Chipotle Converts Area Skeptic

You might think me odd, but until last week, I could count on just a few fingers the number of times I had been to Chipotle. Now I need to add one finger — and I suspect I’ll eventually eat there enough to run out of fingers and move on to my toes. Me being me, that’s a high compliment for the national burrito chain with more than 800 stores.

I have a bumpersticker on my car that reads “support your local independent everything.” I used to twitch a little bit whenever I went to the suburbs (and sometimes still do). I’ve even gone so far as to declare that all of my favorite restaurants don’t have parking lots. That’s why I love the deliciously ironic dinner I ate last week on Chipotle’s outdoor patio overlooking the parking lot of Ridgedale Mall. Someone had to put me in my place — and that someone is Steve Ells, Chipotle’s CEO.

Why did I go? I was invited by Michael Fuller who works in marketing for the restaurant. I also went because Chipotle is no longer owned by McDonald’s — and hasn’t been for a few years. Whether or not this actually makes any difference is negligible. Even though Chipotle drew away from the cheeseburger behemoth, Michael tells me that Steve Ells’ vision of serving real food has never been compromised. Ells calls it “food with integrity.”

Learning about Ells and his philosophy fundamentally changed my perception of Chipotle. There’s a guy with a degree from the Culinary Institute of America who speaks my language at the helm of a fast food chain. Chipotle is a nationwide, publicly-traded fast food chain making tremendous progress in popularizing local, sustainable food as part of the supply chain.

The Chipotle in Minnetonka, Minnesota where I ate last week is one of two LEED-certified branches in the country. Both the front and back of the kitchen are extremely clean and tight, and not one Chipotle across the country has a freezer. As of this month, the chain’s produce buyers are sourcing 35 percent of at least one bulk seasonal produce item from local farmers, a 10 percent increase over last year. But you wouldn’t even know these numbers, as Chipotle simply does what is right without any fanfare, as reported by the Washington Post. Ells works with Joel Salatin of Polyface Farms (that wonderfully upright and uncompromisable farmer from the movie Food, Inc.) and is sponsoring a series of free showings of the film around the country. (Here’s a great article by Sarah Gilbert with a video showing Ells and Salatin mucking it up with the pigs.) Better yet, Chipotle buys the majority of its pork from Niman Ranch, an alliance of 650 independent farmers and ranchers spread throughout the country. As the story goes, every time Chipotle opens a new restaurant, Bill Niman can add a new farm to his network.

Then there is the food, which is fantastic. I tried everything on the menu so now I know that the barbacoa is the best item, hands down. The meat is spicy and warms your mouth with heat and toasted cumin. I was impressed by the addictive tortilla chips, which are fried on-site every day, squirted with lime juice, and covered with just the right amount of chunky sea salt. The guacamole is fresh as green grass.

All in all, the coolest thing I read about Chipotle is this quote from Ells: “We decided long ago that we didn’t want Chipotle’s success to be tied to the exploitation of animals, farmers, or the environment, but the engagement of our customers.” This is so wildly different from the typical exploitative model of corporate America. Steve Ells is spreading good karma one burrito at a time, and that’s something I can get behind.

Pizza the Way Nature Intended

The last time I wrote, I was busy recovering from my apartment farewell party. While doing dishes, scrubbing the grill pan, drying stemware, and generally putting my place back to its original position, I also had to drink the remaining Chardonnay and do something about all those leftover Bahn Mi. I had so many of them! Over the past three years of cooking for big groups of people, I’ve learned that the hardest part isn’t cooking, cleaning, or hostessing. It’s knowing how much food to buy.

I bought 25 baguettes from Jasmine Deli. They were relatively short, so cut in half, I had 50 small sandwiches for 20 people. I thought that everyone would have two with a few people having a few more — but somehow this math didn’t work. Even after eating them myself all weekend, there were so many leftover I had to bring a bunch to work. Most people put bagels, donuts, and cookies in the spare cube. I put roasted beet and tomato salad, minted watermelon with pineapple, and lemongrass pork and tofu Banh Mi. I suppose every office has someone like me, right? (Don’t answer that.)

Thankfully, I had an opportunity the following week to share the leftover beer and baked chickpeas with my friends at the Pizza Farm in Stockholm, Wisconsin. Yes, it’s true. If you don’t know it already, there is a fantastic gem of a farm an hour and a half out of the Cities that serves hands-down the best pizza around.

