Category: Blog Post

  • Beaujolais Nouveau at Barbette, Pizza Night at Gigi's

    Trying to walk in at Barbette at 8 p.m. on a Friday night
    probably wasn’t a great idea, but we were lucky – only about a five minute wait
    for a place at the bar. Before the first course was served, we were
    offered a table, but the bar felt so comfortable that we stayed where we were.
    The big draw for me was the Beaujolais Nouveau menu, which the restaurant is
    serving nightly, through Monday. The whole Beaujolais Nouveau hype is a little
    silly, in my opinion – as is paying $8 a glass for what used to be
    considered a jug wine. But the Barbette
    menu has few pretensions, and a reasonable price tag: $38 for four courses, and
    an optional flight of four wines for $20 more.

    The first course is
    a lightly dressed salad of beets, pears and candied pecans, followed by a pumpkin soup lightly seasoned with a
    cinnamon crème fraiche. The main course offers the only choices: char with
    smoked potato puree and truffled Brussels sprout chips, beef short ribs braised
    in red wine, or a mushroom ragu served with Gorgonzola polenta. The beef ribs
    were very hearty fare, but the dessert provided a light finish: a delicate
    panna cotta in a five spice oil, topped with maple-scented croutons. The wines
    are no great shakes, but they are all drinkable: a non-vintage Bouvet sparkling
    wine from the Loire, half-glasses of Vielle Ferme rose (a popular inexpensive
    table wine) and Joseph Drouhin 2007 Beaujolais Nouveau, with a small pour of sweet
    Graham 10 year tawny port to accompany the panna cotta. Unless you already have reservations, you may have a hard time
    getting a table tonight, but your chances are better tomorrow and Monday.

    Last Wednesday night, the missus and I
    cruised some of our favorite neighborhood spots looking for a bite to eat, and
    all were packed full: at Heidi’s, at 50th and Bryant, the wait was half an hour, and the dining
    room and bar next door at the Blackbird Cafe were so packed that we didn’t bother to ask. Next stop, the Grand Cafe at 38th and Grand, but they were hosting a private party. Finally, we headed for Gigi’s,
    our old standby at 36th and Bryant, where we found an empty table – but just barely. Turns out
    Wednesday night is pizza night – a pizza du jour and a bottle of wine to share for $20.
    We chose the vegetarian option,
    topped with roasted butternut squash, mozzarella, Gorgonzola and arugela, over
    a brittle crust. The wine was a good match – a young Monte Aman Tempranillo
    that’s ordinarily $24 a bottle at the café (and online in Spain for two
    and a half Euros.) Not a meal, or a wine to remember, but on a night when we
    didn’t feel like cooking or spending $100 for dinner for two, a reasonable
    alternative. I want to go back on a Thursday, when it’s spaghetti night at
    Gigi’s: two plates of pasta and a bottle of wine for $24.

  • Damn, This Woman Really Cooks

    So why is it that the bad boys of the kitchen get all the good press? Take Anthony Bourdain — a foul-mouthed son-of-a-bitch whom a good friend of mine (an attractive, intelligent woman) told me just today is "her ideal guy." And Gordon Ramsay, the British chef who hosts a show called The F Word. Even our local culinary star Stewart Woodman — formerly of Levain and Five, now the proprietor of Heidi’s along with his wife — has been known to throw a dish or two. But a woman chef with fiery tendencies tends to get a lower level of respect.

    Now I’m not condoning bad behavior. I don’t like it, no matter who’s cursing out the dishwashers or attacking customers because they asked for ketchup with their steak tartare. Yet, when it comes to the guys, bottom line: it seems to be the food that matters. People forgive a lot when a man is an artist in the kitchen (and it doesn’t hurt, either, if he looks like he’d be a beast in bed). Whereas when Marianne Miller showed herself to be a) one of the most talented chefs in the Twin Cities and b) a hot-headed malcontent under whose leadership restaurants collapsed like so many houses of cards, she was crucified.

    This was back in 2005. Miller had moved from Red — the wonderful, scarlet-hued Russian restaurant that operated in the Foshay Tower for about six minutes before repo men came to haul the furniture out — to Bobino, a sweet little nordeast neighborhood spot that had been great once (when JP Samuelson was chef) and fallen into an intense mediocrity bordering on the bad. Miller revived that restaurant like it was a fat, dying banker on a bus. She tended to the overwrought, underdisciplined Bobino, conjuring up an absolutely dazzling menu and earning top reviews for a place everyone previously thought a bore. She was even offered a partnership by grateful owner, Chris Paddock.

    Then, all hell broke loose.

