The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • In Thrust I Trust (Again)

    Bonding. Its something that women tend to fret about with men, as in "go and do your male bonding thing."

    While I am sure men like me are essentially Pavlovian and conditioned to do what women say, it gets more complicated when I think about cars. I don’t need to bond with my buddies, but I do need to bond with my cars. This could be the reason I have had trouble bonding with my Benz.

    I acquired this E550 a few months ago which made it neccessary for me to sell my beloved 530 HP Cobra and possibly even my Alfa Spider Veloce. I just can’t sit on that much depreciating iron and an increasingly depressed wife (I understand, honey).

    Fortunately, things have changed.

    While putting my Cobra up for sale on EBay this weekend, I came across a site for Drag Times "the world’s only quarter mile website." Lo and behold there was my E550 with a stock quarter mile time of 13.4. and 0-60 in 4.8 sec. That’s right in Cobra range (with Range Rover luxury to boot).

    While I realize this entry is reading like a MySpace page full of vacuity and lacking in depth I must say I suddenly gained the respect for the Benz that I have always had for my Cobra. I felt so good about it that I went out and tested its rev limiter on a midnight jaunt out to Cantebury.

    I can proudly say that in thrust I trust once again, and I thank Mercedes for letting me break 135.

  • Another Reason Beowulf Blows

    By now, it’s fairly well established that Beowulf is an irredeemable,
    gawd-awful film. As if moviegoers needed another reason to hate the thing, I
    noticed something truly heinous about the animation: While the male characters were rendered in the
    spirit of realism, left with fairly expressive human faces, the female characters
    were idealized to the point of looking like wax figures. Did you notice the
    constipated quality about Queen Wealthow’s face whenever she tried,
    unsuccessfully, to crinkle her nose or furrow her brow? The filmmakers,
    apparently, are terrified of the lines that form on a beautiful, young woman’s face whenever she,
    you know, expresses herself. Sure, by the end of the movie they’ve tossed a few
    crowsfeet onto Wealthow’s mug, but that’s only to point out how she’s
    no longer fuckable.

  • Meritage: All the World's a Stage

     

    Let us consider this waiter in the cafe. His movement is
    quick and forward, a little too precise, a little too rapid. He bends forward a
    little too eagerly; his voice, his eyes express an interest a little too
    solicitous for the order of the customer. He is playing, he is amusing himself.
    But what is he playing? We need not watch long before we can explain it: he is
    playing at being a waiter in a cafe. There is nothing there to surprise
    us."

    — Jean-Paul Sartre, from Being and Nothingness

    All fine dining has an element of theater, and fantasy: you
    make believe you are in a bistro in Paris, the waiters pretend you are somebody
    really important. Unless either the waiter or the customer takes themselves too
    seriously, everybody knows it’s just play. The plot thickens a bit when
    the guy who plays the customer is actually a restaurant critic pretending not
    to be a restaurant critic, and the staff who play waiters and hosts are all
    pretending that they don’t know that the guy at table four is a restaurant
    critic.

    Our waitress spotted
    me the minute we walked in the door at Meritage, but I didn’t figure this out
    until chef-owner Russell Klein (formerly of W.A. Frost) came up and introduced
    himself at the end of the evening. In the meantime, we had a great time – great
    food, smart service – and the very enjoyable sense that everybody involved in
    the restaurant was having fun, and not taking themselves too seriously. Our
    server, Mel,was prompt, attentive, and knowledgeable about the food and wine –
    and at the same time quirky and funny, and seemed to be playing her role with a
    wink. It is just theater after all.
    Haven’t we seen you somewhere before, my wife asked? Yes, she waited on
    us once at Toast – she remembered serving my wife, and she thought maybe I was
    there too.

