The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • We Are, After All, Defined by the Cold

    As the cold weather digs in its claws to take hold for the next four
    months, we must keep things in perspective by remembering one key fact:
    This city’s greatness depends largely on the cold. Sounds strange; I
    know. But can you imagine a city as great as this one with decent
    weather? It’d be unbearable! For one, this frozen tundra of ours keeps our lakes and man-made lagoons of ice fully solid and ideal for some serious skating. Go to Winterskate Park or The Depot to experience the fine indoor and outdoor skating venues the cities has to offer. If the weather outside gets too frightful surrender to the indoor push and let your guard down for the local open mic nights. Our state boasts some mad public speaking and performance skills. Try Acme Comedy Club to tickle your funny bone or The Terminal Bar for a musical treat.

    MUSIC
    Another Local Legend?

    The fabulous Minnesota weather — or perhaps the chaos it prevents — has also made the Twin Cities home to many a music legend. The talent with which we’re surrounded on a regular basis here — the talent we so often take for granted — is enough to make any non-native music lover squeal with delight. Take local blues pianist Willie Murphy: His 1969 collaboration with folk/blues legend "Spider" John Koerner (Running, Jumping, Standing Still) has achieved all-time folk/blues classic status. He has continued to perform and impress for 30 years. And he was named as one of the three charter members of the Minnesota Music Hall of Fame, along with Bob Dylan and Prince. Bob Dylan and Prince! This is not just a local blues pianist, folks. And this is not just a West Bank icon. This is a blues icon. Period! You have eight straight Monday nights to see him, so start tonight.

    8 p.m., Minneapolis Eagles Club, 2507 E. 25th St., Seward, Minneapolis; 612-729-4469.

    WORKSHOP
    The Textures of Your Life

    What’s your favorite winter fabric texture? And can it heal you? Apparently, this afternoon’s Well Within art and support group will show you how. The Textures of Your Life: Healing through Art will help you explore the rough and smooth parts of your life through work in textiles and other media in this three-hour workshop. Bring on the polyester! —Kate McDonald

    12:30 p.m., Well Within, 1880 Livingston Ave., Suite 103, West St. Paul; 651-451-3113; $15.

  • Cue's Second Act

    Remember Cue at the Guthrie?

    The press release from the Guthrie Theater touting a January
    three-course prix fixe menu for $29.95 took me by surprise. This isn’t just a
    prix-theater early bird special – it’s available any time, and includes a free
    self-guided iPod tour of the theater and complimentary glass of wine or cup of coffee after dinner.

    Back when Cue opened in the summer of 2006, a table at the
    new Guthrie Theater’s sleek dining room was the hottest ticket in town. Cue had
    snagged a local celebrity chef, Lenny Russo, and all the buzz that came with
    the opening of a major new landmark, designed by superstar architect Jean
    Nouvel.

    Russo’s opening menu, assembled with the help of a network
    of Midwestern producers made the concept of Midwestern haute cuisine seem like
    more than an oxymoron: Rick Nelson’s review in the Star Tribune praised the
    wild boar pate with pickled vegetables; sliced elk with wild rice and
    blueberries; and a salad of grilled quail with summer squash and poached
    tomatoes, among other dishes.

    Russo left about a year ago, to return to his own Midwestern
    haute cuisine restaurant, Heartland, and I hadn’t been back since. The buzz and the crowds
    have evidently died down – when we visited at 8:30 on a Saturday night, the
    dining room was about three-quarters empty. The theaters were empty last night,
    which may explain the sparse crowd, but Cue had ambitions to be a top
    destination restaurant.

    The new Cue menu is still very stylish, but not nearly as
    inventive or adventurous as it was in Russo’s day. The elk, quail and wild boar
    are gone, though the menu does offer a cassoulet made with pheasant confit. (I
    was puzzled enough by this description to ask the chef: duck confit is duck
    cooked in its own abundant fat. How do you confit a bird as lean as pheasant?
    Turns out, you cook the pheasant in duck fat. Which makes sense, but must make
    the pheasant taste like duck.) A lot of the usual suspects show up, including
    artic char, ahi tuna, mussels, filet of beef with wild mushroom sauce;
    free-range chicken breast with whipped potatoes.

