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  • Hotcakes in Hell

    It is a fact that I have never made a decent pancake.

    My children could tell you this. For years, when they’d have friends sleep over and I’d offer—in the morning—to whip up my special whole wheat-and-yogurt pancakes, I’d get an urgent “No! That’s alright. We’re not hungry.” Then they’d sneak off to devour a box of cereal in the basement. Yet when I arrived at Hell’s Kitchen for my first day of work—because as a restaurant critic, I felt I should know what it’s like on the other side—I was put on griddle duty. I think Steve Meyer, lead cook and co-owner, believed I would do the least damage there.

    I was stationed between Meyer and his second-in-command, Pepé Yupa. A forty-five-year-old Ecuadorean national and former roofer, Yupa started at Hell’s Kitchen six years ago as a dishwasher and rose quickly to become a line cook. He speaks little English, but he reads the order tickets lined up in front of the heat lamps in a flash. All day, he and Meyer communicate in a hybrid Spanglish mixed with metaphor, a private language I had no hope of deciphering.

    Besides making pancakes and lemon-ricotta hotcakes, my tasks included finishing the huevos rancheros—a favorite at Hell’s Kitchen—with cheese, heat, salsa, and sour cream (in that order), and calling out orders to the kitchen crew as they came off the printer. This last job entailed scanning each ticket, compiling the various items in my head, and reciting them in a particular order, which, despite multiple reminders, I could never recall.

    I did pretty well at the second job: topping the huevos rancheros with a handful of shredded cheddar and sliding the plates under the coils of a huge Salamander oven. The problem was I would become distracted: New orders flowed in ceaselessly, guys kept edging behind me yelling, “Benedict WALKING!,” and a constant scroll of soap operas played on the television overhead. Once or twice, I noticed the rancheros I’d started beginning to smoke.

    When it came to pancakes, I’d toss a little melted butter on the griddle, then ladle on the batter. But I consistently poured either too much or too little, so my pancakes were thick and lumpy or weirdly long and thin. Finally, Yupa took over. “Like this, honey,” he said, scooping, dumping, flipping, and producing a perfect stack. “See?”

    And I nodded, though I didn’t see at all. My hands were sticky, which I hate; sweat was running in a steady stream down my back; and there was no pattern I could discern to this work: It would be screaming busy for twenty minutes, then preternaturally dead for ten. I always chose the wrong time to use the bathroom.

    At five-foot-three, I might have complained about working in a kitchen where everything is overhead. Except that Yupa is the same size, and he managed somehow—moving, stretching, reaching, lifting, and catching with a Kirby Puckett-style grace.

    Only very good friends with great humor and sky-high risk tolerance would let me attempt to cook in their restaurant. I became a food critic not because I’m a frustrated weekend chef but because left to my own devices, I would prepare nothing but plain yogurt with fruit, peanut butter sandwiches, and popcorn. But Meyer and majority partner Mitch Omer not only allowed me to stay that day, they asked me to return the next.

    “You come back?” Yupa said when I arrived. He looked stunned. It was Saturday, the day Hell’s Kitchen routinely serves five hundred people by noon.

    “I want to learn,” I said. “Pancakes mejor.” I’d spent the night before practicing several phrases in Spanish with my husband, who lived in Barcelona for years. But at 7:30 a.m., after a single cup of coffee, the only word I could recall was the one for “better.”

    By nine o’clock, it was clear my pancakes would not be mejor. And the orders were coming in so fast Yupa finally nudged me gently out of the way.

    I spent the rest of the shift melting cheese over huevos rancheros and stepping to the side when the real cooks needed to sail through unimpeded. Then I would watch, and this, I must admit, was the best part. Communicating in a language I was beginning to understand, they danced and wove amongst each other and tossed things through the air.

    When I left Hell’s Kitchen at two p.m., more tired than I’ve been since the last time I gave birth, Yupa asked, “You come back tomorrow?” I shook my head and he grinned, then stuck out his hand and said, “Bye, honey.” Despite his best effort, I still cannot make a decent pancake.