    The rumors flew. I probably shouldn’t repeat them here, as I don’t have a lawyer on retainer and all. Suffice it to say that over the summer of ’05, the staff at Bobino mutinied, the restaurant closed, Paddock lost his shirt, and Miller was accused of just about every indiscretion a chef could commit, both upright and prone.

    What actually happened? I know only one thing for sure. A truly great chef quit cooking. . . .for a long time.

    But as of this week, I’m happy to report, Miller is back, running Saga Hill Cooking School on East Lake Street in Wayzata, just above Five Swans. And she’s got a truly innovative curriculum. This afternoon (11/17), for instance, you can attend the mother/daughter high tea and learn how to set a table properly and bake flaky scones. On Sunday (11/18), Miller will run a two-hour Thanksgiving "Boot Camp" that goes over everything from side dishes to time management. Later in the month, there’ll be a wine buying class and a detox-after-the-holidays seminar.

    I don’t know what kind of crap Miller has pulled in the many kitchens she’s run — and believe me, it’s quite a list. I do know that she’s someone I’d be glad to have teach me to cook, if I were even the slightest bit inclined. Being a bad girl doesn’t seem to have made her a bad chef. Who knows? Maybe being a Bourdain-style loose cannon has made her — like him — inscrutably, maddeningly even a little bit better.

    Saga Hill’s upcoming classes include:

    • Mother-Daughter High Tea

    Grab
    your best friend and confidant for a ladies’ afternoon of learning proper
    high-tea recipes, the art of table setting, and fine manners.


    Hands
    On


    Saturday,
    Nov. 17


    2:00
    p.m.-4:00 p.m.


    $25


    Dinner and a Date

    Calling all singles for an interactive mixer
    of fun and food.


    Hands
    On


    Saturday,
    Nov. 17


    6:30
    p.m.-9:00 p.m.


    $55

    • Thanksgiving Boot Camp

    Shop
    and prep like a pro! Work smarter not harder! Practical advice on time
    management and food preparation as well as foolproof recipes. You will leave
    class with a shopping list, a plan, and the knowledge to make your Thanksgiving
    dinner stress free.


    Demonstration


    Sunday,
    Nov. 18


    11:00
    a.m.-1:00 p.m.


    $45


    Make, Take, ‘n’ Bake: Holiday Pies

    Prepare
    all your Thanksgiving pies ahead of time and bake at home. Class fee includes
    all materials needed.


    Hands
    On


    Sunday,
    Nov. 18


    2:00
    p.m.-5:00 p.m.


    $65


    Make, Take, ‘n’ Bake: Side Dishes

    Prepare
    all your Thanksgiving side dishes ahead of time and bake at home. Class fee
    includes all materials needed.


    Hands
    On


    Tuesday,
    Nov. 20


    2:00
    p.m.-5:00 p.m.


    $75


    Wine Buying

    Sample,
    taste, learn and buy! Buy wine risk free for the holiday season at deep
    discounts.


    Hands
    On


    Tuesday,
    Nov. 20


    6:30
    p.m.-9:00 p.m.


    $20


    Dog Day Afternoon

    Treats,
    tricks and walk. A perfect time to get out of the house and get moving with
    your best fury friend. Learn to make healthy dog treats and some new tricks.
    After class a group social walk will be offered.


    Hands
    On


    Saturday,
    Nov. 24


    2:00
    p.m.-4:00 p.m.


    $45


    Wine Series: Restaurant Guide

    Insider
    information on which restaurants have the best wine lists, value, and service.
    Winetasting during class discussion.


    Hands
    On


    Saturday,
    Nov. 24


    6:30
    p.m.-9:00 p.m.


    $45


    Healthy Eating Boot Camp

    Detox
    and cleanse after the holidays.


    Demonstration


    Tuesday,
    Nov. 27


    2:00
    p.m.-4:00 p.m.


    $45


    Wine-and-Cheese Pairing Class


    Hands
    On


    Tuesday,
    Nov. 27


    6:30
    p.m.-9:00 p.m.


    $65

    • Make, Take, ‘n’ Bake: Metabolism-boosting
    soups


    Hands
    On


    Wednesday,
    Nov. 28


    3:00
    p.m.-5:00 p.m.


    $65

    • Young Chefs

    Class
    information to be determined. Please check back often for updates.


    Hands
    On


    Thursday,
    Nov. 29


    4:00
    p.m.-5:30 p.m.


    $25


    Ladies’ Night: Salon

    Class
    information to be determined. Please check back often for updates.


    Demonstration


    Thursday,
    Nov. 29


    6:30
    p.m.-9:00 p.m.


