The Rake Magazine

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  • Keeping the Faith

    I work out at the Y five or six times a week, so I see a lot of naked women.

    There are very elderly ones who stand crookedly in the shower,
    bones protruding, washing their thinning, silver hair. Others have
    bodies so wrinkled, the folds of skin fall like ripples from their
    shoulders to their thighs. One woman of about 60 has had a double
    mastectomy; she stands facing out under the hot air dryer on the wall,
    scars running diagonally, like a geometry problem across her flattened
    chest.

    These women neither frighten nor repel me. But there are many who do.

    They’re the middle-aged matrons who wriggle into stretched-out
    nylon thongs and strut around the locker room with sad, flaccid butt
    cheeks dribbling out. The ones who climb on the scale and stand for
    full minutes, inching the weights backward an eighth of a pound at a
    time, sweat breaking from their clenched foreheads. Those with hard,
    synthetic breasts and nipples that point ahead like ray guns: strange,
    white, manmade protrusions on bodies otherwise middle-aged, sun-worn
    and tan.

    “Never let me do that,” I’ll hiss at my daughter as we leave. “If I ever buy a thong, you have to shoot me. Promise.”

    She rolls her eyes: an entire revolution, the way only teenagers can. “Don’t worry,” she’ll say. “I will.”

    I understand the temptation, or at least, I’m beginning to. At
    41, my gray hairs now number at least a dozen and despite the fact that
    my weight is steady, my body somehow is becoming simultaneously bony
    and too soft. Running hurts my knees. Caffeine keeps me up at night.
    When I tell people I have a son who is going away to college next fall,
    they rarely shout, “You? Impossible. You’re far too young!”

    I’m hardly the first to be struck by this sudden sense of age.
    Yet, I have to admit, cliché though it may be, all these changes come
    as a rather jolting surprise. And I don’t want to turn out like those
    sad thong-wearing women with the synthetic boobs and sagging butt
    cheeks.

    So I went in search of wisdom and grace.

     

    Faith Sullivan, the novelist, is 74. She’s small and delicately
    rounded, like a sparrow in winter. Her hair is pewter and pure white,
    cut in an old-fashioned bob. She wears bright clothes and oversize
    glasses, like Angela Lansbury in Murder, She Wrote
    (which remains, in syndication, Sullivan’s favorite TV show), and she
    calls everyone either “Darlin’” or “Dear Heart,” depending on the level
    of intimacy.

    Among the people I know, she is universally loved.

    “Faith has shown me how to be more than just a writer,” Kate
    DiCamillo, the Newbury award-winning author, told me. “I remember being
    in a bookstore in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and Faith had been there
    before me. They had a letter from her on the bulletin board thanking
    them for the lovely time that she’d had reading. And I remember saying
    to myself, all the bookstores I visit, they deserve thank you notes,
    too.”

    I’ve seen it myself. Sullivan’s last published work, Gardenias,
    came out at exactly the same time as my first novel. I spent weeks
    compulsively checking my book’s Amazon ranking, driving myself and
    everyone who knew me crazy with tedious fretting about low sales, until
    a luncheon at which Sullivan told me she didn’t even have an Internet
    connection and wasn’t at all interested in anonymous reviews.

    “I gave a copy to the lady who does my dry cleaning,” Sullivan
    told me. “And she was just delighted. That’s what you have to do,
    darlin’. You wrote a wonderful story; now share it with people who will
    appreciate it.”

    This is how she became popular: through word of mouth,
    bookstore clerks who hand sold her first several novels, local reading
    groups that bought her book en masse and told all their friends in
    other states about Sullivan’s work.

    “I’ve known Faith for ten years,” says the writer Kit Naylor.
    “And she goes whenever a book club or a library asks her to speak. It
    doesn’t matter where they are or how many people attend. And she’s
    genuinely happy to do it.”