  • Take the Chill Off

    It’s winter. You’re cold, you’re broke, and you spent the entire month of December eating too much. You made a few New Year’s resolutions, and you want to keep them. You don’t need a bunch of fine dining recommendations.

    You need soup: warm, filling, and cheap, it’s the perfect antidote to cold, fat, and broke.

    I’m not talking about those red and white cans of Campbell’s that have impoverished the very concept of soup for so many, or even that little cup of tomato basil that comes with the soup-and-sandwich special. I’m talking about a meal in a bowl, from one of the many cultures around the world where soup is celebrated.

    Take China. Odds are when you think of Chinese soups you think wonton, and the typical wonton soup at Chinese restaurant these days is a disgrace—thin broth and soggy pasta dumplings with a tiny bit of minced meat at the center.

    The real wonton soup is a whole different kettle of dumplings. It has a rich homemade stock and fat pouches filled with minced pork, mushrooms, and more; and it’s cooked to order, so the wontons are firm, not mushy.

    But wonton soups are just the beginning. My favorite Chinese noodle soup is beef brisket, typically made with big chunks of stewed meat and tendon in an aromatic broth scented with star anise. As you eat, you slurp, and the hot, aromatic steam rises into your nostrils.

    The newest and most stylish of the restaurants that serve Chinese meal-in-a-bowl soups is Pagoda in Dinkytown. They let you design your own soup: You select a broth (chicken or pork), a noodle (the four options include Japanese udon), and as many fillings as you want from a list that includes beef brisket, curried squid, beef balls, fish balls, and more. It costs $3.95 for noodles and broth, plus a dollar more per ingredient.

    Pagoda also offers several kinds of congee, the savory rice porridge that is the ultimate comfort food. Some people find it bland, but at its best, it’s deceptively simple and wonderfully nuanced, studded with chewy shreds of pork and slippery morsels of gelatinous preserved egg, and scented with slivered ginger, chopped green onions, and aromatic fresh coriander. Other top spots for traditional Chinese noodle soups and congees include Hong Kong Noodle, Keefer Court, Shuang Cheng, Village Wok, Relax (the former Yummy), and Mandarin Kitchen.

    By now most American gastronomic adventurers are familiar with at least one or two soups from the Vietnamese repertoire: pho, the beef noodle soup from the north; and hu tieu, made with roast pork, shrimp, and squid (originally from Cambodia). The many variations of pho range from a simple rare sliced beef with rice noodles to a combination of sliced beef, brisket, tripe, tendons, and meatballs. Regardless of type, it should be served with fresh chopped coriander on top and a side dish of basil and other fresh herbs, bean sprouts, and lime wedges.

    Moving beyond pho and hu tieu, many better Vietnamese restaurants also offer bun bo hue, a hot and spicy noodle soup from central Vietnam; and bo kho, an intensely flavorful beef stew (misleadingly described as curry), which can be ordered with rice noodles, egg noodles, or a French baguette. For the truly adventuresome, Quang serves chao long, a rice porridge made with pork intestines and other innards, on weekends. My other favorite spots for Vietnamese soups include Pho Tau Bay and K-Wok in Minneapolis, and Ngon Bistro, Trieu Chau, and Hoa Bien in St. Paul.

    If you like it spicy, it’s hard to beat the selection at Peninsula, the Malaysian restaurant just up the street from Quang. Their beef curry soup with egg noodles is intensely flavorful without being overpoweringly spicy, but my favorite is the nyonya laksa, a curried coconut-milk soup brimming with tofu, chicken, shrimp, bean sprouts, and rice noodles. You can also find a decent version of curry laksa soup, along with a few other Malaysian dishes, at K-Wok, the Vietnamese/Chinese restaurant at Cedar and Riverside. And for a terrific selection of hearty Cambodian noodle soups, both spicy and mild, visit Cheng Heng, on University Avenue in St. Paul, where you’ll find distinctively Khmer versions of Vietnamese pho and Thailand’s hot-and-sour tom yum.

