and chefs need to be managers as well as artists.

    But where was all the media fanfare for the last 38? Why didn’t they inspire such “warnings” about the state of our fair cities? In fact it might be interesting to check out the doomsayers’ annual review columns from the last two years. If our dining climate has been souring so much, how could they have possibly written a positive word?

    The only reason the recent three got so much attention is because they were media darlings and it’s Jan/Feb and we’re stapled to our warm computers. No doubt, we hate to see our friends go, but everyone needs to stop slapping our towns around for not being good enough to support them.

    We are. They weren’t good enough for us.

    Please. Everyone, shut up already. Including me.