    The dapper maitre d’, Ross, brought around a trolley to show
    Meritage’s “cheese program” – a selection of five fromages, including a
    Roquefort, a Tomme chevre washed in Muscadet, a Brie de Meaux, another flavored with walnut liqueur, and a Vermont cave-aged Shepard cheddar, each available for $5 an ounce. Mel confided in a conspiratorial tone that Ross had actually been
    Mariah Carey’s private butler. Mel said this was not for publication, but when
    I spoke to Ross later, he volunteered the fact, and said it was okay to
    publish. In any case, he played the part perfectly, with just the right air of
    gravitas. He also told me that his full title is maitre de fromage.

    Meritage looks about the same as it did when it was A
    Rebours, and it still presents itself as a French bistro. Klein got his formal
    training at the French Culinary Institute in New York City, so when it comes to
    cassoulet and coq au vin, (Tuesdays, $22) he knows his stuff. But he’s not
    taking any of this stuff too seriously, either. Klein takes the idea of a
    bistro and plays with it, subvert it, serving up matzo ball soup and a classic
    American burger with fries alongside the foie gras and cassoulet, and offering
    a matzo and nutella sandwich for dessert.

    The food was delightful. Klein didn’t actually cook for
    us – he spent the evening at a nearby
    table, having dinner with his wife, Desta, who doubles as hostess and
    bartender, and his mother, who was visiting from out of town. Good for him – he
    has his priorities in order. The rest of the kitchen crew did just fine. I
    started with one of bite-sized “amusements” – a tiny tuna tartare taco,
    followed by a juicy 1/3 pound burger, enlivened with chopped onions and a dash
    of Worcestershire, and a generous pile of fries on the side.

    Vegetarian entrees often seem like an afterthought, but
    Klein’s “composition of autumn vegetables” ($16) was an inspired combination: a
    short stack of small pumpkin pancakes accompanied by a sunchoke frittata of
    caramelized Brussels sprouts and carrots. Our other entrée was a winner as
    well:– four large scallops, topped with toasted hazelnuts, accompanied by kale,
    squash, white beans and a brown butter sauce ($25). Ordering scallops at local
    restaurants seems to be a lot like Russian roulette, with about four chambers
    loaded: most of the time, you get “wet-packed” scallops, treated with sodium
    tri-poly phosphate, which makes them retain water (so they can be sold more
    cheaply), but robs them of their sweetness. To judge by the sweet succulent
    flavor, these were dry-packed.

    We finished with a couple more bite-sized amusements – the
    nutella matzo sandwich, and a tiny cup of espresso mousse. Next time, I’ll save
    room for one of the more ambitious dessert offerings, like the warm chocolate
    hazelnut cake served with a salty caramel ice cream or the chilled grand marnier
    soufflee (both $7).

     

  • A Host of Curiosities

    BOOKS & AUTHORS, AND MUSIC TOO
    Muldoon Rocks the House

    Paul Muldoon is a curious character, even by artistic standards,
    and he’s been on a serious roll of late. To his growing list
    of accomplishments — including ten collections of smart, allusive, and
    often very funny poetry, as well as a Pulitzer Prize — he recently landed
    the prestigious (and influential) gig as poetry editor at The New Yorker. That’s
    all impressive scuttlebutt in the poetry world, but the Irish-born
    Muldoon also fronts the rock band Rackett, and collaborated on a song
    (subsequently recorded by Bruce Springsteen) with the late Warren Zevon.
    Muldoon has also penned librettos for three operas, authored four
    children’s books, and published numerous poetry translations. One way or
    another, it seems highly likely that poetry’s 21st century Renaissance
    man will rock the house. —Brad Zellar

    7:30 p.m., University of Minnesota, Coffman Union Theater, 300 Washington Ave. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-625-3363; free.