    The prix fixe menu varies a bit from day to day, but the
    basic format seems to include a choice of soup or salad; a choice of fish,
    chicken or pork chop, and a choice of desserts from a list. In strictly
    economic terms, the $29.95 special is a good deal: the pork chop costs $29.00 a
    la carte, and if you add the cost of soup or salad (8-$9) and dessert ($8),
    plus the price of the audio tour (5), and the complimentary glass of Pinot Noir
    or Chardonnay (or coffee) that accompanies the audio tour, the savings are
    substantial. But this still isn’t bargain dining: with tax, tip, and
    three glasses of wine between the two of us, our tab still came to $115.

    We had a pleasant dining experience in striking
    surroundings, with friendly and attentive service and food that was
    well-prepared but not exactly exciting. My winter squash soup was a low-calorie
    puree with diced cubes of roasted potato and just a hint of sweetness (pear, as
    I recall), and my grilled pork chop was thick and juicy, nicely complemented by
    whipped sweet potatoes, roasted golden beets and a chutney of walnuts and
    raisins. Carol’s menu started with a rather bland fennel salad, followed by
    grilled coho salmon served over Israeli couscous and baby zucchini with a hint
    of a citrus sauce. I thought the salmon was a bit dry; Carol didn’t. Neither of
    us was very impressed by our desserts – a cranberry upside down cake with a
    citrus sorbet, and an almond, apple, and crystallized ginger cake with almond cream and cream cheese ice cream.

    Bottom line: an enjoyable evening, and the self-guided iPod audio tour, narrated by director Joe
    Dowling and several Guthrie actors, was a fun little bonus at the end. But I am
    glad I didn’t pay full a la carte prices. When it opened, Cue was vying for a spot on the short list of top
    Twin Cities destination restaurants. Now it seems more like a convenient but
    pricy place to dine before the show.

  • Woman of the House

    It’s
    January and I’m ecstatic. Well, ecstatic like someone who has crossed a
    marathon finish line and can finally stop running. I love the holidays.
    But I loved them lots more before I knew the whole damn show was
    powered by one frenzied woman on a gerbil wheel – and she’s me.

    This year there were a few new wrinkles to Christmas beyond finding
    the perfect gift, getting the kids to smile in the Christmas picture
    and keeping the artichoke dip warm at the party. Now that my children
    are a bit older at the esteemed ages of 4 and 6, they’re starting to
    ask questions that are, well… hard. And the balancing act of Santa vs. Nativity Story has officially begun. Or as I call it, “the pink Jesus in the room.”

    Our vague “Do Unto Others” philosophy that we’ve taught our
    un-baptized children works all right most of the year. But then there’s
    Christmas and the Christmas Story (not the one with the BB Gun – the
    other one) and it’s non-stop Jesus talk. Once my daughter came home
    from preschool in tears because a child told her that “when you love
    Santa it makes baby Jesus cry.” We couldn’t ignore it any longer.

    It’s not that I’m against Jesus, I have even found myself describing
    him to my children as “a really nice guy.” I understand that’s short
    shrift for the man that inspired the Christianity movement, but
    honestly, I feel like he’s been co-opted as the spokes-deity for a
    political movement I’d rather not be associated with.

    So to avoid completely resigning the Season to a red-suited man
    driving a Norelco shaver across the snow (shout-out to anyone who
    watched any TV in the 80’s), I went on-line and researched Advent.
    Every December Sunday, we lit a candle, read a story with the theme of
    generosity and talked about how we could each be a light in the world
    like Jesus – and hey, his birthday happens to be coming up!

    I’m not claiming it was perfect, but the kids liked the ceremony,
    the story or at least the flames. It spurred many interesting
    conversations and we even “adopted” a family in need on our quest to be
    that light our world desperately needs. It helped cast Jesus as less of
    a red-state politico and more of an actual “nice guy.”