    Japan gave us ramen, the instant noodle soup packets that are a mainstay of college dorms and employee lunchrooms. You can find a more refined version of ramen, topped with roast pork, bamboo shoots, and fish cake on the lunch menu at Origami, but most other local Japanese restaurants base their soup repertoires on two other traditional noodles: fat wheat udon, and chewy brown buckwheat soba.

    My two favorite spots for Japanese noodle soups are Midori’s Floating World Café in Minneapolis, and Tanpopo Noodle Shop in St. Paul’s Lowertown. Tanpopo’s nabeyaki udon is a composition with the elegant simplicity of a haiku: noodles, shrimp tempura, sliced chicken, fish cake, Japanese omelet, and seaweed, presented steaming hot in a pottery bowl.

    Korea has very cold winters, and the best of the Korean restaurants around town, like King’s Korean, Mirror of Korea, Kum Gang San, and Hoban, all offer soups to warm your innards. Mandoo kook is Korea’s answer to wonton soup—dumplings filled with beef, cabbage, and tofu (ingredients vary) served in a clear flavorful broth. My favorite, cham pong, is made with spaghetti-like noodles and mixed seafood (typically, shrimp, octopus, and mussels), as well as napa cabbage, green onions, onions, and carrots. Adventuresome eaters will want to try kimchi chigae, a very spicy stew of fermented cabbage, tofu, green onions, and pork in a hot pepper broth.

    Asian cuisines, of course, don’t have the lock on great soup. The most famous Mexican soup is probably menudo, the spicy tripe and hominy soup traditionally served as a hangover cure. (A word to the squeamish: Even though I shy away from liver, kidneys, and most other organ meats, I actually like tripe, which has a mild flavor and a pleasantly chewy texture.) Many restaurants serve menudo only on weekends, but Pancho Villa and Tacos Morelos make it every day. Beyond menudo, Pancho Villa offers a traditional caldo de res and caldo de pollo (stewed beef or chicken in broth with big chunks of vegetables), and a spectacular caldo 7 mares (“Seven Seas”), full of shrimp, octopus, mussels, squid, and crab legs, swimming in a spicy red broth. I also enjoyed their pozole, a traditional soup made with pork and hominy that dates to pre-Columbian times. Order it rojo—red—for the extra kick of chili peppers.

    Kramarczuk’s Deli on East Hennepin in Minneapolis usually has about half a dozen soups on hand, including the classic Eastern European winter-beater, a beet and cabbage broth. This hearty version also has lots of chunks of stewed beef. It’s a bright rose color when served, and changes to a lascivious shade of pink when you stir in sour cream, as is the custom. A bowl of this borscht, with a few slices of rye bread and butter, and you are ready to face a Ukrainian winter, or a Minneapolis snowstorm. For variety, try the sweet and sour version at the Brothers Deli in downtown Minneapolis, where you can also find pretty good chicken noodle and matzo ball soups.

    Speaking of which, for first-rate chicken noodle soup, head to Yum! Kitchen & Bakery in St. Louis Park, where you can add matzo balls à la carte. Yum! also offers a delicious creamy, chunky tomato basil soup and a hearty gumbo, served over rice and brimming with andouille sausage, chicken, shrimp, and okra.

    One more favorite spot for soups is the Fireroast Mountain Café. Owner Lisa Piper makes two a day, at least one vegetaria
    n, ranging from smoked beef with roasted poblano to apple-parsnip, potato-leek, and chicken-and-veggies-with-rice varieties. Combine that with one of Lisa’s terrific homemade desserts, like the signature Mexican chocolate cake, or apple spice cake with walnut topping, and you’ve got a hearty lunch—plus change from a ten-dollar bill. (Full disclosure: Lisa and her husband/co-owner Dave Clark are friends.)

    If you work your way around the Cities to all of these restaurants, that should be enough soups to keep you going ’til spring, but it’s hardly a complete list. If you have favorites to add, drop me a line at iggers@rakemag.com, and I will add them to my Breaking Bread blog.