    That’s how Sullivan behaved when her first three books were
    published — a comedy, a mystery, and an experimental novel she
    describes as “like magical realism” — in the early 1980s. All three are
    out of print now, but her 1988 semi-autobiographical novel The Cape Ann continues selling today. And she’s written three more books, The Empress of One, What A Woman Must Do, and Gardenias picking up on storylines from Cape Ann.

    She’s been married to former Los Angeles Times theater
    critic Dan Sullivan for 43 years — since shortly after they met during
    a rehearsal at what was then the brand-new Dudley Riggs Theater — and
    has three children, ages 42, 40, and 37. They lived on the West Coast
    for 20 years before returning to Minnesota (“home,” she says) in 1990.

    Today, at work on a fifth about Hilly Stillman, a minor character from Cape Ann,
    Sullivan is writing more slowly than before. Since July, she’s had
    chronic headaches due to inflammation of the nerves at the base of her
    neck and has been on a regimen of steroids and heavy-duty painkillers.
    But when I call her to ask if she’ll have dinner with me, she accepts
    on the spot and tells me cheerfully she’ll simply “take an extra pill”
    before our meal.

  • Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's 2005

    For a Jewish Gen X’er, I have a strangely regressive Protestant work ethic. For instance, I tend to feel guilty when I have fun while I’m on the job. And after last Thursday at Thomas Liquors — let me tell you — my conscience is simply awash.

    These guys are crazy, in a very good way. Led by Mike Thomas — the third-generation owner of what used to be St. Paul’s party central (they were, Mike says, the "keg pros" for nearby Macalester, St. Thomas, and St. Kate’s, until the drinking age was raised to 21) — this is a group that knows how to throw a wine tasting. Just to give you an idea: I think, at one point, around the seventh bottle, Dionysus wandered through.

    Thomas Liquors is a little hard to find. It’s on Grand Avenue, but only the solid brick exterior, painted with grapevines, shows streetside. We were in the back room around 4 p.m.: Mike, two wine vendors (Eddie and Corey), Dan — an employee — my good friend, Mary, and myself. There were shelves of liquor lining the walls, a round wooden table piled with bottles and books, and a space heater pumping out warm, red rays.

    The topic of the tasting was French 2005’s. Now, 2005 was an ideal year throughout Europe; all grape growing conditions were perfect: rain, sun, temperature, and ripening time. Compare this to — say — Italian films of the 1960s (when Sergio Leone was in his prime). Which is to say, even choosing at random, it’s hard to find a bad one. Wine or western, as the case may be. . . .

    In any case, the vintage was one thing. The company another. Thomas himself is a jovial former beer drinker who admits freely that some savvy vendor handed him a Wine Spectator 25 years ago and insisted THIS was the future of the liquor and spirits biz. Eddie is a recently married rep for Wine Adventures, and the proud purveyor of a Cotes du Rhone that’s now near and dear to my heart (I’ll get to this in a minute); his cell phone, which went off every couple minutes, played the theme from Batman — the one that signals the boys are sliding skulkily into the bat cave. Corey, from Cat & Fiddle Beverage, was hawking a Chablis of all things and talking about the Catholic funeral (his first, apparently) he’d just attended: "Two hours long. But I liked that. When you’re burying someone, you shouldn’t be in a fucking rush."

    It was a little like one of those afternoons in college when you know you should be studying but you amble down the hall to a friend’s dorm room instead. Pretty soon, there are six or eight people sitting around and there’s a guy playing a guitar, or Pink Floyd on the stereo, and you drink beer and order a pizza and someone reaches under a bed and pulls out a. . . .OK, never mind. We’re not here to talk about the indiscretions of my youth, we’re here to talk about wine.

    So anyway, we sat around the table and passed our glasses back and forth and tasted more wines than anyone should in a single sitting. But the fact was, the mood was right and it was toasty and I love the theme from Batman. Also, there were crackers.