    $45

    • Holiday-Entertaining Boot Camp

    Shop
    and prep like a pro! Class information to be determined. Please check back
    often for updates.


    Demonstration


    Friday,
    Nov. 30


    2:00
    p.m.-4:00 p.m.


    $45


    Couples’ Class

    Class information to be determined. Please check back
    often for updates.


    Hands
    On


    Friday,
    Nov. 30


    6:30
    p.m.-9:00 p.m.


    $45

     

  • Randy, The Reader's Rep …

    (A semi-regular Q&A with "Randy" the new Star Tribune Reader’s Representative, most frequently found on the corner stool at the Dry Dock roadhouse, in the shadow of the big microwave tower, Chaffey, Wisconsin.)

    Randy, Your Reader’s Rep: Dang but stuff piles up. I come back from baitin’ a few bear traps, havin’ a couple beers and getting old Jonsered ready for cuttin’ season and look at all this mail. Sheeeit. When the Star Tribune hired me back, I had no idea they really meant a weekly gig. I thought with little Par out sun-bathin’ it’d quiet down.

    Guess not. So here goes.

    Question: I heard that the staff at the Star Tribune all got flu shots the other
    day? Is this true? Where did this happen? Were these shots administered in a sanitary way? And did the top executives
    join in?

    Randy, Your Reader’s Rep: That is definitely true. Flu season is coming on pretty strong, and Avista Capital Partners, the really fine folks that own the paper want all their Full Time Employee Units running like a big pack of Dodge Hemis. There are a lot of very big stories that are going to mean plenty to the Avista folks’ year-end numbers. Like for example, ‘Who is going to buy them damned parking lots?’, and whether the folks in Eveleth and Granite Falls are going to pitch in to build a new stadium for the Vi-Queens, which would mean Avista might have half a chance of selling the main building to what’s his name, the billionaire dude from New Jersey.

    As for "where it happened"; it wasn’t in the butt, Bob.

    I know. I know. I heard some pretty risque jokes about everyone standing up, dropping trow and bending over at their desks while Chris Harte went down the line pokin’ tushies. But the truth is everyone took it in the arm.

    Don’t know about the sanitary thing. I suppose a bunch of $4 coffee drinkers like that crowd used … ooooo … pre-moistened towelettes, like you get at Famous Dave’s. But I’m not sure. I mean, hell, I usually just wave a butane lighter under my buck knife to cut out slivers.

    But yeah. Chris Harte himself took a pokin’. Right there in line like he was a normal person or something. Ain’t that something?

    Funny though how happy and agreeable everyone was for the rest of the day.

    Question: I was reading that bastard Nick Coleman’s column a couple days ago and I noticed that right next to his little picture, the one where he doesn’t look anything like George Clooney, it said, "One view". Was that a typo or something? I mean, he’s writing a column, right? Who else’s view were we supposed to think it was? And does this mean that all the other columnists, like Katherine Kersten and C.J. and Sid Hartman and Reusse are going to have "One View" next to their pictures. (And none of them look much like George Clooney, either.)

    Randy, Your Reader’s Rep: That’s a good question. Tell you the truth, I didn’t notice until you brought it up. So I sent a note asking what the deal was. Nobody wrote back. But I hear through the old company grapevine that no one told Coleman about it and no one knew who put it there. But come on, there are so many brave and courageous editors at the Star Tribune doing so many important things to, you know, enhance the quality of life in the better zip codes of Minneapolis they probably just overlooked it.

    My guess is all whoever stuck it there meant to say is that, "This is that commie prick Coleman’s view, not our view." In fact, I gotta check and see if it says, "Our View" next to Kersten’s and Sid’s pictures the next time they write.

    Question: That blonde Republican babe, Sarah Janecek, wrote a story this week saying how a couple of your reporters used some pretty foul language talking to the MnDOT people. Those guys McEnroe and Kennedy sounded like jerks. I suppose they were pretty ashamed when that story came out, and they must really be pissed that people know how obnoxious they are.

    Randy, Your Reader’s Rep: Oh yeah, and how. I tell you, nothing
    makes those two stick their tales between their legs more than everyone in town knowing they shout in the phone and use words like, "bullshit". I don’t know what they were smiling about after that thing ran.

    Because, we have a very strict policy about bad language here at the Star Tribune. Penalties, too. If you’re heard saying, "This place is total bullshit", you have to put a dollar in the Save Par jar. If you say, "I’m going to cap the next a**hole who assigns me an Eagan Sewer Commission story", you have put in $5. Of course if you say something like, "These Avista douche bags wouldn’t know a paragraph from a parsnip," you have a choice between hurling yourself off the roof or editing a Katherine Kersten column.