    FILM
    The Truth about Nanking

    On the cusp of World War II it seems preposterous that a Nazi businessman would be one of 22 Europeans and American expatriates who fought to save the lives of 250,000 Chinese refugees during the Japanese 1937 invasion of Nanking, China. However, Bill Guttentag and Dan Sturman’s new documentary Nanking (showing tonight as part of The Walker Art Center’s Premieres: First Look series) sets out to expose this and other startling and unknown facts surrounding the Japanese raid and occupation of China’s capital. Based on Iris Chang’s book The Rape of Nanking, Nanking uses first-hand accounts of Chinese survivors, archival footage, letters, and diary entries to weave together a detailed portrait of the events and atrocities that occurred during the six-week Japanese invasion. The Sundance-winning film’s national premiere this December coincides with the 70th anniversary of the invasion itself. —Kate McDonald

    7:30 p.m., Walker Art Center, 1750 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-375-7600; $12 (members $10).

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Bringing Our Town to Yours

    It is plain to see that Normandale Community College’s hometown of Bloomington, Minnesota has little in common with the small 1930’s New Hampshire town that is the focus of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. However, the play’s major themes, which celebrate the human interactions and experiences of everyday life, make Our Town accessible enough to be brought to the Lowry Lab stage almost 70 years after its original 1938 Broadway debut. Tonight’s performance is directed by Anne Byrd. —Kate McDonald

    7:30 p.m., Lowry Lab Theater,
    355 Wabasha St. N., St Paul; park in the Lowry Ramp, enter on Wabasha,
    between 4th and 5th; 651-290-2290; $8.

    MUSIC
    Big D and the Kids Table

    It never ceases to amaze why the punkification of multiple brass instruments is dominated by coastal metropolitan centers rather than the vaguely geek-friendly Midwest. To help fill the void left by cruel reality, Boston’s Big D and the Kids Table’s smallish but fiercely loyal fan base beckons thee to the Varsity Theater tonight for some serious East Coast ska punk bliss. A perennial opener in the Midwest for bands such as Catch 22 and side stages at Warped Tour (where they must compete with local names like Atmosphere and Motion City Soundtrack), Big D’s live show is guaranteed to deliver loud and intense fun. This septet gem should be nothing short of wicked. —Danielle Cabot

    5 p.m., Varsity Theater, 1308 4th St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-604-0222; $12.

  • Don't Have Sex to Sousa

    If only I’d known when I posted my last entry about White Burgundy and Fall Out Boy!

    Suddenly, everyone in the wine world seems to be talking about Clark Smith who — along with his wife, Dr. Susan Mayer-Smith — has been conducting "research" into the relationship between wine and music. The owners of GrapeCraft Wines, she (Susan) holds a PhD in clinical psychology while he (Clark) states on their website that his "claim to fame" is having been fired by Alice Waters, then goes on to talk about his own "Svengali-like charisma."

    I want to make it clear right up front: I have not tasted the wines from GrapeCraft. For all I know, they may be nigh to ambrosia. But come on. . . .This musicology thing — on which they presented a paper at the 13th annual Australian Wine Industry Technical Conference, and about which Clark was interviewed by the host of Day to Day on NPR — seems to me to be based more on savvy marketing principles than real science.

    Smith’s thesis is that a wine’s flavor will be "dramatically affected" by the music a drinker listens to as he or she sips. Cabernet Sauvignon, he says, requires "music of darkness," but might be ruined by a light chamber quartet. Pinot Noir calls for Mozart, while white Zinfandel will be improved (you’re not going to believe this one. . . .) by a good polka. Sweet Chardonnay must be served to the Beach Boys. Yeah, well, I wish we all could be California Girls.

    Back when I was in graduate school, I once ran into a woman at a party who had recently received a $150,000 grant from the NEA to study The Sopranos and measure the show’s impact on society as well as evaluate its relationship to George Eliot’s Middlemarch. (I’m 100% serious about this.) I remember being torn between envy and derision. My husband at the time, a carpenter, was simply admiring. "What a scam," he crowed. Indeed.

    That there is a relationship between music and wine is all but indisputable. Also between music and food, music and learning, music and sex.In fact, I’ve long contended that people eat more (and taste less) in cacaphonous environments, which is why I wouldn’t consume a morsel in a shopping mall — not even if Julia Child herself rose from the dead and appeared at Eden Prairie Center to prepare Coq Au Vin.