    Of the ’05’s we sampled, here were my top picks (note: I’m not going to list the year for each — they’re all 2005 — and prices are for Thomas):

    Bourgogne Les Setilles — all Chardonnay but there’s no butter; instead, this is pure cream, smooth with just a hint of cardboard on the edges of the tongue; a nice body of apricots and peaches with a sexy, musky finish; 13% alcohol/$16.99

    Billaud-Simon Chablis — a very pleasant surprise for someone who associates the word "chablis" with the yellow liquid that was stored in my grandmother’s refrigerator in a box; a light, flinty white with citrus and tropical fruit; 12% alcohol/$26.99

    Louis Latour Pinot Noir — the loamy bouquet of a French field; midweight with plenty of cherry and oak but NO anise; an incredibly versatile, drinkable wine; 13% alcohol/$13.99

    Chateau Beauchene Grande Reserve Cotes du Rhone — I saved this for last because it was my favorite by far; an absolutely exquisite wine made from vines that once were part of the Chateauneuf-de-Pape region; fig, blackberry and a diamond-clean finish with a wonderful whiff of something like vintage violin strings or library dust; 13% alcohol/$16.99

    We tried a few others, too, truth be told. We laughed and talked about the movies we’d seen and where we went to college and had our first jobs. Corey gave Eddie marital advice, or the other way around. Nobody (thankfully) spat.

    When we left the back room and went out into the store so I could pick up a couple bottles of the Cotes du Rhone, Mike introduced me to all of his employees and many of the regular customers in the store. We’d spent hours and if I didn’t have hungry kids waiting at home I easily could have stayed on into the night. Thomas Liquors is a truly happy place. And more important, I suppose, they offer some excellent wines. Plus a really fine cracker. . . .

    So I took notes and wrote the story and let all of you in on the secret of where you can get a downright beautiful French ’05 for under $14. Can I stop feeling guilty now?

  • Cave Vin: Moules Frites and Mellow Jazz

    So, the first thing Carol says when we are seated at our
    table at Cave Vin, is, "why would anybody want to eat at Salut, when they could
    dine here?"

    Of course, this was before we had ordered any food, so it
    was based entirely on appearances, but it seemed like a good question. Cave
    Vin, with its pale dappled walls and soft lighting, just seemed so much more
    romantic and inviting than Parasole’s high-decibel parody of a French
    restaurant, a few blocks away at 50th and France. Evidently, a lot
    of shrewd market research led to the conclusion that what Ediners want when
    they dine at a French restaurant is a French Onion Soup burger. On this
    Wednesday night, Cave Vin was mostly empty, while Salut always seems to be
    crowded.

     Adding to Cave Vin’s
    charm was a trio, featuring chanteuse Rhonda Laurie, who has performed around
    town at the Dakota, Rossi’s and elsewhere, backed by bass and guitar, playing
    old jazz standards, softly. They’re at Cave Vin every Wednesday night from 6:30
    to 9:30.

    We weren’t really hungry, so we ordered light – we split a
    delightful beet and roasted fennel salad, served in a subtle Dijon vinaigrette
    ($7.50), and then Carol ordered the mussels in shallots, white wine and garlic
    ($9.50 / $13 with frites) and I opted for the steak tartare ($8.75), a dish
    that has virtually disappeared from American menus because of fears of food
    poisoning (and law suits.) This was a classic rendition, topped with a raw egg
    and accompanied by chopped onions and capers, and toasted croutons – an
    elemental pleasure for carnivores.

    Carol’s mussels were tender and flavorful, and the
    accompanying side of thinly sliced salted frites was big enough to share. We
    hesitated about dessert, tempted by the likes of crème brulee and chocolate pot
    de crème, and then decided that we were quite satisfied without. Total tab for
    two, with tax, tip, and a couple of glasses of wine was $55.

    There is lots more on the menu that I would like to try,
    ranging from the crab cakes ($10) and the frog legs ($7.95) to the braised lamb
    shank ($18) and cornmeal crusted sea scallops ($24), so I will probably be back
    soon – either on a Wednesday, to hear Rhonda Laurie again, or on a Monday or
    Tuesday, when bottles of wine are half-price.

