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  • Sushi Bar Etiquette

    Good thing we are not in old school Japan and that most elder Japanese/Japanese-trained chefs in the U.S. have adopted our ways.

    I could care less how you eat your sushi at the bar or at a table, but with some chefs it could get you kicked out!

    Basic sushi bar etiquette:

    Oshibori (hot towel) sushi is finger food, except sashimi; and the hot towel provided is to clean your hands before you eat. Please don’t blow your nose or take a sponge bath with that nice, hot wash cloth.

    Gari (pickled ginger) is provided to cleanse your palette in between different fishes, rolls, or sashimi, so the flavor does not carry over — and to cleanse your mouth when you are finished. Gari is not a salad.

    Fingers: Yes you all have five, so use them. Since sushi is finger food, use your fingers to eat the nigiri or rolls. Some people complain when the rolls are not packed tight enough and the rice falls apart — same goes for nigiri. Good sushi is supposed to melt in your mouth, and a good chef will not pack the rice into a hard ball. Nothing wrong with using chop sticks, but unless you can use them proficiently, the sushi will most likely fall apart.

    Soy sauce: It’s not to be used like ketchup with fries! If you do need soy sauce, dip the nigiri or maki in lightly. If it’s nigiri, turn it around and dip it in fish side down so that you don’t soak all of the soy with the rice. Same goes for rolls: dip the corner of the roll; don’t give it a bath. Light dipping will allow you to enjoy the wonderful flavors of each fish or roll, and one of the biggest reasons sushi falls apart is from the rice getting logged with soy sauce.

    Do not give dirty/empty plates back to the sushi chef. They are dirty; we work with our hands. Put them to the side for your server to clear.

    One bite: Sushi is meant to be eaten in one bite. Please do not cut the nigiri, sashimi, or rolls. By doing so you will lose the intended flavor combination. Yeah, go ahead and stuff your mouth. It’s not rude. Just like slurping noodles, it’s the Asian culture, and shows the chef you are are enjoying the food.

    Watch this funny video if you have not seen it before.

    Oh, and buy your chef a drink. He/she will appreciate it. And if you get them a bit drunk your slices will get bigger!! We don’t want to cut off our fingers as we start to see blurrs!!

     

  • Lenny Russo on Why the Farm Bill Is All F*cked Up

    In an article about Charles Billington, a University of Minnesota endocrinologist who also happens to be one of the nation’s leading obesity researchers, I mention that when Billington himself dines out, he goes mostly to Heartland, the little storefront bistro on St. Clair Avenue in St. Paul.

    Why? Because Heartland’s gourmet Midwestern fare embodies just about every healthful practice he can name: the portions are appropriate; the food is wholesome, minimally processed, and varied; the slow-cooking methods tend to seal in nutrients (or leave them alone); and low-density foods such as vegetables often are the "star" of the meal.

    After talking to the doctor, I went to visit Lenny Russo, owner and head chef at Heartland, to tell him what Billington had told me. There was a pause. Then an evil grin.

    "Well, no shit," Russo says.

    For five years, including an 11-month stint at Cue, Russo’s been beating the drum for locally raised and grown food, refusing to serve anything (with the exceptions of coffee, chocolate, and some spices) from outside a 250-mile radius of the Twin Cities. You’ll get elk, rabbit, bullfrog legs, root vegetables, trout, berries, mushrooms, and wild rice at Heartland. You will never eat salmon, lobster, pineapple, or macadamia nuts there. This way, Russo provides patrons with food that’s fresher and closer to the source while supporting the region’s growers and small family farms.

    What’s more, everything he uses is produced according to organic or equivalent standards. In other words, Russo’s not so concerned about state certification; but he does care how the farmers treat their food. For instance, he won’t buy barn-fed beef.

    "They take a cow and pull it out of the pasture where it’s been grazing on grass so its flesh has a perfect balance of omega-3 and omega-6 fatty acids," Russo explains. "Then they put it into a barn and feed it nothing but #2 corn and all the omega-3’s go away and what’s left is just a shitload of omega-6. Eating that kind of crap is what makes people unhealthy and fat."

    Russo admits, however, that only a small segment of the population can afford to eat at his restaurant, where dinner tabs run about $60 per. That’s why he’s involved in several initiatives devoted to making the food supply better, purer, and healthier for everyone.