    We play Mozart to children because it is complex and mathematically structured, so it helps the brain develop connections in a similarly synthesized way. And we don’t make love to marching band music (please keep it to yourself if you do), but rather to Marvin Gaye, k.d. lang, Leonard Cohen, and Sting.

    In other words, I’m not saying the Clarks are wrong — they’re only pointing out what musicians have known since they worked for emperors and kings.

    Earlier this month, I wrote about the M. Chapoutier Belleruche Côtes-Du-Rhône 2005 and said it was "as balanced as Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony," with a nearly metrical composition of sugar, acid, and fruit. I’m sure the description occurred to me because of the inherent shared qualities of great music and fine wine. But the fact that someone is making a name by pointing out the obvious strikes me as ridiculous — the sort of whimsy only the NEA should support.

    As for that concert I attended, I’m quite regretful now. It occurs to me that Fall Out Boy’s The Carpal Tunnel of Love was literally screaming out for a good Shiraz.

  • Fashions From Afar

     

     

    Our former editorial assistant, the lovely Ms. Laura Puckett, returned from
    her Fulbright-funded year in Mongolia
    recently. Yesterday she stopped by the office to show off these boots, a
    traditional Mongol variety often worn, she said, to horse races and such. Of
    course, the soles are made of leather, and so young Laura must have rubber
    added before she can wear them. (I suggested Fast Eddie’s Shoe Repair, in
    Dinkytown.) Also, it’s worth noting that the curled toebox reflects a tradition
    of respecting the earth; it doesn’t leave such an aggressive footprint, in any
    case.

     

     

  • The Three Pointer: A Big Easy

    Road Game #5: Minnesota 103, New Orleans 94

    Season record: 2-10

    1. Revolt of the Back-Up Point Guards

    While would-be Wolves cornerstones Al Jefferson, Rashad McCants and Ryan Gomes had performances ranging from disappointing to dreadful, the squad bagged its first road win primarily on the strength of the inexplicably calm, capable, and confident duo of Marko Jaric and Sebastian Telfair. For the third straight game, Jaric went to the hole with authority (a moderate surprise), supplemented it with an accurate outside J (a large surprise) and consistently well-considered decision-making (huge surprise). It was his best performance in a Timberwolves uniform.

    Telfair likewise delivered a performance out of the ether, playing better defense on Chris Paul than Paul’s numbers (31 points, 11 assists) might suggest; exercising excellent shot selection (the biggest surprise of all), putting pace into the game without losing the handle, and sinking his free throws in crunch time to ensure that the wire-to-wire Wolves lead never got too precarious. For the night, Jaric shot 8-12 FG and Telfair was 6-9 FG. Jaric had 6 assists, 3 turnovers and 2 steals; Telfair dropped 8 dimes versus 2 miscues and added a steal. In 38:41, Jaric was plus +9 in a 9-point win; in 36:40, Telfair was plus +13.

    The key stat there is the respective minutes: Jaric and Telfair spent a lot of time together on the court, ranking first and second on the team in court time. Because they are players of complementary strengths, there was logical potential for synergy, but I also think there is something to be said for a couple of back-up point guards thriving by sharing the point guard responsibilities. That Marko didn’t have to guard Paul all night did wonders for his confidence and gave him just enough durability to contribute some (but not nearly as much as the first three quarters) down the stretch. That Jaric is a capable ballhandler who was both burying his J and getting productivity in the paint relieved Bassy of the responsibility of always making something happen and let him settle into more of a natural, "take what they give me" rhythm. For him too, it was his best performance in a Timberwolves (and probably NBA) uniform.

    Unfortunately, it should also be noted that Jaric and Telfair both benefitted from not having to play next to McCants much of the time. The ball movement and general flow of the offense was palpably enhanced when McCants was on the sidelines, unable to hoist shots out of rhythm, commit foolish fouls that retarded the sprightly pace, and look to beat his man either off the dribble or with a sudden jumper, both unsuccessful. Shaddy was 3-9 FG with one assist, two turnovers and 4 fouls in 21:38, during which time the Wolves were minus -2.