  • Warming the hearts of skanky drunks everywhere

    Dear scantily clad women shivering
    on 1st Avenue
    at bar close, waiting for the cab the bartender called for you 45 minutes
    ago, 

    Thanks to U.S. District Judge
    James Rosenbaum, no longer will you have to wait to get home and get
    your swerve on with that friendly soul who was so kind as to buy you
    five vodka and Red Bulls. You see, prior to this decision to throw the lawsuit to block
    the expansion of cab services in Minneapolis
    out of court, Minneapolis desire to expand its taxi fleet was on hold,
    still operating under an asinine cap system, holding the city to a preset
    number of taxis. In October, 2006, the city decided to address the issue,
    opening taxi service up for expansion. The Minneapolis Taxi Owners Coalition
    quickly sued to block the expansion, fearing for their contract with
    HBO for the next season of "Taxicab Confessions." Given how reliant other cities
    are on cabs, this would seem to be a large-scale issue. In fact, last
    year the city had only 343 cabs – not nearly enough to hold back the
    rising tide of fumbling drunks determined to shirk the sacred responsibilities
    of a lush, which include:

    • paying for parking
    • driving drunk
    • causing a five car
      pile up on 35W in an ill-advised, drunken attempt at road head

     

    Due to Judge Rosenbaum’s
    decision, taxi licenses will no longer cost would-be cabbies $25,000
    and a night of "initiation"(generally involving livestock, nudity,
    and unspeakable acts performed on the Mary Tyler Moore statue at 7th
    and Nicollet). For the next two years, the cap will be raised by 45
    licenses, and will be completely removed in 2010. The only restrictions
    placed on the proliferation of these rolling drunk tanks being that
    10 percent of the city’s cabs must be high efficiency or wheelchair
    accessible vehicles.  

    Of course, the decision doesn’t
    only bode well for the metro-area’s cleavage-baring and playa population.
    The majority of cab companies in the Twin Cities are minority owned,
    and one of the parties advocating blocking the lawsuit (and one of the
    first in line for the $425 taxi licenses) is at least partly minority-owned
    as well. And there’s certainly pent up demand, as evidenced by the
    busy signals so often heard when calling any of the major cab companies
    during bar close or afternoon rush hours. And visitors to our fair city
    from larger metropolises will no longer be baffled by the futility of
    using a cab for reliable transportation – an important key for tourist
    revenues. The upcoming Republican Convention couldn’t possibly have
    anything to do with the city’s decision to change the rules…could
    it? 

    Regardless, take heart, skeezy
    men and skanktastic women of First Avenue. Judge Rosenbaum has heard
    your cries for clemency and has the city well on its way to providing
    you with a chariot for all your debaucheristic needs. No more shall
    you shiver in the cold waving frantically for a cab, the handkerchief
    you wear as a top blowing in the chill wind as you teeter unsteadily
    on stiletto heels completely unsuited for a night of equilibrium annihilating
    drink. For Minneapolis and the U.S. Federal Courts have conquered the
    diabolical Taxi Owner’s Coalition in the name of drunkards and inebriates
    everywhere, and never shall you be forced to wait for a cab to experience
    the disappointment of a fumbling drunken one-night stand again.

  • Making Hay in the Winter

    There’s going to be another inquiry into why the bridge
    fell. On top of the NTSB, the Legislative Auditor, and the Governor Pawlenty-hired
    consultants, we’re going to have the Minneapolis
    law firm of Gray Plant Mooty looking into things on behalf of a bi-partisan
    State House-Senate committee.

    One wonders why we need another such investigation. But it’s not
    too hard to figure out if you read the comments of the politicians who oppose
    its formation. One needs to look only as far as our head politician for the
    answer. Governor Pawlenty said that the
    purpose of the investigation was "to make political hay out of a tragic
    situation."

    I agree whole heartedly with the governor, but not because
    it’s wrong to make political hay here, but because it would be wrong not to.
    Here’s why: the bridge didn’t fall because we didn’t know that it needed
    repair. The bridge fell because we knew it needed repair and someone made a
    political, or, to be generous, a budgetary, decision not to make the repairs.
    That’s what I’d like to find out: who made that decision to play dice with the
    chances with the lives of the thousands of people who drove over that bridge
    every day?