The couple Ted Fisher and Robbi Bannen along with their kids open up their own farm to pizza lovers every Tuesday night throughout the year. They grow all the ingredients to put on the whole wheat crust, which is made from their own home-grown, hand-ground wheat. The crust is thin, the ingredients fresh, and the pizza kissed by the flames of their wood-burning oven.

There are no signs leading to the farm. In fact, there is only a series of dirt roads that make you wonder why you are driving a hour and a half to what feels like the middle of nowhere just to order a pizza.

Once you get there, it becomes exceedingly clear. The farm is beautiful and so are the people. Everyone brings what they need to create a night of fine-dining under the stars. It’s not uncommon to see a full setting with a tablecloth, chairs, wine, and a candleabra.

I had a bit of a geek out moment when I was standing in line to order. Brenda Langton, the chef behind Cafe Brenda and Spoonriver, walked by, which of course I had to declare to anyone within earshot of where I was standing. The girl taking our order said she heard the rumor earlier and asked me to point out Brenda. For better or worse, she disappeared into the crowd as Aaron and I made up things we could have said to start a conversation.

The chalkboard menu has quite a few pizzas and unique ingredients.

Orders are taken and you’re given a number. My car arrived at 5:30 and we had to wait an hour for our order. The last car in our party arrived around 6:30 or so and had to wait an hour and a half. You’re given a number as they are ticked off one by one.

In the meantime, you can drink wine and order a loaf of the farm’s own bread. You can wander around and pet the goats, cats, and cows, strum a guitar, lay around in the grass with someone you fancy, and catch up with your friends.

Angela and Courtney

Stefanie and Sarah’s daughter Elizabeth

Lisa

Aaron and his paddle. If you bring your own pizza conveyance device, I think you save a buck. Aaron brings his paddle and asks people who are done eating if he can re-use their box.

I wonder how many pizzas can fit in the infero at a time.

When your number is up, the beautiful lady in the flowered apron cuts it up and takes your cash.

And you’re left to sit in the grass and enjoy the food.

I’d love to hear more people’s opinions about the Pizza Farm. If you haven’t gone, check out this article in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel for more details, or send me an email if you want tips on the best way to enjoy the farm.

My Weekend (In Which I Discover Lillet)

Weekend, where did you go? I had three days off, which is just enough to set my world almost right again. I needed it, too, to get some work done. I have a new writing gig with Dine Magazine, which I’m excited about. Not only does this job promise free meals and luxuriously comped food vacations, I tell myself that surely anyone crazy enough to sacrifice her free time for her art must be passionate enough about food to be taken very seriously.

Dine is a print magazine and a blog in South Florida expanding their brand into new cities across the country. In my original vision for Edible Cities, I’ve always been a food journalist, so this goes along nicely with my plans. Bookmark TwinCities.DineMag.Net and return to it often–especially in a few weeks when there will be more indexable and commentable content.

On Saturday, I headed to the country to meet my childhood friend Carrie at her house in Somerset. We packed up her daughters Zoe and Jamie a took a trip to Fawn Doe Rosa. Look at this beautiful girl (and my new best friend). It’s eerie and sweet to see her face, given that I have known Carrie since I was two years old and Zoe looks so much like her, both then and now.

I spent the drive home daydreaming about the party I’m throwing on Friday. In my first draft of the party (the one that doesn’t take cost into consideration), I make about eighteen different “Le Cakes” as seen in Gourmet with ample aperitifs to go with them. Alas, a bottle of Lillet is 23 dollars, so my petit aperitif obsession will have to be a semi private affair. But it’s so good, especially with a Nicoise salad, and especially imagining a Frenchman serving it to me.

Sunday, Angela and I went bumming around the new Uptown Market, which I posted about on the Dine Magazine blog, so head over there to see a few pictures and sign up for the group’s facebook fan page for even more. For better or worse, we didn’t get a hot dog from the Magic Bus, as good as that might have been. We went to Bryant Lake Bowl instead. I had a colorful mess of huevos rancheros.

I’ve never been let down by the food at BLB–but I have been let down by the service a few times, hanging out for forever while all the tables around you get their food. A hip restaurant/bowling alley is not a good place to complain about practical matters, though, even though I might complain about one. The organic maple syrup offered to the table cost an extra buck fifty, and the server never says you’ll be charged. I don’t mind spending the money, but come on. It’s the principle of the thing. The crowd is a bunch of progressive urbanites eating granola pancakes–of course we want the organic maple syrup! Factor it into your operating expenses and serve everyone the good stuff. We’re discerning customers, and totally worth it, given what an institution BLB is.