    But the biggest goat of the game for the Wolves was Gomes, whose sour play has gone from temporary mystery to odd dilemma to legitimate concern. He started well with a solid couple of games, resurrected himself a bit in the Cleveland loss and has returned to the tank. He remains a shrewd player in many facets of the game. He knows how to move without the ball and get open, for example, but there isn’t a player on this team who has missed more wide open looks thus far this season. After shooting 48.7% and 46.7% his first two years, he is currently at 38.9%. It’s not because he’s shooting more treys either–his long range percentage is over 40 and comprising an increasing slice of his total shots–not a good sign for someone 6-8, 250. But the real bugaboo tonight was turnovers: He had 5, versus one assist, in just 17:37, which is why he registered a whopping minus -11, meaning the squad was plus +20 in the 30 minutes he sat.

    The third of the misplaced cornerstones tonight was Big Al, who was much more productive and conducive to the positive outcome than either Gomes or McCants, but hardly the bedrock commensurate with his talent and contract. Against Atlanta the other night, Jefferson began the night with 18 points on 6-6 FG in the first half and then went 2-7 FG in the second half. Tonight it was 4-6 FG in the first half, with a resounding slam dunk and a nice dish to McCants right out of the gate, and then another 2-7 FG in the second half, beginning with a missed bunny in the paint, a blown crunchtime slam after a gorgeous bounce pass feed from Jaric on a pick and roll (he claimed he was fouled), and a crunchtime bailout on another bunny right in front of the hoop where Tyson Chandler was whistled for the foul (and may indeed have brushed the elbow on the followthrough), but Jeff was hardly going strong to the hoop on the play. The point is, Jefferson was supposed to be the beast in the paint that rendered 4th quarter scoring reliable and we’re seeing less evidence that he can overcome defenses designed to take that away. By the way, he missed those two free throws after the Chandler foul, at a time when the Hornets were mounting a serious comeback, and was a minus -6 on the evening in 32:13 of play. That means the Wolves were plus +15 in the 15:47 he sat.

    I love Al Jefferson’s game. Just not quite as much as I did a week or so ago.

    2. Davis for Walker: A Minnesota Steal

    When the trade with Miami came down just before the season started, it was easy to look at it in terms of Antoine Walker and Mark Blount, in that in order for us to accept ‘Toine’s bloated contract, the Heat had to cart away Blount’s absurd deal, and his carcass besides. But as the season has progressed, it has become plain that the swap in reality has ‘Toine providing more than a few of the things RD used to bring, but with just a fraction of the corrosive bullshit and yo-yo inconsistency.

    When Walker, Jaric and Telfair were on the court at the same time tonight, the Wolves produced by far their prettiest offense of the season thus far. The ball zipped around and yet all three players performed with the confident knowledge that they could take their man off the dribble if things bogged down. But even more than Jaric or Telfair, Walker has the experience and the wisdom to enable his teammates. You can tell he’s enmeshed in a fairly constant internal war over whether to try and take the game over himself (an impulse he resists more effectively than McCants but still succumbs to a fair bit) or not, but I love that he often resolves it by massaging his ego with the notion that he’s the daddy mentor out there, showing the young’uns how to share the ball, spice up the pace, and, above all, compete. The trimphant bellow and fist wave he gave when he drove baseline on the behemoth Chandler, missed the layup short but immediately went back up for a successful tip-in, spoke volumes. ‘Toine knew, and Jim Petersen correctly identified, that it was the pivotal play of crunchtime, enlarging the lead to 9 with just a few minutes to go rather than watching it shrink to two possessions with another unanswered Hornet basket. After the Saturday night choke, that would have been a hairy prospect.