    Cave Vin, 5555 Xerxes Ave. S., Minneapolis, 612-922-0100. Open nightly at 5 p.m.  

  • Voltage Reload

    Whew, it’s been such a busy week as we’ve put finishing
    touches on our January issue (and we’re not done yet) that I almost forgot to tell
    ya: The Voltage 2008 designers were announced recently. (Yes, yes, by now it’s old hat … )

    Here they are, in any case – a who’s-who of great local designers: Amanda
    Christine    , Annie Larson, Belle, Calpurnia Peach, George Moskal, Laura Fulk,
    Katherine Gerdes, Kristina Bell, Max Lohrbach, Pomije, Red Shoe Clothing Co.,
    and my pal, Russell Bourrienne. There are, of course, both familiar and
    unfamiliar names in this lineup. I’m very pleased to see the reappearance of my
    two fave local designers, Katherine Gerdes and George Moskal. And I’m glad to
    see the addition of Bourrienne, a menswear maven, too.

    This annual
    mash-up of local music and fashion is the definitive Minneapolis fashion event, friends. And it’s actually a juried affair, so it can be tough for designers to get in.

    As the April 16 Voltage event nears, I’ll be sure to lend a
    few how-to’s. This can be a very tough one to navigate if you are, like me,
    sort of old, sleepy, and crabby about standing on First Ave.’s concrete dance
    floor for hours on end. A good primer can be had at the Voltage preview event
    which, this year, is scheduled for February 7. If you care to experience (or relive) Voltage 2007, then click here.

  • The Jewels of Nordeast

    Last night I finished my week’s run of holiday parties/steak-binge with a soiree at Jax. I wore a kicky ruffled tux shirt and drank Dewar’s all night, because that’s what Jax calls for.

    The bartenders always put on a fine display of drinksmanship, not only do they remember your drink, but they have a freshie waiting as you plunk down your empy glass. With my second glass, the barman reminded me to try the pierogi on the appetizer buffet. (Perhaps he was watching out for my drink to food ratio?)

    I love pierogi. Pierogi are a cocktailer’s best friend. Simply put, pierogi (or perogi or pirogen or piroschke) are stuffed dumplings. With their strong ties to Slavic cultures, it’s no surprise to find them on menus scattered throughout Nordeast Minneapolis.

    Personally, I think they’re best when they’ve been baked and the dumpling dough has a warm, flour-dusted crustiness to the outside. The initial bite should reveal a soft and steamy inside gently packed with a salty pork product, like Westphalian ham. It’s a quick two-bite process: the second half should be popped into your mouth before you reach for your next pierogi. Or at least, that’s how it happens at my Mom’s house on Christmas Eve.

    Sadly, the pierogi at Jax were not my dream pierogi, they were more like flat and soggy ravioli. I did eat a couple, in respectful deference to my barman, and they did function beautifully as a balance to more Scotch, so in the end we’ll count it as a win. Truthfully, there are as many versions of pierogi as there are Babas in babushkas, and everyone knows that their favorite is the "right way".

    Of course I ended up extolling the virtues of good pierogi long into the night, well past the first party and into the next at Nye’s. It was too late for the kitchen by the time we arrived, but I’m quite sure I bored everyone with my detailed account of a great Nye’s pierogi experience. I think I was goaded into singing Que Sera Sera just to shut me up. Ok, there was no goading.

    And today I am in search of a recipe for my Oma’s pierogi because that’s all I can think about.

  • The Leo Chronicles, Part II

    As I was saying, we Crystal Methodists have some unusual customs and rites when it comes to preparing our loved ones for mortal coil off-shuffling.