    For the past year, Russo has been trying to establish a local food clearinghouse, where producers could bring their wares for sale to restaurants, grocery stores, and even private citizens. He supports family farmers and speaks and writes on the topic, preaching to people about the necessity of crop rotation and food-based growing. He was a vocal opponent of ethanol and commodity crops (particularly corn) long before the position was in vogue. And Russo is especially outspoken when it comes to policies that promote packaged, preservative-laden junk over whole foods.

    "People on the lower end of the economic ladder who don’t have transportation have certain limitations as to what they can buy," he says. "They’re going to the convenience store on the corner and filling up their shopping carts with piles of cheap calories produced with high-fructose corn syrup and a bunch of ingredients you’d have to be a food chemist to understand."

    It is, Russo believes, the fault of the government, and the Farm Bill in particular, that the economics of food has become so twisted and people are starving for nourishment inside bodies bloated with Twinkies, Doritos, and Coke.

    "If the federal government cared about people or the land, they wouldn’t force us into all this commercialized agriculture so our food gets all fucked up." Russo — the grandson of a New Jersey boxer who speaks like Winston Churchill with a little Chris Rock thrown in — leans his beefy forearms on the table and glares.

    "The farm bill is about who’s going to get a hand-out and that’s wrong. Supply side economics should not be about giving more money to the rich motherfuckers who already have enough. It should be about giving money to people on the lower end of the economic sector because they’re not going to invest it overseas, they’re going to spend it on clothes and food and pump it right back into the economy where it belongs."

     

  • Harvest Moon

    First of all, I swore that I would never move back home. I was city-bound and the suburbs could eat my dust, for all I cared. And I had a cute little house in Tangletown and lived a happy life with a 5-10 minute trip to an endless amount of food choices.

    Funny how life gets in the way of life.

    For many reasons that don’t need laundering in public, I ended up moving my family out to the area in which I grew up, within a mile and a half of my mother’s house. My first concern was that the frogs were louder than the busses of Nicollet. My second concern was the lack of good fried rice within a 20 minute drive. How on earth would I connect with this world of hockey-moms, mini-vans and Lunchables?

    As I am now accustomed to the sounds and workings of my suburban existence, I see benefits that I hadn’t seen before. Like the real proximity to fresh, local food. Way out here where 394 becomes a two-lane road, people have the land to grow stuff. Good stuff. If I head a little west I run into the Peterson’s pumpkin patch and road stand where they’ll chat you up about what you’re going to make with their produce, offer up recipe ideas and remember to ask you how it turned out the next time they see you.

    I have a friend who moved out here and was puzzled by the vegetable stand on the corner of her road. It seemed to be fully-stocked, but there was never anyone manning it. After passing it by for over a month, she finally stopped to see if someone would show up. Upon further examination of the stand, she realized that it worked on the honor system: take some veg, leave your money in the box. I’m thinking that’s not going to happen in the city.

    So with all these producers and land lovers, you’d think we have an awesome market. Well, we don’t … yet. What we do have is a focused and driven bunch of people who are working toward the creation of the Harvest Moon co-op. Their goal is to build an outlet for all the growers and producers in our area and points westward while creating a hub for the local community.

    They’ve found a man in Medina who is growing organic apples on his property and selling them to Whole Foods. Apparently, his apples are shipped to the Whole Foods HQ in Texas before they can come back to the Minnesota stores. Harvest Moon is hoping to give his apples a little closer home. Smartly, they’re working with the Crow River chapter of the Sustainable Farmers Association, the ones who put on the kick-ass Minnesota Garlic Festival. Many of these farms are the ones supplying the downtown chefs.

    It sounds like a dream to me and of course I’ve already signed up. They’re still in the planning phases and are trying to build membership, which can be hard without a sexy building to prove their intentions. But if you’re interested, there’s a pot-luck at a local church on March 30th, because that’s the way we roll. Leave your urban desires behind and bring a dish to pass, maybe you’ll find a surprising and soul-satisfying connection.

  • A Plot? Who? Me?

    The Signal, which opens today in theaters, is an ambitious survival horror film. Written and directed by newcomers David Bruckner, Dan Bush, and Jacob Gentry, and starring a no-name cast, The Signal does a lot of things well, but loses itself in its pointless brutality and aimless plot.

    It’s a genre film, so pick your favorite survival horror flick, vary the details a bit and you’ll get a good idea what this one’s about. A handful of protagonists are forced to survive against a sea of people brainwashed into killing each other by "the signal," a mysterious transmission sent through the TV, cell phones, and radios. Once infected, their perceptions are turned against each other and the necessary fake blood splatters at the camera.