    Applying Occam’s Razor (which is a principle of
    investigation which states, in essence, that the simplest possible solution to
    a problem is most often the correct one) I’m going with Pawlenty’s appointment
    of Carol Molnau, an anti-transportation, anti-tax ideologue, as transportation
    commissioner as the proximate cause.

    That political decision trumped all the engineering and
    maintenance recommendations that might have saved the bridge. And that’s hay
    that should be cut, baled and stacked for all of us to see every time we drive
    over a Minnesota
    bridge.

  • Abbreviated Trey: Still Going Down

    Game #24, Home Game #12: Golden State 111, Minnesota 98

    Season Record: 3-21

    First, a confession: An interview for another story I’m working on lasted much longer than anticipated, and as it turned out, I walked into Target Center at halftime, with the Wolves holding an 8-point lead. Thus, I only saw the collapse and don’t feel it fair to rip into performances without the context of what was apparently some inspired play, particularly from the recently maligned Rashad McCants, who got off for 13 in the first period and then four dimes and another six points in the second. Yeah, he was going up against Golden State and Nellyball, but those numbers seem to (at least temporarily) rebut my contention that McCants can’t score within the flow of the team’s offense.

    I don’t imagine me missing the first half is what Kelly Dwyer was hoping the future of sportswriting would be like. I don’t know Mr. Dwyer but was incredibly flattered by his generous praise in a column he wrote earlier today, and wish to publicly thank him. Before we drop the subject so it doesn’t go any further to my head, I just want to repeat that it is the quality of the comments on this blog and the knowledge that smart people are reading me that provides much of the enthusiasm that people enjoy in my work.

    1. Wittman Raises The Ante

    Randy Wittman angrily called out his team in the postgame press conference, essentially calling them spineless, and chokers. The coach again invoked the fighting analogy, claiming that when the team gets hit in the mouth it doesn’t fight back, and going so far as to say the team "would not allow people to do that to them in the parking lot." Earlier he had pretty much hollared, "At some point we have to man up, stand up and say `Enough is enough!’" The coach further added that when he called time out with 8:34 to go in the third, "their body language said it all to me…their heads were down." He noted it was something the team "had been fighting all year," specifically citing the 8 point halftime lead tonight, the six point halftime lead Monday in Miami, and the 15 point first quarter lead last week at home against Seattle–all for naught in three losses.

    I understand Witt is competitive, and increasingly frustrated. These losses are like water drips from a faucet when you’re trying to sleep–they’ll drive you temporarily crazy. But calling out a team is the coaching equivalent of firing a bullet–there are only so many chambers in that gun, and he needs to use them wisely. The season is 24 games old–58 to go–and the Wolves were without Foye, Ratliff, Walker, Jaric (felled by the flu) and Buckner tonight, while Craig Smith and Corey Brewer were both reportedly feeling ill.

    Now consider what Wittman is quoted as saying in today’s Strib. First, on Corey Brewer’s shooting woes: "He’s putting himself in trouble, driving the ball into trouble…He’s [taking] bad shots because he’s turning down an open 18-footer and dribbling in for a worse shot." In the next graph, the Strib reported that Witt talked to Jaric after Tuesday’s practice–about regaining his aggressiveness. "He needs to get it back. I don’t know why it left…It is hard for a coach to call on a guy when he’s showing no aggression."

    Got that? Corey Brewer needs to stop driving to the hoop and pull up for 18 footers but if you’re not aggressive, it is going to be hard for you to get in the game. I know Brewer and Jaric are two very different players and he was addressing them separately. But a day after being told to be more aggressive, Jaric is probably cradling the toilet–do you remember how you feel about yourself during that process? Like a baby. Meanwhile, Brewer shot 4-12 FG, which actually boosts his season FG%. Half his shots, but alas, only one of his makes, were from outside the paint.