    Question: I see that you are starting to run more editorials supporting a new Vikings stadium, which would be built practically right next door and most likely goose up your real estate value pretty nicely. Don’t you think you need to at least mention that fact every time you write opinion pieces? You know, maybe a standard little box at the top that says something like, "If you stupid chumps bite on this deal we’ll make a shitload of dough."

    Randy, Your Reader’s Rep: Man, I’ve heard cynical. But you about take the jelly donut. You got something against football? You want to see a place without a team I suggest you come up to Superior, because that’s what you’re going to end up with if you don’t close ranks and play to win, pally.

    The folks at Avista Capital Partners, some of whom have even heard of Green Bay, are actually doing you one shiny ripe favor. They are looking out for your interests when obviously you won’t. They are family people just like you, and they know that special feeling fans get when they contribute a little bit extra out of every pay check to have a place where, you know, if they cut their coupons and save up a couple months they might be able to take their kid to see a game. Three months if they want to park and have a beer.

    Until next time. Think transparent thoughts.

  • Chug-a-glutton

    So, I was cruising the fashion blog circuit earlier today
    when I happened upon a local writer (she shall remain link-less) who somehow
    seemed to sustain this incredibly luxurious, posh lifestyle. Day after day, the posts were about her sushi dinners, the diamond-encrusted electronics she had encountered, or a recent trip to the local furrier … Just another day in the
    life of TKTK—of whom, yes, I am somewhat jealous. But still, I couldn’t help
    but wonder: How long till so-and-so finds herself bankrupt, and with a BMI wa-aa-ay over 25. Not to hate on my fellow bloggers or anything.

    Anyhow, here are some teasers for upcoming hooks: I’m
    going to the Butterball on Saturday; this year, it’s in the theme of Truman Capote’s famous
    black-and-white party. And then, later next week, I intend to roll out the Keynesian
    economic model that, for me, will make Christmas possible this year.
    Stay tuned!

  • Behold the Bull

     

    The Pedro Infante film festival at the Parkway Theater. Beginning November 16 and running through the 29th.

    Who is Pedro Infante and why should we care? Why should we brave cold November nights and wander through the city streets to an old theater and watch these Mexican melodramas? For the same old reason we see movies in theaters: to be touched, mesmerized, to laugh and perhaps cry, and to share these complex experiences with other strangers in the dark. And, in this case, to see something entirely new to American audiences. In this case, a series of strange and wonderful musical dramas starring Mexican crooner Pedro Infante.

    You won’t get better than this. This is melodrama, sir, chest-thumping and tear-jerking stories originally meant to give you a pause from a life of endless toil. In the 1940s and 1950s, great waves of rural Mexicans emigrated into Mexico City to find work. The story’s the same everywhere: these lovely bumpkins found only crushing poverty and a society that was indifferent to their needs. Once living in the wide-open spaces, they were suddenly crushed on top of one another by the thousands. And so, director Ismael Rodríguez and singer Infante found inspiration there, and made a series of films about the poor and oppressed that have the scope and detail of Balzac mixed with the grace and affection of Rouben Mamoulian. In the process they made some movies that could make people look at the slums around them and think "Maybe I can sing, too."

    Look at Nosotros Los Pobres, the first of a trilogy of movies featuring Infante as the carpenter Pepe the Bull. Here, the widower Pepe, a carpenter, is trying to raise his single daughter and fall in love again–something the daughter doesn’t want in the least. Poor Pepe! In the course of this film he’ll lose his girl, essentially lose his daughter, nearly ruin his hand (essential for his work), be accused of robbery and murder, lose his mother and sister, and still manage to sing a song or two. Pedro Almodovar couldn’t make this story any hotter.

    There is no room for happiness in Nostros Los Pobres. Pepe tries to be affable, tries to maintain some pride in the squalor, raising his daughter to be a good and kind and hard-working. At first, it’s not even the wealthy who get to Pepe–the poor in Nostros are a strange bunch, an admixture of hard working, diligent people and drunken, disorderly louses eager to gossip and sell you down the river for a peso or a slug of cheap booze. Nostros, made in 1948, is free from the American restraints of the Hays’ Code–here are drunks and drug addicts, whores and consumptives, love in the streets, widows clinging to tombstones. Toothless biddies speak of drinking, gossip viciously, and hunger to fuck Pepe. The film is bizarre and beautiful: the girl washing clothes, praying to St. Dimas for the thieves. A shot of Pepe’s mom, confined to a wheelchair and mute, tormented by the gossipy drunks, is as bizarre and funny as anything David Lynch has conjured up.