    And you could see it again, in the half-second the camera caught his disgusted grimace when Jefferson missed the two free throws–Antoine Walker is busting his ass. The guy who played a key role on an NBA championship team just 18 months ago and was feted in glitzy South Beach for his efforts. The guy who then got traded as nothing more than a contract equalizer to a woefully inexperienced club picked to finish last in its conference while playing up in the freezing tundra. He’s been something of an all purpose glue guy (with occasional dashes of mustard, relish and catnip, of course). If you can’t appreciate the context and the content of his contribution, you’re either way too cynical or not paying attention. Tonight he had 17 points, 5 rebounds, an assist, two steals and zero turnovers in 30:28, finishing with a plus +11.

    3. More Kudos

    Speaking of fabulous glue guys, how about Greg Buckner thriving under the radar tonight? In 29:25, he garnered a team-high 9 rebounds, doled out 6 assists, and w
    as a game-high plus +18. It brought back memories of Buck’s very strong opening week for this team. What I most remember is him laying a body on Melo Anthony and working him over like his elbows and knees were rubber hoses. Tonight, Peja Stojakovic got similar treatment. Put simply, the other aspects of Buckner’s game seem to elevate a notch when his defensive assignment calls for a good physical scrap. That’s not a bad attribute to have on your bench.

    Tonight was also a reprise of the vintage Craig Smith, the guy who mud wrestled in the paint for offensive rebounds and improbably fluttery putbacks, committed smart fouls and played pick and rolls like Rhino Astaire. (You get the sense that the Wolves had solid bench play?)

    Finally, after numerous telecasts compelling him to paint lipstick (and the rare irreverent mustache) on porcine performances, Wolves’ color commentator Jim Petersen was given a relative embarrassment of riches to detail and not surprisingly nailed nearly every one. Only Buckner’s stealth performance improperly escaped adornment by Jim Pete’s satchel of gold stars. He was lightning quick pointing out the synergy of Jaric and Telfair together, correctly identified the unsung value of Madsen’s defense and communications skills, and, perhaps his best insight, lauded the Wolves’ vastly improved pick and roll defense. Getting a rare quality performance from this diaper squad ballclub is by itself a pleasant surprise. Receiving astute analysis as it happens is gravy that further enriches the experience.

  • The Mysterious Male Id

    I’ve fallen in love with plenty of imperfect movies. There was Donnie Darko, a film whose haphazard, cross-genre narrative I forgave because it cut right to the core of how weird and perilous it feels to be a depressed teenager. And Benny & Joon, a sweet, just-shy-of-precious story that was redeemed by genuine filial warmth and Johnny Depp’s knockout Charlie Chaplin impersonation — good enough (I like to imagine) that the Little Tramp was probably up in heaven cheering wildly as they filmed.

    John Turturro’s Romance & Cigarettes is just such a flawed but decent flick. Set in working-class Queens, it’s that age-old tale about midlife misbehavior and its resounding effects. John Updike’s Rabbit series, American Beauty, Married With Children — the zeitgeist is replete with examples. But there’s reason to make room for one more. Because Turturro’s Nick Murder (played by James Gandolfini) bares his soul in a way other anti-heros have not.

    What’s his beef? Not entrapment or tedium or the chains binding him to a dead-end job. No, Murder is simply LONELY. Or more precisely — and in a human way, I think — he’s afraid of being alone. And in a scene very near the beginning of this odd music-smattered film, the stubbly bridge worker lets himself out of his squalorous, smoke fume-filled house to serenade the neighborhood with his sorry state: "Lonely is a man without love."

    Of course, he isn’t without love. He’s merely stuck in the thirty-year slump of a long and encumbered marriage. And his wife, Kitty — Susan Sarandon, who is as lovely and foul-mouthed as she was 16 years ago in Thelma and Louise — is onto him. She’s a devout Catholic who uses the word "twat" as easily as she says the rosary. She knows her husband is fooling around. And chances are, she also knows why.