    The film isn’t entirely run-of-the-mill. Each of the film’s three chapters (or "transmissions") is directed by a different member of the writing trio. The marketing for the film is trying to play this up as an asset. It is not. The first part of the movie sets the stage for some serious survival horror. However, what could have been a decent movie is dropped in the second act to make way for a Shaun of the Dead-style black comedy. Before you can catch your breath, the third act (now survival horror again) wraps up the movie as if M. Night Shyamalan had burst into the theater and shouted "IT’S A TWIST!" at the top of his lungs for the remaining 20 minutes, at which point you’re so confused about what you’ve just witnessed that you just don’t give a shit.

    That’s not to say that The Signal is without merit. Of the film’s three leads, two of them are pretty decent, and certainly better than other examples of the genre (*cough* Saw *cough*). I would even credit the film for its good direction, but it’s ultimately style over substance. The film’s slick editing and visual style aren’t enough to save it from a muddy, inconsistent plot.

    On top of it all, the film is frustratingly bloody and violent. Before you go and call me a squeamish whiner let me compare it to a movie with a similar level of gore: Hostel. Sure Hostel kinda blew, but at least the splattering blood and guts support the plot. In contrast, The Signal opts for savage disemboweling in lieu of a plot. In fact, it really feels like bad porn. It rips off all its clothes and bangs you for a solid hour while the filmmakers swoop in to see what’s going on under the covers. It’s not sexy. Or even interesting. It’s just boring.

  • No More Tears on the Cutting Board

    As a chef I always find myself slicing, dicing, chopping onions more than I would care to. It’s not that I hate doing it or that I’m lazy. I just get very teary eyed, just like the millions of other people who get onion emo!

    Again I found myself slicing and crying last week, and as always I was joking around with my other chef, Koko-san, saying something along the lines of, "Damn, this onion is so beautiful I can’t hold it back," as tears ran down my cheek. Koko then said, "Hey, next time light a candle on each side of the cutting board and the heat and flame will pull the vapors away!"

    Who would have known? It kinda worked! At least enough so that I could finish a batch without walking away and wiping my tears back.

  • The Three Pointer: A Thrilling Defeat

    (AP Photo/Jim Mone)

    Game #53, Home Game #28: San Antonio 100, Minnesota 99

    Season record: 11-42

    1. Crunchtime Dysfunction

    The first thing I want to do is praise these post-All Star break Timberwolves, a ballclub that embodied the cliche "plucky" by refusing to do the expected thing and roll over and die after Manu Ginobili carved them up seven ways to Sunday (how’s 44 points on 18 FGA for efficiency?) and Tim Duncan found his fundamentals long enough to nudge his team up to the game’s first and only double-digit lead with 3:29 to play in the third period. This team is quickening, accruing confidence, and starting to identify itself via ball movement and Al Jefferson’s post-up game and a steadily improving team defense. They scrabbled back in that third period to set up a taut, well-played final period in which the lead for either team was never great than 5, was tied with 3:20 to play and was a one-possession game for the last 1:31.

    The whole shebang was so much fun to watch that I want to say neither team lost it, the Spurs simply won it. Except that’s not true. Minnesota had two chances to ice a victory, coming downcourt with a one-point lead and 29 seconds to go and getting a final possession down a point with 6 seconds to go. During those two possessions neither leading scorer Jefferson nor second-leading scorer Rashad McCants touched the ball. On both possessions the crucial decision-maker was the (hopefully) still recovering Randy Foye and the final possession the shooter was Sebastian Telfair. To put it mildly, the Wolves did not have the right people doing the right things down the stretch.

    Remember "4th Quarter Foye"? Randy Foye certainly does. It’s a nifty catchphrase, with its cogent rhythm and stark alliteration, but what it stands for isn’t all good. As Wolves’ publicity has informed us on numerous occasions, Foye got more than half his points in the final period last season. Translation: The guy the ballclub would really like to transform into its starting point guard looks for his when the game is in the balance. This could rightfully be spun as a hopeful attribute when the front office was casting about for a worthy sidekick and complementary talent to go with Kevin Garnett, who liked nothing better than to make the "right basketball play" to win the game, be it an assist, steal or turnaround jumper. But on a team with Al Jefferson still spreading his offensive blossom, nurtured by contact and grit in the paint, the abiding priority for 4th Quarter Foye should be to get him the rock in the low block by any means necessary.