Namaste Cafe and ŌM

Since moving to the Twin Cities 3-plus years ago, I’ve been a one-salon kind of girl, getting my hair cut, colored, and styled at Evolution on Lyndale, a salon owned by Matt Swinney, who I wholeheartedly vote the best stylist in MSP. Right, I know this is one of the two salons I’ve been to, but I still know he is worthy of the vote. He has impeccable taste, graceful styling skills, and a salon that absolutely comes from his heart.

Today Matt told me about the restaurant ŌM opening at 401 First Avenue North in Minneapolis in the spring. I’ve been following ŌM’s Tweets, so I perked up when he told me about the plans for the food and suggested I sign up to be an “ŌM enthusiast,” which promises to make me among the first to receive news, announcements, and “exclusive” invitations.

ŌM’s concept and presentation look exceptional. The James Beard-recognized cookbook author Raghavan Iyer is the “culineer,” which Jeremy Iggers reports is short for “culinary engineer.” How snappy, which is what the interior and fresh Indian food will likely prove to be. I hope ŌM will fill a gap in the Twin Cities dining scene. Creative, contemporary Indian food with no buffet.

Whether by suggestion or fate, after Evolution I went in search of lunch and ended up at the Indian restaurant Namaste Cafe. With a door so welcoming, how could I not go inside?

The cafe/restaurant is in a sunny old duplex with a bright exterior, including a gorgeous mural.

Namaste has a huge menu of appetizers, soups, salads, entrees, curries, bean specialties, breads, and the Namaste lunch box. I had a tofu roti wrap, a “delicious mix of spicy beans, crunchy cabbage, fresh tomatoes, green peppers, red onions, and cilantro wrapped in a whole wheat roti.”

I loved every bite. As I ate, the front door was open, letting in the spring breeze, and next to me a table of mixed-race, mixed-age people were discussing the challenges of creating a civil society. “What did Margaret Mead say?” said the white-haired Indian woman, as they listened carefully to one another and jumped in and out of the conversation.

Namaste Cafe is just like yoga class, only you get to eat. A meal here leaves you feeling grounded, connected, and a little more open in your heart.

Namaste.

Town Talk Diner

My favorite restaurants in the Twin Cities (or anywhere, for that matter) all have a certain something that isn’t so easy to define, like how Barbette oozes with atmosphere or Meritage makes you feel like you stumbled into a corner of France. Town Talk Diner is on the top of that list. Let’s call it my je na sais quoi list, because, you know, everything is more intriguing when you say it in French.

My je na sais quoi list, now that I decided I have one, is all about synergy, I suppose, the way in which the elements of a restaurant come together to create something greater than their individual parts. I love how this ineffable quality can be just as nourishing as the food. In the words of author Ray Oldenburg, I would call these restaurants “the third place.” What Oldenburg means is that most everyone has two places: home and work. But on top of it, to finish the triangle and make us complete, we all need a third place, defined by wordspy.com as “a place other than home or work where a person can go to relax and feel part of the community.”

Town Talk is not only a place to get a meal. It is also a perfect third place. Town Talk is classic, authentic, and well-designed. It is a comfortable modern space that brings a vintage diner carefully back to life. I think this has to be one of the reasons why it has such great karma. The positive atmosphere buzzes with life. Part of me doesn’t even want to call it a restaurant. Town Talk is more like a party or an ongoing conversation, a place where you can always go to have a great meal, a perfectly shaken cocktail, a malt, and a conversation with your server or a stranger at the bar. The only thing you need is good timing, of course, because it can be awfully hard to get a seat.

I’ve been to Town Talk many times, but last week I went to have a few drinks on the bar stools bar with Nathan (aka, the Bohemian woodworker). He’s busy completely remaking a darling Victorian he rescued from foreclosure, so we met at his house-in-process in Powderhorn. After the grand tour, we went to Luce for pizza and a few beers, then we headed to the main course, the cocktails at Town Talk.

One of life’s great disappointments is wasting 10 bucks on a mediocre cocktail, so I like to spend my drinkin’ money at a bar that will never let you down. Town Talk is one of those places. Their cocktail list is carefully crafted and delightful in its attention to detail. I’m a fan of absinthe, so I asked for The Green Fairy: Zen Green Tea liquer, St. George’s absinthe, vodka, lemon, sugar, and egg white.

I know. You’re probably rolling your eyes at me because you know how hip absinthe is. It doesn’t matter. It’s great stuff, and this has to be one of the best cocktails I ever had. Seriously, it was that good. The bartender shook it up for what seemed like 10 minutes, sifted it into a glass in front of me, then added a generous dose of St. George absinthe with an eyedropper all around the face of the cocktail. He even gave me the bottle to admire. St. George is the good stuff, with excellent design.