    Egged on by his know-it-all friend, played by Steve Buscemi, Murder not only has an affair with a trampy, British lingerie saleswoman (Kate Winslet) who eats chicken in bed and invites him to "open her back door," he gets circumcised for her. And this is where the magic of Turturro comes in. Because he alone has put forth one fact of life that at least fifty percent of the population never understood: Grown men in long-term relationships still obsess over their oddly-shaped penises. . . .the same way women fret over their flappy post-pregnancy stomachs and widening hips.

    Romance & Cigarettes is one extended explication of the male mind: Murder imagines his girlfriend dressed in red and shimmying through a burning house while firemen below wield their out-of-control "hose" like a powerful snaky phallus. He leaves the raising of his three daughters — creatures around the same age as his mistress who clearly bewilder him — to his wife. And he cowers in the presence of his mother, whose dominance is so emasculating it makes circumcision entirely beside the point.

    The movie is very uneven. Its plot takes turns that are not only unexpected, they don’t, in truth, make much sense. This, likely, is why Romance & Cigarettes bounced around Hollywood for two years after MGM was bought out by Sony and wrote the film off.

    I sympathize with the naysayers. This movie is raggedly written and refuses to stay put in one category: drama, comedy, muscial, or indie-style slice-of-life. Yet it’s saved not only by Turturro’s brash revelations about the male psyche, but also by a supporting cast that includes Mary Louise Parker, Christopher Walken, and the superb dowager Elaine Stritch.

    In perhaps the most inconceivable "twist" on the story of this film, Adam Sandler intervened with studio executives and asked that his friend Turturro’s film be given a limited distribution. Thus, on the power of the mighty Wedding Singer, it was.

    And I’m glad for that. Because thanks to Romance & Cigarettes, I may finally understand what’s going on in men’s heads.

    Opening December 7th at the Landmark Edina Cinema.

  • Age, Truth, Community, History

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    I and I: The Sense of Self

    Worried
    about getting old? Worried about being old? Why don’t we respect age
    like we used to? Haven’t we earned these years? Shouldn’t we wear them
    proudly? Tackling the problem of aging, actor Charles Keating presents a one-man show tonight at the Guthrie. I and I: The Sense of Self
    draws from W.B. Yeats, Shakespeare, T.S. Eliot, Alfred Einstein, and
    other great masters, forming a collage of poems, opinions, essays, and
    insights on the subject of age and ageing. “Mark Twain best described
    age as an issue of mind over matter,” says Keating. “If you don’t mind,
    it doesn’t matter.”

    7:30 p.m., Guthrie, Dowling Studio, 818 South 2nd St., Minneapolis; 612-377-2224; $10.

    LECTURE
    The Way Things Are

    Those of us with only a basic understanding of Buddhism might be just a bit confused as to how a Lama manages to justify physical pleasures. After all, doesn’t Buddhism guide us away from self-indulgence? Yes, but it also directs us toward the "true nature of reality." (Hmmm… the true nature of reality, eh? Well, that doesn’t sound so good if you take a look around you.) What better way to escape the pain and danger of existence than to confront it head on — look it dead in the eye? Perhaps this is what compels Lama Ole Nydahl to jump out of airplanes and take fast curves on his motorcycle. Perhaps it’s just his joy of life, his ability to appreciate the "true nature of reality" in ever nook and cranny of the world, underbelly and all. Lama Ole Nydahl, a Buddhist master from Denmark, offers guidance that is both modern and practical, relevant to our lifestyles. Sure, he appreciates extreme sports, but for three decades he has dedicated himself to traveling the world (with his wife), sharing his wisdom and "guiding people towards deep, enduring stability and freedom." We could all use a little bit of stability these days.

    8 p.m., Minneapolis Central Library, Pohlad Hall, 300 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-825-5055; $15, students $10.

    PANEL
    Isn’t It Time to Learn about the Hmong Community?