    All in all, it was a satisfying experiment and I’m even trying to
    carry it on the 11-months when the Nativity is packed away. Most
    surprisingly, I feel common ground with religious conservatives who
    pull their kids from public schools because, for now anyway, when it
    comes to spirituality we’re home schoolers.

    Lucie B. Amundsen is a writer and editor in the Twin Cities. Her
    family oriented essays have been heard the podcast, Mombo and Minnesota
    Public Radio’s "All Things Considered” and “In The Loop."

  • A Bad Movie and a Fine Hungarian Wine

    Here’s how we end up at Gusto Cafe & Wine Bar in Hopkins:

    It’s Saturday evening and we have nothing to do because the party we thought we were attending actually is next week (someone — that would be me — put it on the wrong space in the calendar) and all the kids are occupied elsewhere and it’s too late to make dinner reservations. So we decide to hit a cheap movie.

    We intend to see American Gangster, which has Russell Crowe, so how bad can it be? But we get to the theater two minutes too late and walk in at the end of what looks like a pivotal opening scene involving bloodshed, then sit down next to three young boys who proceed to giggle and text message one another. After 20 minutes, I admit to my husband in a whisper that I have no idea what’s going on. So we get up and walk down the hall.

    If we wait 20 minutes the ticket taker tells us, we can see Dan in Real LIfe instead, which has Steve Carell, Juliette Binoche, and Dianne Wiest, so how bad can it be? Well! Where to begin?

    Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. . . .

    This is a film that manages to be both tedious and irritating, with just enough cloying drama to keep you from thinking about something more compelling — say, tomorrow’s grocery list; or what you might want said at your own funeral — but nothing that will lift or transport or even amuse you into forgetting you’re sitting on a scratchy theater seat in Hopkins.

    It’s about two brothers (Carell is one; a comedian named Dane Cook the other) who fall for the same woman (Binoche) for reasons that remain murky. She’s got a sexy bottom — this is demonstrated in a looonnnngg aerobics workout scene — but no personality to speak of and she crashes into the film’s opening segment expressing some breathy angst that you assume will be central to the plot but it never becomes really clear.

    Yet we wait out the entire movie — and I know you’ve been here — thinking it will get better or maybe even worse but different in some way that’s interesting. Besides, it’s our second attempt of the evening and the adjoining seats are full of old people, so no one is text messaging. Plus, we paid only $2.50 apiece for our tickets, which is the great thing about going to the Hopkins Cinema, but still, that’s $5 and there’s nothing else going on and the party is next week and what are we going to do if we end up leaving anyway?

    So we grit our teeth through exactly one hour and 39 minutes and after the movie’s denouement, involving the obligatory fistfight between brothers and a touching scene with three vapid, wide-eyed children and a raucous wedding where everyone dances, we walk down the street because at this point, we’re both really craving alcohol.

    Also, we’ve been meaning to try Gusto.

    It turns out to be a warm, twinkly little storefront bistro on Mainstreet Hopkins, just down the block from the antique shop and directly across from the tattoo parlor. We walk in and take two stools at the 4-seat bar. They are, by the way, the cushiest, most comfortable barstools I’ve ever occupied — with thick padding and high backs — putting those theater seats to shame.

    The wine menu is pretty ordinary, for the most part: McManis Viognier and Avalon Cab. But it also offers both the blanc and rouge varieties of the M. Chapoutier Cotes-du-Rhone that I’m forever crowing about. And on the very tail of the white list is a wine I’ve never even heard of: Oremus Tokaji 2004, from Hungary.

    So we order it because, I mean, how bad can it be?

    And it isn’t! In fact, it’s surprisingly terrific: full and complex and smooth, like the whites of southern France, but limned with the flavor of something entirely foreign. The scent is intensely citrusy, a twist of lemon and lime, but the taste is orchard-like: pear, apple, a little kiwi and green pepper. Then it settles on the roof of the mouth — almost as if it gravitates upward — with a lingering finish of burnt sugar or caramel. The alcohol content is 13% and you can feel it, a nice low burn like vodka on mute.