    Infante was called the Mexican Sinatra, no doubt by clueless gringos who barely paid attention to life south of the border. He was a master singer, and a very good actor, who brought his dashing good looks to these rough stories and yet never shone too brightly, never distracted us from his supporting actors, or from the pain and pleasure witnessed on screen. He sang, told jokes, made comedies and dramas, and could entertain a billionaire or a bum.

    He did not live long, though he left a wealth of movies and music. A fan of aviation, Pedro Infante flew his Consolidated X B-24-D plane from Mérida, Yucatán and crashed it five minutes later. He died instantly at age 39.

  • Last Night's Debate: Bite Me, Wolf.

    Now that we’ve more or less cleared up that "illegal immigrants with driver licenses" issue, the line I was pleading for one of the Democrats to throw back last night was, "Wolf, do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? Do you ever get tired of this ‘gotcha’ crap?"

    Something like that probably would have to come from Joe Biden, whose demeanor these days suggests a guy drifting well into, "Aw, f**k it" mode, since debate moderator after debate moderator has effectively reaffirmed the polls and consigned him, Chris Dodd, Bill Richardson and Dennis Kucinich to side show acts.

    In actual fact it was Kucinich who said to Blitzer, referring to the yes/no driver license bit, "I take exception to the way you framed that question." Thank you, Dennis. But you should have added, "What’s with the week-old beard thing, Wolf?"

    My beef with Blitzer, who aside from the vaudevillians on Fox News, may be the most implausible "news man" on television, is that the guy not only takes the bait and over-works the meme — ad nauseum — but that he does it with such humorless, halting verbosity. Aaron Brown may not have had the Upper West Side pedigree or the promotable cover boy look of Anderson Cooper, but the guy could ask an intelligent question in less than five paragraphs, and maybe even flash a little wit.

    Last night’s debate in Vegas — was irresistible viewing after two weeks — TWO SOLID WEEKS — of Blitzer, Hannity, O’Reilly et al — burying their bloody snouts in "Hillary’s Flop", the aforementioned immigrant driver license "issue" from the Oct. 28 debate. (And did anyone think of staging this debate in the Mandalay Bay sports book
    instead of some anonymous field house? I mean, how about a slice of
    Americana while we ridicule our candidates?)

    The real issue of course was Clintonian parsing. Her Bubba-ness. A resumption of that famous, "A little something for everyone" act. The horror! Because, God help us, the worst thing that could ever happen to this country is to have more Clinton-style government. You know with balanced budgets, respect for the Constitution, no troops getting shot up in some medieval hellhole and … oh, christ, don’t get me started. So yeah, the point was parsing and the ticking clock on someone else, Obama or (my guy) Edwards, to bust a move with an effective attack on the little lady.

    And its not like I don’t understand the ratings imperative of getting the blood on the ground early to hold viewer eyeballs. Come on! We’re putting on a show here, people! But after the cornball NBA-style introduction bit with the candidates half-trotting out from the wings, (I expected Blitzer to swat Biden on the ass and shout, "go get ’em, Stud."), the potential leaders of the free world had barely settled behind their podiums when Blitzer — with neither style nor wit — began angling for someone to lob a grenade Hillary’s way.

    According to a Google search there are approximately 8,543,907 web sites currently analyzing last night’s debare performances. So I’ll spare you mine, other than to state the obvious.

    1: Clinton learned her lesson from the Oct. 28 "flop" and was not only completely composed, she nailed Campbell Brown’s question about "playing with the boys". There isn’t a woman over 30 in this country who doesn’t understand — viscerally — Clinton’s point about "impediments".

    2. Obama clearly doesn’t have a shiv side to his act, and can’t really compete with Clinton or Biden on foreign affairs savvy … not a good sign for "looking into the soul" of Vladimir Putin or the next Chinese trade minister.

    3. Bill Richardson seems a likable sap, but he should probably head back to New Mexico before he totally screws a shot at another cabinet job.

    4. My guy Edwards is still saying most of the right things — about the broken, corrupt system and how we get nowhere replacing "corporate Republicans with corporate Democrats" — but he’s getting out on thin ice with his obsessive Hillary-focus. Also John, you really didn’t answer the question about voting for all those free trade acts. That bothers me.

    Lame and predictable as the driver license bit was, Blitzer jumped the shark completely with his other "gotcha" question, the one demanding to know — yes or no — whether candidates would put human rights ahead of the security of the country. Yeah Wolf, there’s an on/off dilemma. I mean, you’re either with us or against us, right? That act is working pretty well, isn’t?

    The candidates may be tiring of this debate circus, and with the preening stage craft of Tim Russert last time and the ham-fisted pomposity of Blitzer this time you can understand their frustration, but if you’re a media/political junkie I have to concede it is great theater/farce.