    What do you know about your neighbors? The Twin Cities is home to the largest Hmong population in the United States. Did you know that, at least? How many of them do you know? What do you know about them? About their culture? Do you ever even read Hmong Today? (Did you even know it exists?) Isn’t it time? Tonight, you can learn about the Hmong culture from a panel of community leaders and journalists. Learn a little about what it means to be Hmong in Minnesota. Gain a little insight into the challenges of covering the community in both the mainstream and ethnic media.

    7 p.m., The Hmong Cultural Center, 995 University Ave. W., Suite 214, St. Paul.

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    Jim Walsh

    To celebrate the publication of his labor of love/oral history, The Replacements: All Over But the Shouting, longtime Twin Cities music critic and columnist Jim Walsh
    will be undertaking his own blitzkrieg, book-tour version of the Mats’
    legendary ’85 five-night stand at the Entry. In the course of the week
    you’ll have a couple of chances to share the love and relive the glory
    and ignominy of one of the greatest bands ever to tear up local stages. —Brad Zellar

    7:30 p.m., Barnes & Noble, Galleria, 70th & France Ave., Edina; free. Tomorrow at Electric Fetus/7th St. Entry (two separate events); get more information.

     

     

  • Restaurant Hall of Fame

    For the restaurant industry, this week marks the final push of the year: Sell those gift cards! Book the holiday parties! Throw open the new doors and get some butts in chairs (welcome Otho and finally Red Stag)!

    Last week was different. Before all the hubbub there was time for a moment of reflection.

    Last Monday night, I found myself jammed into Mancini’s Char House with a throng of industry lifers for a little celebration of the old-school. It was the Minnesota Restaurant Association’s big soiree, a night when they induct honorees into the Hall of Fame and present their award for Restaurant of the Year.

    First of all, it wasn’t the James Beard awards. Standing there, swirling my Maker’s Mark as I surveyed the room, it was obvious to me that the night wasn’t about cutting-edge chefs and daring cuisine.There were plenty of suits sporting names like Kozlak, Cossetta, and Murray on their badges, but not a McKee or Woodman or Becker in sight. Maybe for some that’s reason enough to poo-poo the whole affair, but I’m happy for their short-sightedness: more room for me at the prime rib carving station.

    The Hall of Famers this year included the late Bob Casper of Casper’s Cherokee Sirloin Room, Louis Tinucci of Tinucci’s Restaurant, and the man I was there to applaud, Pete Mihajlov of Parasole Restaurant Holdings.

    It has been said that if you don’t like Pete, you don’t like Santa Claus. His boisterous and snarky partner, Phil Roberts, is usually the one to get the press, which is just as Pete would have it. While Phil is the buzz, Pete is the undercurrent, working behind the scenes to build the Twin Cities dining culture. When you read about the staff at Manny’s who have the almost unnerving ability to recognize and remember frequent guests, that’s Pete at work. His guest-focus is the core of the Parasole culture, which has further influenced the local dining scene as former employees (Town Talk’s Niver was a Pronto manager, Tim McKee a Figlio cook…) branch out and make their mark.

    It wasn’t lost on me that we were celebrating these groundbreakers in a place that started as a small 3.2 beer joint, just serving some Italian sandwiches. When Nick Mancini decided to buy a bar instead of a gas station in 1948, the "good" part of town was still a few blocks away. Over the years, Mancini’s has become a jewel of West Seventh and a St. Paul institution. Nick Mancini died earlier this year, but his love for the business clearly infected his sons who proudly accepted the mantle of Restaurant of the Year.

    Nestling into one of the iconic, high-backed, red leather booths for a good gossip session, I kept one eye trained on the shrimp station. As soon as it was refilled, I made a bee-line for the young man serving. It’s true I get a bit "chatty" after a measure of bourbon, and thusly discovered that the food was being served by culinary students. Of course I asked him my favorite question: Why do you want to be a chef? And of course he started out with the usual blah blah I’ve always loved food blah blah my grandmother taught me to cook blah blah I want to bring new food to the Twin Cites blah blah. But then he added: If I could create a restaurant that would last as long as this, wouldn’t that be something?

    No school like the old school.