    Leaving aside the timing of Wittman’s diatribe, he is at least half-right in questioning the gumption and self-confidence of his ballclub as it spits up leads. No matter how young or untalented an NBA is, when it yields 15 baskets in 20 shots, as the Wolves did during the third period tonight, it is a half-assed effort. But shoddy defense wasn’t Minnesota’s only undoing–once again, turnovers played a major role, and contributed to easy transition baskets that made the D look worse. After turning the ball over just twice in the entire first half, the Wolves coughed it up 7 times in a 6:15 span early in the third–and 5 different players were the culprits. I’m not sure questioning a team’s manhood and daring a squad to stand up and say "enough is enough" is going to reduce turnovers. The defense, on the other hand, could use a little of that macho swagger, as well as better cohesion.

    Wittman vowed to figure out how to fix things, which inevitably brings us back to the fact that he is the coach of a team that constantly blows leads and otherwise fails to take advantage of eminently winnable games. On the one hand, what can legitimately be expected of a ballclub without Foye and Ratliff, starting two guys–Brewer and Telfair– who are legitimately suspect shooters who must prove they have to be guarded; an undersized center and power forward if Jefferson and Smith are the tandem, and a mercurial shooting guard? On the other hand, is the aforementioned lineup, plus the likes of Jaric, Gomes, Richard and Walker off the bench, more likely to respond to the carrot or the stick. On this question, I’m a vegetarian.

    Bottom line, the Timberwolves won’t fire Wittman until the end of the year at the earliest–otherwise that is three coaches dumped during the regular season three of the last four years, which would be a loud and damning indictment of front office incompetence in at least two or three different ways. But with a mark of 2-19 to go with last year’s 12-30, Wittman needs to watch how loudly he yells "Enough is enough."

    2. Another Gerald Green Sighting

    Gerald Green had a relatively lovely stat line: 18 points on 6-13 FG, including 4-8 from beyond the arc, and 8 rebounds in 30:10. But I am forced to repeat that the kid is lost on defense. Seventeen seconds after he entered in the third quarter, Stephen Jackson had him swatting at air while executing a layup. Rare were the occasions when Green was properly face up on a man; much more often he was running at the shooter, caught in mid-leap to commit the foul or enable the penetration, or dashing over to the bench to ask what the hell to do when the Wolves went into what looked like a matchup zone. Again, the cavaet is that I didn’t see the 16:04 GG played in the first half, when he knocked in 10 points and grabbed five boards.

    3. Quick Hits

    When I saw Craig Smith gasping for air with 8:12 remaining in the third, I scrawled an angry note about his conditioning and not being ready for Golden State’s pace, only to later learn he is probably ill.

    Al Harrington had a monster night, getting 14 in the third on 5-5 FG and finishing with a game-best plus +27 in 30:43. Just for grins, it would be nice to see if Chris Richard could handle a guy like Harrington, who goes 6-9 250 but can play on the perimeter. Smith is too slow, Brewer too light, making Ryan Gomes the best bet. But Richard, who got only 4:52 all night anyway, might have been a good experiment.

    So, McCants only went 2-6 FG with one rebound and 2 assists in 21:11 of the second half and I still thought he played well, especially as the main defender on Baron Davis. Anyone want to rave about that first half?

    Bassy Telfair played the entire second half against Golden State’s murderous pace with predictible results: 1-9 FG, four turnovers.

  • The Princess and the Whoopee Spot

    MUSIC
    Morrison’s Down in the Hallow

    Precious time is slipping away for a chance to see classic rock icon Van Morrison
    perform. On the heels of the release of his greatest hits album he is
    back in the cities for one night only to play a show at Northrop
    Auditorium. —Kate McDonald

    7:30 p.m., Northrop Auditorium, 84 Church St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-624-2345; $86-$211.

    MUSIC
    A Whoopee Spot Where the Gin Is Cold but the Piano Is Hot

    If the Van Morrison prices are a little too hard on your pocket, and Northrop is just a little too bright, we have an even groovier option for you tonight. Although
    the days of the mobster speakeasy inside a cave have ended, swing
    dancing to the jazz hits of the ’20s is still in full gear at the
    Wabasha Street Caves with the sweet retro-jazz-singer
    stylings of Christine Rosholt. Slick your hair, and wear your buckle shoes… and all that jazz. And come down to the cave tonight for a gin and a song or two. —Kate McDonald

    7 p.m., Wabasha Street Caves, 215 Wabasha St. S., St. Paul; 651-224-1191; $7.