    Instead we got the alpha Foye in a beta situation. The first time he reprised his signature move still stencilled on last year’s scouting reports: A hard, guts-for-glory drive down the right lane that waits almost until he’s out of bounds before leaning in slightly and lofting hooky jumper that he hopes will bank in over the outstretched leap of a couple of converging defenders. Tonight it barely grazed the front iron. The second time he got the inbounds, sought to drive, got bolloxed up, ditto the double-team Jefferson, and, in mid-air, flailed the ball over to a wide-open Telfair near the top of the key. If you are San Antonio, this is a job well done: No touches for Jefferson, giving Foye’s ego enough rope to hang itself, and having the game decided on the do-or-die accuracy of Telfair’s J.It went back iron.

    Coach Randy Wittman was trying to play the role of dejected loser, but was too enthused to keep the satisfaction from creeping into his voice when describing the game. And he’s right. Wittman bitched about a flagrant foul called on Telfair, who inadvertantly slugged Ginobili in the mouth when Manu went one way and Bassy the other out on the perimeter. Ginobili, who can take a dive on little or no contact, sold it beautifully and the Spurs had two foul shots *and* the ball with 1:40 to play and a two-point lead. Again, Wittman was right: obvious foul but just as obvious no flagrant foul. But at some other point in those last 100 seconds, Ginobili got mugged on a drive with no whistle, and although he showed the ref the scratches later (you gotta hate and love the guy) he took maybe a tenth of a second to beseech the ref when the play happened and then hustled hard back down the court. So yes, the free throws he hit off the flagrant counted mightily. But the winning margin of the game came when Ginobili got the ball with 10 seconds to play–as everyone who had just seen him go for 42 points thus far to that point *knew* would happen–then, after Foye cut off his brief left handed foray toward the hoop, slid to his right via a behind-the-back dribble, rose up and canned a 16-footer, the last of his 16 points in the final period. What "4th Quarter Ginobili" lacks in alliterative rhythm is more than compensated by the truth in advertising.

    The point being, San Antonio got the ball to the guy they wanted to have it at crunchtime and the Wolves didn’t. Asked about those final two possessions, Wittman replied, "We wanted to run the clock down and then run a two-man game with Al and Foye…On the high pick and roll, Al was beating them all night…Al was our first option."

    Over in the Wolves’ locker room, Jefferson was still sitting in his uni, large ice packs on both knees. A throng of nearly a dozen media did the pack-herd semicircle thing, microphones outstretched, like zoo animals reaching for food. In the adjoining locker to Jefferson’s, Randy Foye dressed in relative oblivion. He was not happy, but enough of a pro to take my questions in stride, albeit with clipped responses. What happened on the next to last possession–too much rust from the injury or did they defend it well? "It was good defense," he said. And on the last possession? "That was the play," he said, a little edgy. "They double-teamed me and Al and I kicked it over." After Foye and nearly all the media had left, I asked Jefferson if he felt he could have gotten the ball on either of the last two possessions. He gave it a second to plot the response. "Well, Bassy had a great look on that shot. If we had a chance to do it over again, he’d take that shot and he’d make it."

    And the other play with the Foye layup that came up short? "We ran the pick and roll." Short pause. "Randy took the shot and missed." Longer pause, as Big Al gathers up the starch for his classy follow-through. "If we do it over again, Randy takes that shot and he makes it."

    To put the game in perspective, Telfair came out aggressively with 6 points in the first 2:18 of the game and a team-high 8 for the period. He finished with 15 points on 7-14 FG. Jefferson was by-now typically marvelous at 11-19 FG, with many of the attempts a flat out race to see if he could get the shot off before the double team converged. He also got to the line 9 times and had 28 points (albeit just 5 rebounds). And Foye had his best game of the season thus far, with a team-high 7 assists and 13 points on 5-10 FG.

    But all three sported nothing but gooseggs in those last two possessions.