    But first I must apologize for the delay in posting this entry. My mound of dirty clothes finally reached a point where I could no longer get out of my bedroom door and I was trapped for several days without computer access. Fortunately a passing neighbor finally heard my pitiful cries for help and shoveled the snow away from my bedroom window so I could escape, albeit as a quivering and shrivelled husk of my former self. However, you’ll be happy to hear that I wrote a bunch of blog notes on my cat with a Sharpie so I’m ready to leap back into this whole thing with a vengeance. Lucky for all of us I have a white cat.

    Anyway, my brother Leo lay dying of cancer in his apartment so my family and I and members of the local CM church all worked together to improve his odds of landing a cushy night-watchman job in Heaven.

    The first thing we traditionally do for a bed-ridden hospice patient is to turn on the TV and leave it on 24 hours a day. In Heaven’s Trailer Park one spends an eternity watching standard cable, so we like to get them used to it here on Earth where the family can support them in the initial stages of having their brain turned to mush. If the patient is in the more advanced stages of death, they are unable to change channels themselves or hit the mute button on the remote so we can make them watch whatever infomercials we choose and they can do nothing whatsoever about it except make feeble whimpering noises. This is particularly true if we leave the remote control out of their reach entirely.

    Next, the entire Crystal Methodist congregation works out a schedule whereby elderly couples stop by with casseroles each night for the family and dying person. For some reason these are called "hot dish" here in Minnesota, probably because the word ‘casserole’ looks like one of those foreign words that can’t be pronounced correctly so why bother. At any rate, the rules for a traditional CM casserole are that it must be beige (or at least an earth-tone of some sort), it must have cream of mushroom soup in it, and it must be bland and mushy. Other than that, the sky’s the limit. The better casserolers try to include a vegetable, usually peas, somewhere in the mix, but this is considered "fancy" and is entirely optional.

    The purpose for bringing casseroles over to the family is unclear, but we do it because we always have. The dying person is not able to eat it at this point but the mother makes him eat it anyway while the elderly couple stands there and watches him. Of course, as soon as the elderly couple hobbles out the family calls out and orders pizza for themselves. But of such things are traditions made.

    Another rite we perform is to sit around the dying person and mouth platitudes. We Crystal Methodists actually have a Book of Platitudes from which we read, much like other churchs have hymnals. Some of the Platitudes are intended for the dying person: "…" is the most common one by far. Others include "…?", "Hey, Leo, you’re looking good, how are you feeling?" and "Sure, you cheap bastard, go ahead and die and stick me with the cable bill." (I made that last one up.)

    Other Platitudes are meant to comfort the family and are best said in front of the dying person as if he can’t hear: "He’s going to a better place," "His suffering will be over soon," and "Can I have his stereo?" are all examples of this type of Platitude. Generally everyone just tunes these out and ignores them except for the dying person who thinks to himself "Um, hello, I’m right here, why are you pretending I can’t hear you and wasting my precious last minutes with conversational goo?"

    One of the stranger rites we Crystal Methodists have developed as we are faced with more and more cases of prolonged and agonizing deaths from cancer is something we call Character Building. We take the God-given opportunity of having a bed-ridden loved one completely at our mercy and make him as miserable as possible in his last days. He is alredy completely unable to get comfortable in his bed because of the disease itself and because of the various rashes and atrophied muscles that accompany it, so we Build His Character by putting steel wool in his adult diapers and duct-taping Brillo pads under his armpits. While it may seem cruel to outsiders to watch a dying person writhe in agony with tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, we CM’ers take comfort in the fact that his character will be totally buff when it comes time for the Big Hearing. And if the person should end up going to Hell, it might not seem so bad after what he’s been through in his last days on Earth.

    In the final installment of this short treatise on rural Midwestern customs associated with death and dying I want to talk about the many Crystal Methodist sacraments and how they are administered and discuss the esoteric rituals that occur after the person’s death. That is, if someone comes over and does my laundry for me. Otherwise all bets are off.