    Turns out Hungary is now an emerging fine wine exporter, thanks to the fall of communism (which opened up winemaking as a commercial enterprise), a recent surge in tourism, and a boatload of French investors. Tokaj, a city in the northern part of the country, has been famous for its vineyards since around 1067. Think swords and shields and storming Huns.

    But back to Hopkins:

    Chuck Venables, a Parasole ex-pat (he worked in various roles, both chef and front-of-the-house, at Blue Point, Buca, and Manny’s) and former manager at the Graves 601 Hotel, opened Gusto in April 2006. He wanted something closer to his house, he says; also, he believes in the way the city is changing.

    "I wouldn’t have done this five years ago," Venables tells me. "Hopkins wasn’t ready. But today. . . ."

    Indeed. It appears Hopkins IS ready, because the place is full. Every table in the tiny dining room is occupied and a well-dressed couple has claimed the other two seats at the bar. The food going by on its way out of the kitchen looks wonderful, and the used plates going back in are uniformly scraped clean.

    There’s a happy mix of voices in the room and a faint scent of garlic, bacon, and cream hanging in the air. Prices are on the high end for this part of the metro: our three glasses of wine (one each and one to share) come to $39 without tip. But the place is so pleasant, with its suede-colored walls and black wrought-iron chandeliers, this is fairly easy to forgive.

    We sit for a while and consider dinner but decide ultimately that it’s been a long evening already, we’re just recovered from the aggressive mediocrity of the movie, have thoroughly enjoyed our wine and, frankly, don’t feel like pushing our luck.

    So we leave and walk through the still, quaint streets of downtown Hopkins to our car. Snow crunches beneath our feet. And across the street, the dim glow of the tattoo parlor lights our way through an iridescent low-hanging fog.

  • The dress is souper!

    Today, I did more sleuthing for the coming February fashion
    feature and uncovered this treasure: Kim Bartmann, owner of Bryant Lake Bowl and Barbette as well as a lover of all
    things vintage, has an original "Souper Dress" on display at her new-ish Red Stag
    Supper Club     (see my mediocre snapshot below). This paper dress, inspired by the
    work of Andy Warhol, was issued by the Campbell’s Soup Company in 1967. Shoppers could
    get one sent directly to them, via US Mail, in exchange for one dollar and two Campbell’s soup labels. Unfortunately,
    however, because the dresses were advertised as disposable (per the trend of the time), most didn’t
    survive until now. This one belonged to – and was lovingly preserved by – Bartmann’s mother. Other Souper dresses
    have recently sold for as much as $5,000.
     
     

  • First Stop: Stephanie’s

    So, yesterday I started working on the February fashion
    feature, for which men and women pick fashions for their sweethearts. (Check the
    crappily laid-out online version from last year.) First stop was Stephanie’s in
    Highland Park
    with WCCO-TV reporter Jason DeRusha, who picked out a darling dress for his
    darlin’ wife. That dress, however, shall remain unseen until the Feb issue hits
    stands. But I can tell you this: As it turns out, DeRusha actually likes
    shopping for his wife, so we had a pretty good time. Here’s a snap of DeRusha and
    shop owner Stephanie Morrissey hangin’ out in the back of the store, near the
    sale section.

     

    "Oh, I know Ted Baker!" said DeRusha upon noticing the label on the beautiful
    steel-gray dress below. "I like his ties." But of course, Stephanie’s doesn’t
    carry the ties. (You’ll need to head to Len Druskin to find those.) However, Stephanie’s is
    the exclusive Twin Cities carrier of Baker’s women’s line. Alert! Occupational
    hazard! Yes, that is my very own bathroom in the background you see there. If
    you have already gleaned this fact, I’ll lay it out for you: I bought the damn thing.