     

    2, Theo’s Return

    For those of us excited to see Jefferson back at his natural power forward position beside a legit shot-blocking center, well, it happened for all of 2:16 in the fourth quarter tonight. Wittman used the remainder of Ratliff’s 14:11 of PT having his spell Jefferson in the pivot. For what it’s worth, the Wolves were plus +3 during the brief stint with Jefferson and Ratliff both in the game; othewise, Jefferson was a net zero and Ratliff at minus -4. The first thing Theo wanted to do after a 45-game layoff was shoot a jumper, but after he got that clank out of the way, he made his only other three attempts. While not
    as striking as he was on opening day and for a week or two before he got hurt, he moved relatively well, yet needs a little more time to get his timing down. He didn’t block a shot tonight, while Jefferson and Duncan each swatted away a pair of the other’s layup attempts. VP of Personnel Kevin McHale says the front office wants to see how Jefferson and company operate with a shot-blocking big man patrolling beside them. Don’t we all, even on questionable matchups like the Dallas front line, which is likely to be Dampier-Dirk-Josh Howard. Counter with Theo-Jefferson-Brewer and let’s see what happens.

    3. Trades

    I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a player with a bigger gap between his physical talent and his strategic comprehension than Gerald Green. Both the Wolves and Green are best separated, and if the second round pick two years hence yields a shot-in-the-dark glue guy or the cash considerations Houston threw into the deal along with Kirk Snyder help pay for Corey Brewer’s weight supplements, than perhaps the trade won’t be quite as insignificant as it seems today. Snyder is not likely to stick here. As for Green, you can never say never about a performer with that much spring and such sweet mechanics on his jumper, but until the technology develops to put a chip in his ear telling him what to do next on defense, I fear Green will forever wander the hardwood–sometimes with his headband on, sometimes without.

    The Wolves may rue not getting rid of Antoine Walker (not that they didn’t try, I’ll bet), whose tenure as solid citizen and cheerleader/mentor is wearing thin for him as the playoffs approach and the trading deadline has come and gone. ‘Toine was in street clothes tonight and the body language and derisive smirk he couldn’t keep off his face may be a portent of trouble ahead.

    In the deadline day’s other swaps, the three-team merry-go-round between Chicago, Cleveland and Seattle favors the Cavs. I honestly don’t know how much Ben Wallace has left in the tank, but a proud pro on his last legs has a potent incentive helping to enable LeBron to get his first ring. More significant is the pickup of Delonte West, who has looked impressive every time I’ve seen him play and, if he plays defense, has a good shot at regular minutes at the point on this team. And Wally Szczerbiak may be due to become a sharpshooting 9th man on a legit playoff contender. Joe Smith is a gamer. As a Mike Brown fan, I think he might be able to wheedle these pieces into something decent by the first round of the playoffs. In any event, Drew Gooden is overrated and Larry Hughes, while occasionally magnificent on D, is injury-prone and grossly overpaid.

    I have no idea what the Bulls are doing. With Hughes and Gooden added to Sefalosha and Noah and Deng and Gordon likely leaving in a year or so, they are going to win and lose a lot of 88-85 games. But how bad does shipping out Tyson Chandler and bringing in Wallace look now?

    Seattle is still tearing down for the future. Can you believe Kurt Thomas has brought them three top draft picks? Meanwhile, Steve Kerr has to hope the Suns don’t face the Spurs early in the playoffs, because it could be Kurt Thomas demonstrating how foolish it was to get Shaq when they could have gotten better defense and a more simpatico style player for much less money. The Spurs are smart; Thomas fits better than Francisco Elson, Brent Barry is slipping fast and that 2009 pick won’t be worth much unless the inevitable happens quickly and this team gets old and hurt in an epidemic hurry.

  • In Which I Take Umbrage

    I opened my electronic correspondence this morning to discover that, scattered among the many missives from such devoted readers as Floyd Whopping Cock, there were a number of notes from acquaintances calling my attention to the fact that in the pages of the Southwest Journal local media rascal David Brauer was weighing in on the future of my employer, Rake Media Worldwide.

    Make no mistake, Mr. Brauer deserves great respect as an endangered species, one of those veteran, hard-living, ursine warriors of The Fifth Estate. The man is, in fact, a veritable pillar down at the local branch closet of that storied institution. He has held a dizzying number of positions in our local journalism community –not unlike (in the interests of full disclosure) yours truly. He has worn many hats, and has often wielded his pen like a sword of righteousness. That said, it would be tempting to opine that Mr. Brauer has grown too big for his britches, were his britches not so undeniably commodious.

    What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that when a fellow of Mr. Brauer’s stature has something to say, folks all over the Twin Cities and even out into the dark rural outposts where people still give a horse’s patoot about the Big Ideas and ideals on which this great nation was founded…well, dammit, folks can’t help but sit up and listen. They damn well should, at any rate.