    On the 28th the Republicans — at long last, and after first refusing — will submit to a CNN/YouTube debate, (hosted by Cooper, possibly in a tight t-shirt). This holds the possibility of an average citizen asking any or all of the creationists, I mean candidates, how exactly the Grand Canyon was carved in six days, how far out from California you have to go before you fall off the edge of the Earth and whether they are prepared to protect America by personally strangling each and every suspected jihadi with their bare hands.

     

     

     

     

  • From the Heart, Hear the Pounding

    WRITING FESTIVAL
    A Decade of Prose and Poetry at Powderhorn

    Ten years ago, Roy McBride had the brilliant idea to gather together Powderhorn area writers and artists for a writing festival to celebrate grassroots, literary endeavors. The festival, which has continued to this day, hosts myriad events, from writing workshops to
    poetry/puppetry cabarets. Tonight’s event includes readings by Amy Ballestad, Emily Bright, Laura Flynn, Margo McCreary, and Maureen Skelly. Roy McBride himself will be the evening’s keynote performer and will enjoy the unveiling of a 10th Anniversary Powderhorn Writers Festival broadside, featuring his poetry and the visual art of Powderhorn’s renowned color woodcut master, Nick Wroblewski.

    Fridat at 7 p.m., May Day Café, 3440 Bloomington Ave. S., Minneapolis.

    DRUMS
    The Taiko Artistry of Mu Daiko

    This weekend our very own Twin Cities taiko ensemble Mu Daiko will be joined by LA’s TaikoProject for a rhythmic and energetic performance. The TaikoProject has been featured on network TV and Mitsubishi commercials in
    performance infused with hip-hop movement, theater, music, and video. They are, in fact, the first American-based group to win the Tokyo International Taiko Contest. And Mu Performing Arts, the foremost Asian American theater and taiko company in the Midwest, lends traditional and contemporary theatre to the presentation. With two of the country’s most recognized Japanese drumming ensembles, this ought to be an incredible performance.

    Friday & Saturday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 2 p.m., Ritz Theater, 345 13th Ave. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-824-4804; $26 (students and seniors $24).

    DANCE
    Tu Dance

    In 2005, Toni Pierce-Sands (“T”) and Uri Sands (“U”) hit the Twin Cities dance scene by storm with an innovative and powerful performance that somehow led to a proper dance company, complete with nonprofit status
    and a new name, TU Dance. Tonight, the two former Alvin Ailey dancers present two world premieres choreographed by Sands: Beverly, which explores the background music of his Miami childhood, And Let Go, which explores release and meditation. Also on the agenda is Clear as Tear Water, Ron Brown’s McKnight-commissioned solo for Toni Pierce-Sands.

    Friday& Saturday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 2 p.m., The O’Shaughnessy, College of St. Catherine, 2004 Randolph Avenue, Saint Paul, 651-690-6700, $27.


    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Anton in Show Business

    “The American theater’s in a shitload of trouble.” So reads the
    opening line in the latest offering from the small St. Paul-based
    troupe Starting Gate Productions.
    As both poison-pen letter and love note to the theater, this play is
    directed by a woman with no small opinions on the matter: Leah Cooper, former executive director of the Minnesota Fringe Festival. Anton depicts the chaos behind the scenes of a production of Chekhov’s Three Sisters.
    An all-female cast depicts everyone involved, from producers and actors
    to critics. Embedded within Jane Martin’s drama are countless
    meta-theater references; characters range from an Our Town-esque stage manager to audience members who just won’t shut up. —by Danielle Kurtzleben

    Friday and Saturday at 7:30 p.m., Sunday at 2 p.m., Mounds Theatre, 1029 Hudson Rd., St. Paul; 651-645-3503; $18 (students & seniors $16).

    ART
    Enchanted

    Fantastical, magical creations are very popular as of late—lots of
    dragons and magicians and cyber-wonders fill pages and screens—and the
    art world is stepping into that terrain as well. Does it mean dreams
    will become reality, or does it mean dreams will keep reality at bay?
    That’s for the viewer to decide. But these artists’ confected worlds
    will be interesting to contemplate regardless. Curated by Minneapolis
    sculptor Andréa Stanislav, Enchanted is colored by her surreal tastes: Local fabulists Chris Larson, Alexa Horochowski, and Erik Ullanderson will show alongside Hawaiian Scott Yoell and Londoner Isha Bohling, among many others. Tune out the evening news; when reality sucks, these artists create new ones. —by Ann Klefstad, art by Jenni Schmid

    Opening reception Friday from 6 to 8:30 p.m., Katherine Nash Gallery, 405 21st Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-624-6518.