     

    THEATER & PERORMANCE
    Support the Arts and Diana Princess of Whales Memorial Fund

    Take America’s obsession with Princess Diana, mix in some Mother Teresa action, and you’ve got yourself a fool-proof recipe for a tearjerker. Local theater company Urban Samurai has cooked this one up in their current production, The Diana Story — and they’ve managed to keep it smart. The play explores the unlikely friendship between the two powerful women as they work on the same cause to eliminate land minds. Your support will do some good, too, for one dollar of each ticket will be donated to the Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Fund. —Kate McDonald

    7:30 p.m., The Lowry Labs, 350 St. Peter St., St Paul; $15.

    SHOPPING
    First-ever Men’s Shopping Event at the Guthrie

    While they’re marketing it for men — as if only women enjoy the theater — no one is excluded from this first-ever Guthrie shopping event. Still have some last-minute gifts to pick up? Avoid the mall terror, and do your shopping in luxury — gifts first, happy hour after. That’s my kind of shopping! Choose from four special gift packages: The Jane Eyre Gift Package ($80, a $160 value) includes two show tickets, a poster, a T-shirt, and a CD with all of the original music from the show. The Dinner and a Show Gift Package ($150, a $218 value) includes a memorable prix fixe dinner for two at the award-winning Cue restaurant, followed by a pair of Guthrie tickets to the show of their choice. The Ultimate Season Ticket Package ($110, a $240 value) contains 4 ticket vouchers that can be given to one person or split amount several recipients. And the Guthrie Classes Gift Packages include either five ($65, an $80 value) or 10 classes ($105, a $155 value). Stop in during event hours and enjoy free gift wrapping, happy hour specials at Cue, and an eclectic mix of unique gift ideas.

    5 – 8 p.m. (Sunday from 3 to 6 p.m.), Guthrie Theater, 818 S. 2nd St., Minneapolis; 612-377-2224; $65-$155.

  • A Yo Ivanhoe Holiday Tradition

    Let’s suppose you –the hypothetical, perhaps wholly imagined You– stumble in here to Yo Ivanhoe on an occasional, one-time, or even purely accidental basis (one of those Google mishaps, say), completely unaware that this little futility closet is in fact a mere, very minor adjunct to a giant media empire (Rake Media Worldwide), which produces a print magazine in whose employ I –Brad Zellar– presently find myself, however tenuously.

    Rake Media Worldwide also operates a website, where Yo Ivanhoe enjoys sidebar status as a barely-tolerated exercise in pathetic self indulgence. You –the hypothetical, perhaps wholly imagined You– may not know any of this. And so you may not know that if you go to the Rake website and poke around a bit you can find (and watch) a video of me –Brad Zellar– reading, from the relative comfort of my modest home, a traditional Christmas story, complete with a live infant, a dog, a roaring fire, and an inebriate. I would post the thing right here but I don’t have the slightest idea how to do any such thing, so I will provide you with a link that will take you there.

    In doing this –a rare act of loathsome self promotion– I am motivated solely by the spirit of the season and a sort of pathological generosity. I hope that you will thank me for it, even as I feel the need to apologize for wasting your time.

  • Peripa-tech!

    This month, all sorts of lucky boys and girls are sporting shiny new
    electronic doodads, freshly delivered from Santa and other thoughtful
    gift-givers. It’s good timing: A hot-pink Motorola RAZR or aquamarine
    laptop does much to cut through the gray midwinter cloud cover, not to
    mention spruce up many a gloomy coffeehouse interior. In fact, around
    these parts, tech accessories are one of the few acceptable ways to
    incorporate fluorescents this time of year—especially if you’re in
    possession of a Y chromosome. Cell phones and iPods are only the most
    common of these gizmos; clothing and accessories designers have also
    devised a crop of stylish new ways to ferry—and flaunt—these devices.
    Somewhere deep in our cargo pants are additional treasures: pocket
    shooters (a.k.a. super- skinny digital cameras) in bright metallic
    hues, even USB drives encrusted with Swarovski crystals. Who knew
    gadgets could be so decadent?