Nathan got the Jackson Pollock: Bombay Sapphire, grapefruit-lime sour, sparkling wine, and basil oil. The bartender drops the basil oil into the bottom of your cocktail glass. As he pours in the contents of the cocktail shaker, the oil bubbles to the top and looks a bit like something Pollock might haphazardly drip off of his paint brush.

My only complaint about Town Talk is that the wine used to be cheaper, a lot cheaper. I liked how 3 and 4-dollar glasses set the wine list apart and encouraged a healthy glass or two to go with your meal. Nathan’s only complaint is that the cocktails are too small. The gimlet he ordered was served in a dainty glass.

On one of the many occasions I’ve been to Town Talk Diner, this song was playing as I walked in the door. Even though I didn’t know the song at the time, it got lodged in my head because I thought it summed up the spirit of Town Talk in a way I couldn’t explain: the ice cream drinks and cocktails, the friendly bar, the buoyant atmosphere, and the happy din of the place all seemed to come together in this jangley Jim Noir tune. Both of them seem to exuberantly go on and on . . .

BYOL (Bring Your Own Levain)

On a recent Friday night, I sped my way to Cafe Levain with anticipation. I was looking forward to catching up with Jamie, my friend who recently moved to Brooklyn from Minneapolis, and I was late. The 46th Street exit on 35W-S is closed (still) and I haven’t learned (still) to get off earlier. Thankfully, I was able to backtrack and steer myself to my destination, one of those south Minneapolis neighborhood strips with quite a few things going for it. I couldn’t find the restaurant as I drove by, but the address was right, so I parked my car and hoped to find it all the same. Around the corner from a wood-burning pizza place, Turtle Bread, a bar, a movie theatre, a Mexican restaurant, and various other amenities sits Cafe Levain, tucked away on a side street patiently waiting for you to arrive.

It’s very welcoming to step inside this warm, Midwestern bistro, slightly French in spirit, with its large space, hardwood interior, yellow walls, and open kitchen. I just wish I new how to pronounce the restaurant’s name. “Levain” is a challenging French word, isn’t it? I would love to say it with all the guttural verve I know it deserves, but I cannot, so I settle for a flat American approximation thereof, plain old Leh-vahn, spoken like a tired breadmaker who ran out of yeast.

Jamie gave me a big hug and kiss, as this was one of the few nights we’d be able to spend together while she was in town. When we settled in and asked the server what people are ordering, she said “everything,” which makes me a little skeptical. Even if the menu is a masterpiece, every restaurant develops a reputation for a few items. I’m confident that Cafe Levain has a few such entrees on its menu, but unfortunately, I don’t think that we ordered them that evening.

I may not get all the details of these meals right because I am writing from memory. The restaurant posts its menu online, but it changes frequently, and those things we ate weren’t posted when I visited the site.

We started out with a memorable salad (simply called the Winter Salad), a long platter of Brussels sprouts, bacon, poached egg, frisée, and whole pistachio nuts. This was a fantastic blend of texture and flavor with something masterful about it. We shared our way through the salad with many rave reviews and gulps of wine.

I ordered ribeye steak with mushrooms with a side of potato puree, hearty and fulfilling comfort food made even more appealing with local meat and vegetables–something your grandma would make, but never quite this good.

Jamie ordered chicken with beans (I think they were flagolet) and sausage and a side of pearl barley. The chicken was crispy and juicy at the same time, and probably as delicious as any chicken could be. In comparison, the beans were lacking personality, unless you ate them with a piece of sausage, and the pearl barley was suspiciously flavorless. Did something go wrong? Did the sous chef forget to add something to the barley that night? We each had one bite, but the rest of the side dish went completely uneaten, which is a shame, as that’s one of the big things Cafe Levain has going for it. The entrees are priced in the comfortable 16- to 20-dollar range, and on top of it, the portions are more than ample and you also get to choose a side to accompany your meal. I love how this generosity sets Cafe Levain apart as a true Midwestern bistro.

In addition, I also loved the double rows of two-person tables that graced the long wall opposite the kitchen, making this a flirtatious date option, and a lot of people are raving about the prix fixe Sunday Supper.

It’s ironic though, that even considering these obvious charms, the restaurant seems to be lacking that which I cannot pronounce. Levain, a leavening agent, something to infuse it with a little extra gusto and that mysterious spark that marks a restaurant’s sign of success. I’ll be rooting for this place, and hoping that those things Cafe Levain does well will be the leaven that helps it rise as well as it should.