  • Eating Japanese, I Think We're Eating Japanese

    And if you’re not eating Japanese yet, what exactly are you waiting for?

    First, there was a minor surge in the opening of small sushi and bento box places over the past year. Then, last week, in roughly the time it took for 2007 to become 2008, we went from an urban core with shamefully slim Nipponese offerings to — poof! — practically overnight, Sushi Central on the upper side of Hennepin Ave.

    Now, I’ll admit, this particular stretch of Minneapolis has its problems. Block E is the kind of urban planning debacle a city never really gets over: a mismatched monstrosity with the exquisite Graves Hotel on one end, an Applebee’s on the other, and miles of corridors in between that reek of urine and peach-mango Jamba Juice.

    But the good news is that Randy Norman and several unnamed partners have arrived to spruce up the corner of Hennepin and Seventh with two new restaurants: r. Norman, a steakhouse, and Seven Sushi. These are the guys behind Bellanotte — or at least, a couple of them are. But there’s a veiled secrecy to the ownership of all their restaurants, as if you’re going to open a door in back and run across an underground railroad for battered women or a rousing game of Russian roulette. I think they like it that way; it’s part of their mystique.

    To be honest, I’m not a huge fan of Bellanotte. It has a too-cool-for-school kind of vibe that I find interesting for about three minutes. The regulars all seem to be dressed in P. Diddy’s cast-off clothes. The women. . . .well. . . .they wear so little — even in the dead of winter — it’s impossible to pinpoint an actual style. And the food, while fine, has never been the draw. (Quick: Can anyone name the chef at Bellanotte? Or any chef who’s ever been at Bellanotte?) This is more like a nightclub that happens to serve food — a place where you pay a price to join the in-crowd for a night.

    From what I can see, r. Norman, which opened January 2 on the north side of the Pantages Theater building, looks like more of the same: roaring fires, flaming cocktails, and slinky servers with mile-long legs. But I think Seven Sushi, which occupies the top floor, has a shot at bringing something worth bundling up in the middle of January, paying $10 to park, and climbing two flights to see.


    First — and it hurts me, an avowed shunner of ubiquitous Shea designs, to say this — Seven is simply gorgeous. Sleek chocolate suede banquettes with marble-topped speakers doubling as tables. The accents are rich: red, cream, gold. And the sushi bar itself shines with a steely glint. The wine and liquor offerings include 20 kinds of sake, champagnes up to a $500 Cristal, and specialty martinis. As for food, chef John Ames (formerly of Fuji-ya) is putting out everything from maki to nigiri to a sushi and sashimi platter for two ($50).

    Prices are high, but perhaps not as high as you might think. Baked mussels (6) go for $10, seared crab cakes can be had for $14, the baby squid tempura is $8, and a dish of edamame costs a mere 5 bucks. My bet is that Seven will see a huge return on its liquor business — which, by the way, dictates they must serve food all the way until closing. That means sushi every night until 2 a.m.

    Strangely, just a few days before the opening of Seven (and after several delays), the far more modest Japanese eatery Musashi — just one block down on Hennepin and 8th — turned on its neon-green OPEN sign.

    Musashi is a very different world: plain and cavernous, with servers in traditional black-with-red-piping double-breasted Asian coats. The atmosphere here is quaint, with wooden tables and flower vases and a stack of paper takout menus on the maitre d’s desk.

    There is a huge, drafty bar to the south — serving table wines such as Menage a Trois — and a street-facing dining area with a sushi bar that offers a slightly more scaled-down menu than Seven’s. But Musashi does have an amazing 29-item list of maki rolls and many a la carte options.

    This restuarant also has a separate hibachi room to the north, where people cluster around hot griddles and watch showmen chefs with Fu Manchus dice, sear, and serve up their food. The bento box and hibachi dinners use fairly pedestrian ingredients (chicken, steak, shrimp) but are served with an entire complement of sides, including soup, Japanese salad, vegetables, fried rice, and noodles.