    Minnesota Bienniel: 3D II

    Eagerly anticipated by sculptors across the state, this overview of
    the medium promises to be quirky and eye-opening. Jennifer Jankauskas,
    associate curator at the John Michael Kohler Arts Center in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, chose just twenty-seven sculptors from 147 submissions. Some, such as Pete Driessen and Ruben Nusz, are better known as painters than sculptors; others, like David Swanson and Anastasia Ward,
    predicate alternate realities that are by turns amusing and disturbing.
    Some are well known in the Cities; some are completely new. Expect some
    surprises; sculpture has been spreading out to embrace new territories.
    Perhaps it is the medium best able to absorb the constant shifts in
    contemporary culture. —by Ann Klefstad, art by David Swanson

    Opening reception Saturday from 7-10 p.m., free tour Sunday at 1 p.m., Minnesota Museum of American Art, 50 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul; 651-266-1030, $10 (members $5).

    MUSIC
    Judy Collins

    Of the two folk-pop female vocalists who broke through to massiveappeal beginning in the late ’60s, Joni Mitchell was the hippieartiste, Judy Collins
    the classically trained songbird. Now, atsixty-eight, Collins has taken
    care of her clarion soprano, deliveringup lush, conservative material
    ranging from children’s and Christmasfare to interpretations of Dylan
    and, most recently, Lennon andMcCartney. Don’t be surprised if these
    supper club concerts mix goldenoldies (“Someday Soon,” “Both Sides
    Now,” “Suzanne,” “Send in theClowns”) with more overtly political
    songs, plus a poignant dollop ofpersonal revelation. Collins’s own “My
    Father” is a career highlight,and her book about her son’s suicide, Sanity and Grace, is an honestand elegant chronicle of a harrowing episode in her life. —Britt Robson

    Saturday at 8 & 10:30 p.m., Sunday at 8 p.m., Rossi’s Blue Star, 80 S. Ninth St., Minneapolis; 612-312-2828; $50-$225 (premiere dinner package.

  • A Surge in Spanish Wines

    A correction. In my last entry, I mistakenly listed the old — last week’s — Happy Hour wine at Sapor. Rather than the Austrian Gruner Veltliner, the Washington Avenue wine bar is now featuring a Spanish Protocolo Blanco (in addition to the Luzon Mourvedre-Grenache). I’m not famliar with this wine — a blend of Airén and Macabeo grapes — but the tasting notes cite an aroma of banana, apple, and peach, with a "silky" mouthfeel and a strong finish. And this new pairing reflects a trend I’m seeing in the popularity of cheap but interesting Spanish wines.

    For example at Sam’s Wine Shop, just down the street from Sapor, I recently tasted the Salneval Albarino Valle del Salnes 2006, from the area of northwestern Spain that borders Portugal. Salneval is a cooperative of more than 360 growers and is considered one of the highest quality wineries in the region. Their Albarino is a lucid, complex wine: pure lime on the nose, with a foretaste of green leaves and ocean surf and a finish that hints at bell pepper and flint. It has 12.5% alcohol and sells for just $11.99.

    Bill Summerville, partner at La Belle Vie and the principal wine buyer for its sister restaurant, Solera, says it’s about time the general public learned to appreciate fine Spanish wine.

    "Everyone in town is trailing Solera," Summerville says. "The ball was rolling on this five years ago. Wine gains in popularity based on two things: value and people who are willing to take a chance on very high quality. Spain has always produced a lot of value wines, but now they’re also producing wines of fantastic quality on the other end."

    Like France, Spain defines its wines by region (or Tierra) more than varietal: Rioja is one of the most well-known winemaking regions. Others include Rías Baixas, Rueda, and Toro. Summerville warns, however, that the sudden surge in Spanish winemaking has led to "new appellations appearing out of the woodwork," mostly for political or economic purposes.

    Like Italian wines roughly ten years ago, Spanish wines, both great and terrible, are suddenly flooding liquor store and bottle shop shelves. The solution, Summerville says, is to buy from people who know — and care about — the Spanish imports they’re selling. His top recommendations: Sam’s, Solo Vino, and The Wine Thief.

  • Tears of a Clown, Redux

    I was born a clown, and in retrospect my parents were incredibly good sports about what must surely have been on a number of levels a shock and a disappointment. They’d been trying for years to have a child, and they accepted me immediately as a blessing and loved me unconditionally for what I was.

    My father likes to tell the story of how on the day I was born he went right out and bought me my first pair of big red shoes. I took my first tentative steps in those shoes.