    I have to confess that Mr. Brauer is one of these increasingly rare characters that can make a man sick with rumination. The miserable wretch toiling in obscurity would pay dearly for a critique from a writer with Mr. Brauer’s bona fides. And when Mr. Brauer deigns to offer his critique for free, his audience would be wise to pay careful attention, even when what the man is offering is transparently equivocal disdain, much of which he has offered before.

    In Mr. Brauer’s piece in this week’s Journal he jabs his rapier squarely at the heart of The Rake, and as a proud and devoted employee I feel compelled to engage the old warrior –at, I fully realize, my considerable peril.

    It is apparently Mr. Brauer’s opinion that The Rake has a bit too much attitude and not nearly enough relevance for his refined taste. To which I can only counter: Show me the attitude, you wonky prick. And at the very least please be so kind as to tell me what ‘relevance’ means in such a degraded and increasingly irrelevant marketplace of ideas.

    I’ll insist to my dying day –which is likely any day now– that I am fiercely proud of much of the work we have done and continue to do at The Rake, and I will argue with my last breath that that work has been and continues to be relevant to a fault. For instance: our popular "Hum’s Hot-Button Hot Tub" feature brought together some of the keenest political minds and social critics in the Twin Cities (and, yes, they were in a hot tub provided by Watson’s Pool and Spa, and, yes, they were sipping wine courtesy of a fine Lyndale Avenue purveyor of spirits) to hash over such important and timely issues (or so we perhaps foolishly believed) as teen pregnancy, crime and punishment, the scourge of methamphetamine, and the 35 Most Romantic Weekend Getaways. I like to think people –readers and participants alike– learned something and were entertained.

    Or tell me if you would, Mr. Brauer, what exactly wasn’t relevant about our three-part "Hunger Sucks" series, written by a fasting liberal Lutheran minister, a series we promoted by having the entire staff march the half mile down Washington Avenue to Cafe Brenda, where we simply stood with our faces pressed to the windows for fifteen minutes in mute solidarity with those who cannot afford to dine in the Warehouse District, or even to dine at all.

    I could give you examples all day. We’ve written about orphans, for crying out loud –hell, probably dozens of times. We’ve written about foreign countries and the people who live in them. We (ok, I) have written about clowns, but I honestly believe it was a respectful piece, and entirely deficient in attitude. We’ve even published fiction, which I will insist on considering a brave gesture even if journalists like Mr. Brauer choose to regard such work as irrelevant.

    And, sure, we’ve had our fun. I’m not going to apologize for the fact that we’re a fun bunch. Every once in awhile it’s nice to do a little something to turn those frowns upside down.

    We haven’t, of course, always succeeded at squaring the product with what we’d like it to be, and like everybody else in a struggling business we’ve had to contend with all manner of the usual challenges, disappointments, and occasional (sometimes frequent) bland compromises. But when push has come to shove –as it so often has– we’ve always at least tried to tackle subjects that we find interesting, provocative, and worth caring about.

    So the issue, Mr. Brauer, is not whether or not The Rake is for sale; the issue is what, precisely, is for sale, and not what that thing costs, but what it’s worth in a sense larger than the crass realities of economics. And I can assure you that what is for sale in this instance –if, in fact, anything is for sale– is a proud magazine staffed by hard-working people who care passionately, are broadly curious about the world we all live in, and strive mightily every month to capture some of that passion and that curiosity in a relevant context. I love the people I work with, and I know that what is for sale –if, in fact, anything is for sale– is a constellation of hopes and dreams. Individual dreams and communal dreams. Good dreams, decent dreams, dreams of at least one more tomorrow brighter than today. A dream that a group of increasingly beleaguered people can create something meaningful and entertaining and worth more than any price tag can ever reflect.

    Such dreams can be tough things. They are tough things, and they can make a man bitter. You all know that. David Brauer obviously knows that.

    I hope that you will understand me. I hope that my intentions are clear. And I bid you good day. I bid you good night.

  • Above Zero

    SHOPPING & STYLE
    Local Clothes

    If you’ve been waiting for the
    perfect time to support

    Minnesota ‘s burgeoning fashion community (with
    actual dollars, that is), it could be that
    your moment has finally come. A twofer of sales this weekend might
    finally put those hand-made
    wears within reach. First stop: Cliché, which carries local designers such
    as Amanda Christine, Red Shoe Clothing Co., and Kjurek Couture and just happens to be
    hosting an artist reception this Friday evening (shoppers get ten-perfect off
    during the party). Over at the Design Collective, which carries
    all manner of Minnesota-based accessory and clothing designers,
    they’re kicking off a "Goodbye,
    Winter" clearance this evening. —Christy DeSmith

    Friday at Cliché, 2403 Lyndale Ave. S.,
    Minneapolis; 612-870-0420. Design Collective, 311 26th St. W., Minneapolis; 612-377-1000.