    Incidentally, my husband delicately explained the lyrics of the song that inspired this blog this morning (Turning Japanese, I think I’m turning Japanese. . . .), which gave me an entirely new perspective. So let me just point out that the sushi bars at both Seven Sushi and Musashi are very nice places to dine, um. . . .solo.

    For reservations: Seven Sushi, 612-238-7777
    For reservations or takeout: Musashi, 612-332-8772

     

  • The Year's First Weekend Signals Good Things to Come

    FILM
    There Will Be Blood

    The latest from director Paul Thomas Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) is rumored to be a front runner for the best-picture Oscar, but that’s highly unlikely. There Will Be Blood is magnificent, epic, and utterly bizarre; films this weird never win the big one. Based loosely on Upton Sinclair’s 1927 novel Oil!, There Will Be Blood features Daniel Day-Lewis and Paul Dano as an oil man and a preacher, respectively, at odds over money, faith, and oil rights. These actors perform like serpents fighting to swallow the film whole and there is vast pleasure in watching them coil around one another in mortal combat. With an equally audacious score by Radiohead guitarist Jonny Greenwood (he summoned Stravinsky’s screeching violins), an impressive cast, and startling direction, Blood is the boldest Western since Sam Peckinpah walked the earth. —Peter Schilling

    Starts Friday at the Uptown Theatre, 2906 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-825-6006; $8.25 (seniors and children $5.75).

    MUSIC
    Bill Carrothers’ Armistice Band

    Jazz pianist Bill Carrothers was born in Minneapolis in 1964 and, even as a tyro getting his artistic bearings, elevated the local jazz scene with his cerebral gravitas (No one, for example, untangled the Gordian knots of altoist Lee Konitz better than Carrothers in concert.) While his best-known disc is probably Duets with drummer Bill Stewart, his masterpiece is the two-hour epic, Armistice 1918,which won the Charles Cros Award (the French equivalent of a Grammy) in 2004. It opens with the innocent pop songs of the pre-World War I era, such as “Hello Ma Baby” and “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” and then wends through a wellspring/maelstrom of affecting originals and period-covers, brimming with impressionistic details regarding, as Carrothers put it in his liner notes, “the call to battle, separation of loved ones … night raids, rum rations … the disillusionment with ideals and finally the silence of Armistice Day.” Many of the original musicians will join Carrothers for this extraordinary U.S. premiere, including cellist Matt Turner, percussionist Jay Epstein, and vocalist Peg Carrothers. Rounding out the ensemble are bassist Jean-Philippe Viret, drummer Dre Pallemaerts, and bass clarinetist Jean-Marc Foltz. —by Britt Robson

    Friday and Saturday at 9 p.m., Artists’ Quarter, 408 St. Peter St., St. Paul; 651-292-1359; $15.

    Native Pianist Plays Ballard

    When we think Native American music, we tend to think drumming circles and unblended monophony. Some of us — familiar with Buggin Malone and Cochise Anderson — might even think hip-hop. But few of us ever think classical music. Few of us stop to consider George Quincy, Jerod Tate, R. Carlos Nakai, or even Janika Vandervelde. And though his compositions are performed by major symphony orchestras across the globe, few of us consider acclaimed Quawpaw/Cherokee composer Louis Ballard. Well, start considering him, people. Consider him Saturday as his work is performed by another nationally recognized Native musician, classical pianist Tim Hays (HoCak). Enjoy this rare opportunity and stay for a post-concert dialog with the artist. Proceeds will benefit the Two Spirit Press Room and the
    International Two Spirit Gathering.

    Saturday at 7:30 p.m., All God’s Children MCC, 3100 Park Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-824-2673; suggested donation of $10.

    We don’t get a lot of gospel here in the cities, so let me toss in this last minute event: Mama Digdown will serve up some hot New Orleans gospel with hard-hitting brass band music this Saturday (9 p.m.) at the Nomad World Pub (501 Cedar Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-338-6424). For only $5 you’ll cleanse your soul!