    See Peripa-tech slideshow featured in the left column. 

  • Did Hillary Clinton Choose Her Fanny Over Her Face?

    Don’t think all the Hillary Clinton hullabaloo has gone
    unnoticed by the likes of me. Truth be told, I’ve been very busy at work this
    work, whereas my inner life has been consumed by a rage caused, for one,
    by the MPD’s horrific, paramilitary-style antics, but also by the revelation that certain
    political conservatives hate older women.

    OK, that’s not entirely true. In a way, I’m happy Rush et
    al. so freely expressed their misogyny (and forgive me for failing to link to their rubbish). Now, I can forward their screeds to all
    my female relatives, thereby turning them into life-long Democrats. 

    You see, I don’t think
    an ugly snapshot has necessarily ended Clinton’s
    presidential bid. (Urg, how irritating that I just had to fight an urge to refer
    to her by first name!) Rather, I think aging-and being criticized for your
    physical characteristics-is something that profoundly affects each and
    every woman. Most of us were held under the microscope at an early age. In my
    case, the tormentors fixed on my massive head of unruly, frizzy hair. The offshoot
    is that I, and almost every other woman alive, have a particular sensitivity
    about my appearance. In fact, I spend an embarrassing amount of time in front
    of the bathroom mirror most mornings, just staring at the constellation of
    wrinkles that increasingly lines my face. But no matter how much we
    women preen, pluck, or otherwise tend to our looks, we’re fully aware that these
    are essentially shallow pursuits. Being hot won’t make us happy. It won’t make us smart. Sure, we miss our beauty as it fades, but we don’t necessarily miss
    all the catcalls a walk down the street would inspire when we were in our teens
    and early twenties. Looks aren’t everything, guys! Pfft!!

     

    Anyhoo, much as we women like attracting (and deflecting)
    positive male attention, we’re also extremely sensitive to their mean-spirited
    attacks on our appearances. Look, Clinton
    looks a whole lot better than most of us look, or will look, at sixty years of
    age. Most women can only hope to look half this beautiful. Remember
    the way you reacted when your high-school boyfriend remarked that Winona Ryder
    looked sort of chubby in Heathers? Realizing she was, like, wa-ay thinner than you were, you
    then turned to him, clicked your tongue, and screamed at the top of your lungs: "That’s just a roundabout way of calling me fat!" OK, so maybe that was just me … But the point is this: An attack
    on one (of our faces) is an attack on all (of our faces). Heck, the way I see
    it, all those conservative blowhards just inspired a boatload of empathy from the
    2008 presidential campaign’s most important voting block: WOMEN!

    P.S. Here’s a thoughtful piece on the matter from Salon.com.

  • Also Noted

    Regarding Fidel Castro: My Life: A Spoken Autobiography (available January 8)— we’re curious about what the old man has to say, and we’re hoping for wardrobe and grooming tips, along with colorful yarns about outlasting ten American presidents. Plus, how can you resist a two-colon title? … As long as we’re pimping atheists and communists, we might as well throw this one out there, too: Eric Wilson’s Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy (available January 22) is pretty much exactly what it says; it argues that depression is a vital force and the wellspring of creativity. We’re happy to hear that … In Life Class (available January 29), Booker Prize-winning novelist Pat Barker (The Regeneration Trilogy) continues her exploration of the First World War’s devastating effects on British society … A.L. Kennedy is one of those prolific, much praised, purported virtuosos that nobody seems to have read. We can all climb on the bandwagon with her latest, Day (available January 8) … Finally, want to read something unlike most of the stuff you read? Try sampling some of the reissues from the virtuous New York Review of Books Classics series. For starters, we’d recommend Elaine Dundy’s delightful The Dud Avocado, a novel of an adventurous American girl in Paris. Or Edward Lewis Wallant’s The Tenants of Moonbloom, about a bill collector for a slumlord. Or Sylvia Townsend Warner’s Lolly Willowes. Seriously, their catalog is full of marvels.