    FILM
    Be Kind, Rewind

    Jack Black and Mos Def team with director Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Science of Sleep)
    to give us this oddball comedy about a man who becomes magnetized and
    erases the entire inventory of videotapes in his pal’s rental store.
    (The movie takes place in the ’80s.) They end up having to “swede” all
    the movies. What’s sweding, you ask? “Remaking something from scratch,
    using whatever you can get your hands on,” explains Black. Natch. So
    the boys take whatever junk they can find, grab a video recorder, and
    remake everything from RoboCop (with Black in tinfoil) to The Lion King to 2001: A Space Odyseey to Boyz n the Hood. Black even asserts: “Our version is better!” Undoubtedly. —Peter Schilling

    Opens Friday

    MUSIC
    Irvin Mayfield and the New Orleans Orchestra

    The
    co-founder of Los Hombres Calientes, young Irvin Mayfield has over the years
    abetted the impeccable precision of his trumpet lines with increasingly
    emotional long-form compositions. How Passion Falls in 2001 was his personal
    response to the first time his heart was broken, and Strange Fruit, recorded
    four years later, is an incendiary tale of a lynching arising out of an
    interracial romance. For the latter, Mayfield assembled a seventeen-piece orchestra
    of New Orleans-based musicians. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, they have
    become an ongoing nonprofit organization and are currently on tour playing
    Mayfield’s latest opus, the as-yet unrecorded Rising Tide, about that epic
    storm that flooded New Orleans and took the life of Mayfield’s father and
    dozens of others. —Britt Robson

    Friday at 8 p.m., Orchestra Hall,
    1111 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-371-5656.

    ART
    RE: Generations, Legacy & Tradition

    Don’t
    let the title fool you. This exhibit showcases innovative, contemporary takes
    on traditional American Indian art forms. It’s a chance to see work by Kevin
    Pourier     and Dwayne Wilcox, whose horn carvings and ledger drawings garnered
    attention at two earlier, similarly themed exhibits, Impacted Nations and
    Changing Hands II: Art Without Reservation    ; included as well are newer names
    like beadwork artists Douglas Limon and Todd Bordeaux, quilter Gwen Griffin,
    and hide painter Alaina Buffalo Spirit. —Julie Caniglia

    Closes Saturday, 12 p.m.-6 p.m., Ancient Traders Gallery, 1113 E. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis;
    612-870-7555.


    Arts of Japan: The John C. Weber Collection

    This
    show was organized by the National Museums in Berlin, and comes to Minneapolis
    via Boston. Weber, for his part, is a New Yorker-a doctor who’s no doubt made a
    splash among collectors of Japanese art, having assembled what we’re told is a
    world-class collection of objects-ranging from the twelfth century to the
    twentieth-in just ten years. Ninety-five of those works make up this show:
    scrolls and painted screens, lacquered bottles and ceramics, kimonos and
    Buddhist calligraphies. In other words, pace yourself for this one. —Julie Caniglia

    Opens Sunday, Minneapolis Institute of Arts, 2400 Third Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-870-3131.

     

     

     

  • Letters From Eurydice V

    Another op’nin, another play

    In Shakopee or at Dor’thy Day

    But usually it’s the VOA…

    Most
    professional theatres have opening nights. There is glamour, maybe just
    a faint whiff, but it’s in the air nevertheless: press and theatre
    cognoscenti are out front along with family, friends and scores of
    "hope you’re great" or "hope you die" colleagues. The buzz of the
    audience before the show has a special electricity that’s infectious.
    When the cast arrives at the theatre there are often bouquets of
    flowers, notes, chocolates and other giftie goodness waiting for you in
    your dressing room. The show goes on and it’s great or it’s not and
    then afterwards, there’s some kind of party or reception, either in the
    theatre lobby or a nearby restaurant, where some of the best
    unrecognized acting in the Twin Cities happens. People come up to you,
    eyes a little too bright, smiles a little too wide and enthusiastically
    embrace you so you can’t see their faces: "Darling, you took great risks!" "You should have been where I was sitting!" "Only YOU could have given such a performance!" "Your makeup was fan-tastic!"
    are just a few of the memorable comments lobbed in my direction over
    the years. I think there should be an Ivey Award for best post-show
    performance by an audience member. And bless our actor hearts, we fall
    and feed greedily on each stinking lie. Hearts are made to be broken,
    but please, just not tonight.