  • Banging out Code at the North Pole

    BOOKS & AUTHORS
    An Advertising Exec Tells Liberals How to Talk

    An advertising executive physiotherapist with good public speaking
    skills might be just the answer to the democrats’ political problems,
    and that’s the kind of man they get in Thom Hartmann.
    His new book, Cracking the Code, offers insight into the art and
    science of communication and the ways to successfully craft and convey
    a progressive liberal message that could persuade others — whether it’s based on the speaker cracking a code, or the listener not being able to.. well, that’s up to you. —Kate McDonald

    Friday at 7 p.m., University of Minnesota Bookstore, Coffman Memorial Union, 300 Washington Ave. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-625-5549; free.

    THEATER & PERFORMANCE
    Hell’s Freezing over on the Pole, and You’re Invited

    The North Pole is going to hell in a hand basket. And it sure does make for one melty, messy situation in the Upright Egg Theater Company’s
    new play The Eight: Reindeer Monologues. Santa is accused of sexually harassing a female reindeer, Rudolph is rumored to be committed, and debauchery runs rampant throughout this Present Project charity production. In addition to Reindeer Monologues, the event will feature live
    music, a tap performance by Rick Ausland (of Buckets and Tap Shoes), and live paintings by local painter Chuck Hues, as well vegan food and drinks. All proceeds from the event will benefit the St. Paul Women’s Advocates Shelter. —Kate McDonald

    Friday and Saturday at 7 p.m., Sunday at 4 p.m., The Tilsner Artists Cooperative, 300 Broadway Ave., Studio #306, St. Paul; 651-292-0179; suggested donnation of $10 – $20.

    DANCE
    More Bang for Your Buck

    Anything
    with self-proclaimed savages performing air ticks with explosives while
    playing instrumentally-modified power tools gets top billing in my
    book. Described as “Einsturzende Neubaten meets Stokowski,” Savage Aural Hotbed’s
    performances at the Southern Theater Saturday and Sunday are not to be
    missed. However, if you want a more traditional bang for your buck you can also take in a performace of Crash,
    a 20-year retrospective of more classic forms of
    drumming — classic, that is, except for one piece featuring a marimba
    powered by an exercise bicycle… —Kate McDonald

    Crash: Friday at 8 p.m., Sunday at 7 p.m.; Savage Aural Hotbed: Saturday at 5 & 8 p.m., Sunday at 2 p.m.; Southern Theater, 1420 Washington Ave. S., Minneapolis; 621-340-1725; $18.

    Also on the dance docket for this evening: The Classic Nutcracker at the O’Shaughnessy and The Nutcracker According to Mother Goose by the Zenon Dance Company.

    MUSIC

    Steele-in’ the Show

    If the fact that The Steeles have won every award that the Minnesota music community has offered over the past 20 years is not enough to make you want to go to their acoustic holiday concert, perhaps the fact that they have recorded with Prince will convince you. Or that they have performed at Carnegie Hall. And on Broadway. And around the world. The truth is that Minnesota does not have much legendary family gospel, and The Steeles are strictly that. —Kate McDonald

    Friday and Saturday at 8 p.m., Fitzgerald Theater ,
    10 E. Exchange St., St. Paul;     651-290-1221; $30.50 – $40.50.

    Electronica!

    This program of cutting-edge, contemporary classical music for amplified cello isn’t likely to give Yo-Yo Ma a run for his royalties, but might be the perfect antidote for the benumbing holiday hubbub. Cellist Lauren Radnofsky made her Carnegie Hall debut last year, premiering a Brad Lubman
    composition. Now she will be conducted by Lubman in a fascinating and
    varied program that includes John Zorn’s “Orphée for Chamber Ensemble
    and Electronics,” Pierre Boulez’s “Derive 1,” and Lubman’s own “Fuzzy
    Logic for Amplified Cello and Ensemble.” Both Radnofsky and Lubman have
    worked directly with Boulez and recorded for Zorn’s Tzadik label. And
    they’re not interested in giving you yet another rendition of “The
    Nutcracker Suite.” —Britt Robson

    Saturday at 8 p.m., SPCO Center, 408 St. Peter St., St. Paul; 651-291-1144; $10.