    From the very beginning my lips were preternaturally large, and I have never required much in the way of embellishment beyond a basic application of lipstick for color and a bit of accenting around the outline. I have no memory of being outfitted with my rubber nose, but from the first time I can recall gazing at my reflection in a mirror it was a source of great pride and enduring pleasure.

    One morning in early childhood I awoke to discover that overnight my chin and jowls had acquired an application of Vaseline and coffee grounds.

    I was, I am told, an uncommonly stubborn and willful child, with a clear and unwavering self-image. I was as a result always allowed to choose my own clothing, and favored a ragged old porkpie hat, an oversized smock with red polka dots and shiny buttons, and baggy trousers covered with brightly colored patches. I was a very happy boy, and a happy clown.

    Childhood is of course an awkward and confusing time in the life of a clown. By the time I was old enough to attend school I had grown used to the charmed attention of adults. All of those I had come in contact with had seemed both amused and enchanted to find themselves in the presence of a happy little clown. I suppose in hindsight there was a good deal of condescension in this response, but I loved the attention all the same. I craved and needed attention; there was nothing I could do about it. It was hard-wired in my brain. My self-esteem was entirely dependent on entertaining people and making them laugh.

    My parents were an unfailingly compliant audience. They adored me, and I could induce heaving fits of laughter in them with little more than a wide-eyed grin or a startled spit-take at the breakfast table.To their credit they never pushed me. They didn’t have to. I was, however, an unusually sheltered child, and though I don’t believe this was ever a conscious decision on the part of my parents, I had had precious little interaction with other children by the time I started elementary school. As such I was utterly unprepared for the reactions I received from the other students. I understood neither the casual cruelty of children, nor the irrational fear that clowns seem to inspire in so many youngsters.

    There were long, unhappy stretches where I got the shit kicked out of me every day I went to school. Bullies on the playground held me down and wiped my beard of coffee grounds from my face; they stole my ragged hat, stepped on my big red shoes, and tore the shiny buttons from my polka dot shirt.

    In my teenage years I would stand alone and friendless in the darkened gymnasium at school dances. No girl would dance with me. Even balloons could not get me a date. I eventually taught myself a few simple magic tricks to try to impress my classmates, but it was too little, too late.

    In what I can now see was a desperate plea for help and attention, I fell in with a bad group of self-destructive adolescents during my junior year of high school, and was persuaded to join a heavy metal band called Lucifer’s Dong. The band was terrible, and was completely and justifiably ignored. I also realized pretty quickly that I was just a gimic the band hoped would help it to secure a certain reputation, and practices tended to be little more than a series of mean-spirited jokes at my expense.

    Even so, it was only at my parents’ insistence that I quit Lucifer’s Dong.

    I ate too much candy, gained a great deal of weight, and learned that a clown is simply not equipped to handle the brutal truth.

    By the time I dropped out of high school to join the circus my fate was sealed: I would be a sad-faced clown to the end of my days.

  • The New Mini. A Maximum Bummer.

    I have driven the new Mini Cooper. So has half the British Press (the one that matters–Jeremy Clarkson in particular–he is the "dog’s bollocks.")

    The universal rap on the new car is that it has been "Americanized." In other words, the automotive equivalent of a nice hot casserole. Its a little bigger, the dashboard is less fussy, it has a few more HP (under 10) and it is sprung a tad bit more softly.

    Pulease. I have written about this car before (see "Big–a meditation on the MIni Cooper). At that time I pondered whether this joyous little piece of sculptured iron was a "Chick Car." I came to the conclusion that if it was, I would change my sex (I already have a gender neutral name, like "Pat", a little snip and we’d be done. Like Hedwig, sorta.)

    The previous Mini was that much fun.

    This new Mini is, how shall I say, all hat and no cattle. Style without substance. It has been egregiously compromised by the Germans and I hold BMW responsible.

    Here are my road notes: The new Mini compared to gen one.

    "Interior: grown up and that’s good. Exterior: bigger, er, no, no make that bulbous (compared to the first generation.) Clutch engagement: Damp noodle (I am reminded of that oxymoronic concept called "British cuisine") Turn-in: Cool but not crisp. Handling: More distant, like an ex-girlfriend. Throttle response: Gen one: atta-boy Gen-two: La-Z-Boy
    Suspension: see "La-Z-Boy." Desire to drive like a German person: nein, nahzink, no vay (can you hear me BMW?)."

    Where the rubber meets the road: In world where a little Honda pumps out 200 HP and DODGE CALIBERS (for chrissake) 300 HP, you need peerless driving dynamics and "feel" to do better with less power. The previous Mini did just that. The current Mini does not. It will sell but its soul has been sold.