    ART
    Closing this Weekend: Nuestra Frida

    Taken up by fans, feminists, malcontents, ideologists, and ax-grinders, Frida Kahlo has become much more than an artist over the last couple of decades.Yet somehow she is also often presented as less than an artist. In conjunction with Walker Art Center’s Kahlo exhibition, Grupo Soap, an alliance of artists who share a Hispanic heritage as well as robust senses of occasion and humor, will give its take on the Frida phenomenon. Last year the group produced four-by-eight-foot woodcuts printed by steamroller for a Día de los Muertos show. A poster for a2001 show featuring the artists as luchadores (Mexican wrestlers) still hangs on walls all over town (the show was good, too). So expect their efforts to restore Kahlo as a complex artist and Mexican citizen as well as an iconic sufferer—Our Lady of a Thousand Coffee Mugs—to be both serious and facetious. —Ann Klefstad

    Friday and Saturday from 12-6 p.m., Grupo Soap del Corazón and Art Jones Gallery, Casket Arts Building, 681 17th Ave. N.E., Minneapolis.

    Also closing this weekend is the Pompeii exhibit at the Science Museum. Check out our video tour.


    Opening this Weekend: News from the Moon

    If News From the Moon sounds like a children’s story you might want to read, then you’ll especially enjoy the new exhibit at Rosalux. Both Jennifer Davis and Amy Crickenberger Oeth show a childlike quality in their work that emphasizes life’s simple joys. This is definitely not one of those slick, all-dressed-in-black art shows — you won’t spend the next three weeks trying to climb out of the abyss. No, this will be a lovely show, with beautiful images, sweet images, images that will appeal to you on an emotional level and still leave you feeling good. I once said I would want Davis’ images bedecking my child’s nursery. I hold to that.

    Opening reception Saturday from 7-10 p.m., Rosalux Gallery, 1011 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-396-3947; free.

     

    PERFORMANCE
    Another Year, Another Party in the Rec Rooom

    The celebration isn’t over just yet, folks. This Saturday — and every Thursday through Sunday for the rest of the month — Lorna Landvik will be throwing a Party in the Rec Room comedy bash. Join the local author and actor for a fully improvised evening of comedy mayhem, replete with made up characters.

    Saturday at 7 p.m., Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 West Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-3737; $15.

     

    TV PARTY
    The L Word Season Premiere

    Will Alice lose her mind? Will Helena wind up in the slammer? Will Shane cheat on Paige? Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? If not, then it’s time to step it up and rent the first four seasons of The L Word, so you won’t be lost on Sunday when the new season begins. (See, now you know what to do all weekend.) Fittingly, our lovely local "L" bar will be hosting a party for the premiere. Can you think of a better place to see it?! Gay or not, you’ll want to hear the comments flying back and forth during commercials. Jana Shortal, from KARE 11 News, will serve as guest emcee, so maybe she’ll have some interesting insight of her own. You’ll have a chance to win L Word-related prizes, and everyone will walk away with an advanced copy of Season 5, Episode 2.

    Sunday at 4 p.m. (screening at 7 p.m.), Pi, 2532 25th Ave. S., Minneapolis; $5 suggested donation (V.I.P. $35 for reserved seating, waitress service, one drink, and your annual HRC membership).

  • My First Rake Mea Culpa

    More like a mea maxima culpa. 

    In my very first guest post here, I used the Rachel Bliss show at Cliché as
    an illustration of art works on display in places other than galleries,
    something that happens more and more here in Minneapolis.

    And then I posted the work of the wrong Bliss.

    The artwork I posted — and have removed from this blog — came from

    Rachel Bliss in Pennsylvania
    and did not appear at Cliché.  We were informed that the images on the
    site, like many pieces on artist sites, are copyrighted and require
    permission to use. 

    I meant to use some pictures from the Minneapolis Rachael Bliss, who did in fact have an opening at the clothing store in Uptown.   You can now see her images in the original post. 

    My apologies to Rachel and Rachael and to Cliché for the confusion.