  • Giorgio's at Midlife

    The first thing we see when we set foot inside Giorgo’s on
    Hennepin – for the first time in years – is a blackboard offering a free bottle
    of wine to any table that spends at least $30. It’s billed as a celebration of
    the restaurant’s 17 years in business, and with it is a flyer showing owner
    Giorgio Cherubini as he looked 17 years ago – or maybe more like 30 years ago.
    In the photo, he looks a little like Fabio, studly with long dark hair, but
    the caption is what captures Carol’s attention: it says, "Ahh…to be young and free
    again…" – and the word free is underlined.
    "Is Giorgio in an unhappy marriage?" my wife wonders.

     

     

    Myself, I don’t know anything about Giorgio’s marital
    status, so I am more inclined to read this as mid-life crisis – a wistful
    longing for the days when Giorgio presided over a small restaurant empire, with locations on Lake St., and France Ave. as well as his original Hennepin Ave.
    location. Maybe not exactly carefree, but sitting on top of the local restaurant world. Today, Giorgio seems almost forgotten – on a Tuesday night, the
    dining room and wine bar are nearly empty, and the energy level is low.

    But that’s not a bad thing – low-key and quiet, Giorgio’s
    feels more romantic than in its noisy heyday, and the free bottle of wine makes
    dinner for two a bargain. The walls are a dappled and smudged paprika shade of red,
    decorated with Venetian Carnival masks. It’s not especially stylish, but there
    is a "loaf of bread, jug of wine and thou" simplicity to the place – that fits
    with the limited, moderately priced menu: a few starters, a few pastas and
    three or four entrees, such as chicken saltimbocca or pork tenderloin,
    supplemented by nightly specials such as duck ravioli and roast leg of lamb,
    nearly all under $20.

    We split a
    bruschetta of thickly sliced grilled rye topped with roasted artichokes,
    peppers and melted fontina, and we each ordered a pasta. My fettucine pollo ($12.50)
    consisted of sauteed chunks of boneless chicken tossed with artichokes,
    mushrooms and fresh sage in a lightly lemony sauce, while Carol’s ravioli bosco
    ($15.50) offered homemade pockets stuffed with mushrooms in a light sage cream
    sauce. Neither was a peak gastronomic experience, but both were quite enjoyable, as were
    the homemade cannoli ($6) we shared for dessert.

    The free bottle of wine is your choice of a Pinot Grigio or
    a Chianti. We selected the red, which seemed a bit thin, but
    still quite drinkable. The total tab for the dinner came to $55, including tip,
    tax, and the free bottle of wine – a terrific value and a delightful low-key romantic evening.

     

  • Stop The Presses!

    What the hell? This is what we’ve been waiting twenty months for?

    Here’s the lead from CNN: "Illegal steroids have been in widespread use in Major League Baseball
    for more than a decade and used by some of the game’s top stars, former
    Sen. George Mitchell said in releasing a report Thursday."

    Excuse me while I pick my jaw up off the floor.

  • Babes Without Beards

    Schick got themselves into infernally hot water for this one. Apparently Turbo Terry has been sourcing her likeness out to more than one razor company and automotive resource.

    The good news for The Road Rake is that Turbo Terry (indeed the honey on the lower right) is no longer capable of suing me for creating a verbally accurate picture of her likeness.

    Schick, on the other hand, is about to be sued by Pontiac for essentially using the same model that is in discussions with Gillette to cross-promote the "smoothest handling on the planet."

    What a mess. I detest the Pontiac product in all its forms and much prefer a low-priced Schick to the Mach III Turbo (the razor not the car). I also know for a fact that cross-dressing tends to be more successful than cross-promotions with this coveted demographic.

    A stumble with stubble it seems.