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The legions of people who grew up eating at the Convention Grill know to expect the frosty tin when they order a malt. This old-fashioned accoutrement is standard-issue at a restaurant that prides itself on generosity: Its skyscraper burgers come heaped with onions and surrounded by enough fries to satisfy even the most strapping construction worker. This bounteous attitude extends to the dining atmosphere. The Convention doesn’t mind kids and it seems that all the waitresses have smiles to spare. 3912 Sunnyside Rd., Edina, 952-920-6881

It’s obvious that 112 Eatery is run by people who passionately love food, and especially love to serve it. Restaurant power couple Nancy St. Pierre and Isaac Becker (who was formerly head chef at Lurcat) strive to perfect every detail, providing not only attentive service, but also gorgeously presented meals. You might say that the menu under-promises and over-delivers. Take what is listed simply as cold cuts with pickles: This appetizer turns out to be a plate generously piled with imported cured meats, homemade gherkins, and brilliant freshly made mustard. The French cheeseburger comes topped with a creamy, melty chunk of Brie—and for seven dollars. Humility—what a nice change of pace. 112 N. Third St., Minneapolis; 612-343-7696

For a long time, it didn’t make sense to us that writers like Mark Helprin and Orson Scott Card, spinners of such epic and delightful fantasy worlds, were also conservatives. The mirth, recklessness, and sheer imagination that fuels their fiction just doesn’t jibe with their imperious political commentaries, or with the speeches Helprin has written for rigid Republican politicos like Bob Dole. Ah, but time has revealed that fantasy and myth do indeed have a place in the realm of a successful political machine. Curiously, Helprin’s new novel features an uncommonly stupid presidential candidate. And who knows exactly what commentary he’s trying to make by dropping a couple of British royals—by parachute, bare naked—onto American soil, after which they embark on a bizarre and outlandish cross-country quest? It’s all greatly amusing, and we’ll leave it at that.

For every J.D. Salinger hiding out at the end of a very long driveway and revealing nothing to no one, there is a Kathryn Harrison, sharing everything—perhaps too much of everything—in a memoir. Notwithstanding her growing collection of graceful, compelling novels, Harrison will always be the woman who wrote a memoir (The Kiss) about having sex with her father. In other books, she’s generously shared her experiences with shoplifting, eating disorders, and exhuming her mother’s body to cremate her and scatter the ashes, thereby dispelling bad mother/daughter juju. Envy, however, is fiction. After losing his son in a boating accident, grief consumes a New York psychoanalyst, leading him to become obsessed with patients and with a woman from his past. Emotionally searing and darkly erotic, Envy allows Harrison to work out a few taboo ideas, while withholding a bit of herself—for her next memoir, perhaps.

In a just world, Lynda Barry’s books would all be in print and Marlys would be as iconic as Charlie Brown. We do not, of course, live in a just world, but the fact remains that nobody has chronicled the awkward, lonely, and frequently exuberant weirdness of childhood and adolescence more righteously or faithfully than Barry. Her long-running Ernie Pook’s Comeek is a first-rate primer in the triumphant power of individuality, funk, and self-esteem in the face of what writer Barry Hannah once called “the gloomy usual.” If Charlie Brown had been blessed with a companion like the splendid Marlys instead of the wretched Lucy, how much happier might he have been? At the very least he would have learned the Funky Chicken. Barry’s wisdom and keen awareness of the dark crannies of the human heart (for really dark stuff, there’s her stunning novel, Cruddy) are precisely what make her humor so funny—and her overall work such truly great literature. 651-290-1221; www.fitzgeraldtheater.org??

Most of Minnesota’s great, iconic consumer goods, including Tonka Toys, Faribo Woolens, and Red Wing Shoes, aren’t made here anymore. But in 1996, Scott Gillmer, grandson of the last president of Red Wing Pottery, brought the family business back to life on an artisanal scale. Three full-time potters are using the same techniques and designs that have made this distinctive regional stoneware world-famous since 1878. They’ll be doing their thing this weekend, Gillmer will be talking about the company’s storied history, and Red Wing stoneware through the decades will be on display. The Red Wing Collector’s Society is also convening this weekend, so the town will be crawling with pottery shows, auctions, and experts. 1920 W. Main St., Red Wing; 651-388-3562

We find it, how you say, ironique, that this stunning monument to upper-class French domesticity is being unveiled on a holiday that celebrates the overthrow of said class. Apparently, we good ol’ Americans will celebrate virtually anything French on Bastille Day. This particular grand salon rocked the Parisian social circuit when royal tax collector Jean Gaillard de la Bouexière first hosted his cohorts there in 1735. It’s a fantastically detailed three-dimensional picture of the high life from that era—that is, life as it definitely and quite miserably wasn’t for most in the days before that original Bastille Day. Complimentary small pox exposure, a soundtrack of angry street crowds, and a glimpse of period bathroom facilities are not included with the tour. 612-870-3131; www.artsmia.org

It’s not unusual for artists to work with a number of media, but painters who go in for a multiplicity of styles are rather uncommon. Minneapolis artist Jason Sandberg has four distinct styles of painting. He does realism, impressionism, abstractions, and pop. His eye wanders from scenes that have a distinctly local feel, such as a lonely ring of warehouses surrounding an even lonelier dive bar; to the Eiffel Tower, which he renders almost photographically; to shimmering forests, wild horses, and other scenes from the natural world. In short, Sandberg seems to be hungry to paint anything and everything. 2201 Second St. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-706-7879; www.creativeelectricstudios.com

The “ready-made” of the title refers to Marcel Duchamp’s infamous urinal that shocked the bourgeoisie in 1917. It’s impossible to shock most folks these days, of course. So Yamada goes in for the cool, sleek beauty of porcelain and the soothing effects of repetition in these sculptural installations. In fact, what appear to be advanced abstractions are really duplicates of the molds used to make toilets and other porcelain fixtures at Kohler, the Wisconsin manufactory where Yamada lived and worked as an artist-in-residence. About My Wife is So Proud of Me, the installation by Lars Gerlach and Helen Stringfellow (aka “tectonic industries”) that is also on display—well, we won’t assume that either artist has an obsessive-compulsive disorder. We’ll just say that if someone with an obsessive-compulsive disorder decided to clean up his yard, this is probably what would result. 1021 E. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-872-7494; www.franklinartworks.org

A few months ago, at a Fitzgerald Theater appearance, poet Gary Snyder explained that he lost interest in religion as a young boy after his Sunday-school teacher told him that “non-human beings aren’t included in the drama of redemption”—a notion he found intolerable. It’s likely that Gary Bastian, Georgia Mrazkova, Ray Rolfe, Carol Strait, Allison Stout, and Dan Toomey feel similarly; in fact, they’ve invited all creatures great and small to attend the closing party for their Animal Instincts exhibition on July 9. Creatures of all kinds, as long as they have acceptable social skills, will mingle among contemporary paintings of cats, dogs, ferrets, roosters, and the other animals that people connect with on a daily basis. 1010 Park Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-338-3435; www.outsidersandothers.org