    That’s most professional theatres. TTT has an opening day.
    Almost always at the Volunteers of America Women’s Correctional
    Facility. Located in Roseville, the VOA is set well back from the road
    and if you weren’t looking for it, other than a discreet sign at the
    drive you’d never know it was there. It resembles a suburban
    high-school, albeit with a lot more locks. TTT always performs in the
    common room adjacent to the cafeteria.

    Our
    first performance is scheduled for 1pm on Feb 14 (Valentine’s Day) and
    the company is supposed to arrive at noon to give us time to unload the
    set, props and musical instruments off the van, set up and otherwise
    prepare for the performance. Driving east from Mpls on I-94 I am a
    little nervous still about my lines and start mumbling my way through
    the play. I’m relieved to learn that I still remember everything but
    alarmed to learn that I’ve missed my exit. I call Nancy Waldoch,
    our amazing stage manager, effusively apologize and promise that I’ll
    only be ten minutes late. "That’s OK, glad you’re all right!" she
    chirps brightly but I can decode the reproach: "Guess you’ll miss the load-in, Hendrickson. How conveeeeen-ient!"

    My
    battered Subaru roars into the parking lot to see that the van is
    indeed empty and parked. Shit! I grab my costume garment bag and stride
    across the icy pavement as briskly as I can. I am met at the door by a
    stern uniformed matron with a clipboard and a "just where do you think you’re
    going?" expression. But after I announce I’m with the band her face
    brightens, she says hi and I sign in. After passing through three sets
    of locked being held open by staff, I’m in the common room, where all
    is motion and controlled chaos. The inmates are still finishing their
    lunch in the open adjacent cafeteria The set is in a jumble in one
    corner and the rest of the company are pushing sofas and chairs into
    the next room to clear our playing space. I’ve played the VOA six or
    seven times now so I know the drill. Our dressing room is a tiny
    library off the common room. The doorway has been festooned with a
    homemade banner welcoming us and inside, plates of cookies and bottled
    water await. I cross the common room borne on a non-stop round of
    apologies for my lateness, drop my bag in the library and, without even
    pausing for a cookie, go out to lend an extra-big hand in setting up.

    After
    putting the room more or less into performance shape, the actors
    re-group in the library to get into costume. It is said (by me, at
    least) that actors have no modesty and TTT actors even less. The
    library is maybe 10X10 feet with two tables. One large table holds the
    cookies, water and Valentine goodies brought by some of the cast,
    another, smaller table is piled high with garment bags dumped there
    when each actor arrived. No mirrors, no hooks or hangers and absolutely
    no privacy. There we are, three men, three women, stripping down to our
    scanties and back into costume with nary a shrug of uneasiness. The
    room is bright with anxious chatter about pending Valentine’s Day
    observances (or lack thereof), complaints about the cold weather and
    last minute blocking adjustments to accommodate the new space. Our
    director Larissa Kokernot arrives, still in the fearful grip of La Grippe, but looking cheerful and bearing lovely cards for each of us. Michelle Hensley
    pops in to let us know we’re on in five and we scurry to finish
    dressing and take our places. The audience have seated themselves and
    the room is packed- not an empty seat to be had and people scurry to
    find a few more chairs. Michelle always makes a short speech to the
    audience, giving them a bit of background about the Orpheus and
    Eurydice legend and playwright Sarah Ruhl’s conceit of having the land
    of the living and land of the dead sometimes occupy the same space at
    the same time. She finishes up, there is a polite round of applause,
    and we’re off…

    Next: The First Performance

  • Local FOOD and Fun

    Come and check out some of the things we are having fun putting together with what we have that is local! We will be at the Food and Wine show with Heartland check out the Minnesota Pavillion with so many local producers, farmers and wineries!! I am looking forward to it and am going to be serving several things ala tiny buffet including; Thousand Hills 100% Grass fed Beef stew with Aji Panca,our own infused vermouth and winter vegetables, Dragsmith Greens with roasted farm beets and more. I hope the weather this year is better for all, most famers have run out of winter veg and we are just waiting for spring. I just got off the phone with Chad from Footjoy farms over in WI and look forward to what he will have this summer! I’ll let you know how it all goes.