  • I, Too, Have A Bone To Pick With Andrew Zimmern

    I know I said yesterday that I was going to talk about my favorite books from 2007. I’ll do that eventually, I suppose, although who really gives a rat’s ass? Right now I’m all worked up about something else, so the book nonsense will just have to get shoved aside for the time being.

    I’m not a guy who can easily mask his feelings, and I guess I more or less telegraphed where I’m coming from in that headline up there: along with virtually every one of my Rake colleagues, most of whom I don’t personally know, I have a beef with Andrew Zimmern. And, yes, I know I said earlier that I had a bone to pick, but this being a discussion about food I feel excused in mixing my metaphors, if in fact that’s what I’m doing, or did.

    At any rate, what’s my big problem with Zimmern? Where to begin, where to begin?

    First of all, I suppose I should admit that I really don’t know who the hell this Zimmern fellow is, and by that I mean I really don’t know who the hell he is, just as, I’m sure, he doesn’t know who the hell I am. I got wind of the recent dust-ups, however, and felt riled and curious enough to search Google images for a picture of the man. I always start there, if possible, because I have no problem at all judging a book by its cover, being as I am a firm believer in that old business about a picture being worth a thousand words (a phrase, incidentally, that was coined by my old colleague at City Pages, Dylan Hicks. Or perhaps it was Paul Demko). At any rate, I spent some time –way too much time, actually– looking at photographs of a man alleged to be Zimmern and quickly concluded that a thousand words were something like 975 words too many; a couple dozen, I should think, would suffice.

    From what I’ve seen I can definitely tell you that I don’t like the cut of Zimmern’s jib. I think he eats too much, and given that he apparently spends so much of his time eating, I also think it’s fair to presume that he eats bugs…no, wait, he does, it seems, eat bugs, but what I meant to say was that it’s fair to presume that he talks with his mouth full. I don’t care for that.

    I had to dig a little deeper to find out more about this Zimmern character, and mostly what I discovered was that –yes, just as I suspected– he eats too much, and also eats almost entirely at places I’ve never heard of. I’m not a big fan of people who make a habit of eating at places I’ve never heard of, and then proceed to go on and on about how great those places are.

    I’m guessing that Zimmern has never in his entire life spent a morning laying drywall and then, with dust all over his hands and under his fingernails, eaten the hell out of a Manwich and a can of Pringles. I’m also guessing that he’s never spent a cold afternoon in the garage skinning muskrats and then driven his truck through the drive-up lane at Arby’s and polished off the 5-for-$5.99 roast beef special all by his lonesome.

    Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe Zimmern has, in fact, laid drywall and eaten the hell out of a Manwich and a can of Pringles. Maybe he has skinned muskrats and gone to Arby’s to gorge himself on beef. But I’ll say this: if I’m correct in my suppositions –and I feel confident that I am– then I’m also correct in saying that this is a man who doesn’t know a diddly-damn thing about truly great food and the supreme pleasures and surprises of eating when you’re flat-out hungry as shit.

    Answer me these questions, Zimmern, you hot shot:

    Have you ever eaten a pie from Beek’s, King of Pizza?

    Under the right circumstances (very, very hungry; very, very stoned and/or drunk; etc.) could you rave for hours about the wings at Shorty and Wag’s?

    Can you name, with appropriate enthusiasm, a favorite brand of canned chili?

    Could you, do you honestly think, tackle the Tremendous Twelve at Perkins?

    Have you ever been so fucking hungry that you’ve eaten a microwave hamburger from Super America and felt like you’d died and gone to heaven?

    Might you, as I did this very evening, mix together cans of Progresso vegetable beef and beef barley soup and eat the whole damn pot while seated on the kitchen floor?

    Have you ever spent hours driving along a freeway praying for the appearance of a Taco John’s?

    Do you agree that Tootsie Rolls and pretzels are often as not a perfectly suitable lunch?

    If you answered no to even half of these questions, Zimmern, you’re not only a piss-poor food critic, but you’re also a pussy.