Girl Meets Cafe. Boy Meets Girl.

If I were in pursuit of a cafe that resonates with me on many levels, it might go like this.

SWF, 33, seeks cafe that works hard by day and dresses up well at night. Friends consider me a discriminating cafe-goer, so I hope you are an open-minded, comfortable place to spend hours on end, have free Wi-Fi and ample electrical outlets, and don’t look at me funny when I come to the counter three times in one afternoon.

I get along best with cafes that have a reverence for dark coffee, substantial deserts, and vegetarian-friendly meals for those cases in which I overcaffeinate myself and need to eat something before I pass out. I consider myself aesthetically driven, so please offer a civilized respite from my busy day. Major bonus points if you have an appreciation for wine and art.

If Gigi’s Cafe in south Minneapolis were to reply to my ad, I would fall in love with it on almost all accounts. Except for one. Gigi’s does not have free Wi-Fi. It’s such a bummer, I know, but as we single gals know, you can’t hold out for absolutely everything in your soulmate. Major two-way compatibility is key, and beyond that you need to look into your heart and accept the other for who they are. In this case, Gigi’s is a wonderful cafe that’s versatile enough to sling your morning coffee, support your mid-day freelance work, or offer a flirtatious backdrop for a romantic date. And there ain’t a thing wrong with that.

I showed up at Gigi’s at 7:30 earlier this week to meet RP, a fellow with whom I was having a first date. I got there a minute early and placed my cold-weather accoutrements on a chair to get organized. When I looked up, he was coming in the front door. We recognized each other and shared one of those implicit flashes of relief that quietly says you are interested in this person you just discovered before you.

He got a chickpea spinach salad and a chocolate brownie, I got a peach three-berry cobbler, and we both ordered a glass of Malbec from the satisfying wine list. I chatted up the girl behind the counter who let me know that Gigi’s is the name of the owner’s grandmother. The owner also runs her own coffee distribution company that keeps a number of local businesses well caffeinated. RP then joined in and said he knows the woman who manages the kitchen. I was intrigued. He paid for our food and drink, which we lined up on our arms like good servers and went to find a seat.

It turns out that RP used to work as a bartender and server, so he had plenty to say about food and local restaurants. He is also studying to be an urban planner, so we spoke at length about the Twin Cities, the built environment, and things like the flâneur (“a gentleman stroller of city streets”) and psychogeography. This common ground offered many twists and turns in a long conversation full of digressions and regressions, like a long walk through the winding back streets of St. Paul and up the hill again.

Before we knew it, the house lights came on, the chairs were turned onto the tabletops, and we had to gather our things. I said that it didn’t feel like a Tuesday night. He said, “No, it feels like a Saturday.” What a surprise to find a cafe and conversation good enough to make even a humble weeknight feel like weekend. On the street outside the cafe, I shook his hand by holding it in both of my hands like I was lightly patting a snowball.

The Amazing, Uncategorizable Barbette

Can you feel that, my friends? That cold wind that gets under your skin and makes you dance around like an idiot in the streets? When I left my place this morning, I was pelted by hard rain that could almost be described as snow. I suppose this icky precip is what Mary Lucia calls “frickle” (freezing drizzle, right?), and what weather.com refers to as a “wintry mix,” which sounds more like a nice, creamy winter cocktail than this face-stinging frickle nonsense.

In all fairness, I don’t mind winter. I know it’s controversial, but I’d go so far as to say I like it. Snow and wind are the great democratizers of the Midwest, pitting man against nature and proving time and again that we’re all in this together, kind of like street parking or gynecological exams. I also adore the style of the season, which I refer to as Minnesota Chic: everyone goofed out in scarves and hats that make us look like cast members from the Muppets. At the co-op today, I saw an older man with a front-tied scarf around his neck wearing a wool alpaca hat with colorful flowers on it. He was laden with groceries and dodging the frickle on the way back to his car. This is the kind of stuff I like. Take that, delusions! Nice try, unpreparedness! It’s hard to be foolish or pretentious when you’re from Minnesota.

Anyway. My radiators are finally humming, my car is cracking, and last night, Lake Calhoun looked like an exquisite portrait of itself, as you can see in this picture I took. I also had a guest in town. My author-friend Ronelle came for a visit from Portland. This is a woman with her wits about her. She arrived with hiking boots, wool coat, hat, and scarf. Together, we looked like poster girls for Minnesota Chic. We wandered around Lake Calhoun until our toes got cold then went to Barbette for dinner.

I have to center myself and sigh deeply before I can tell you about Barbette. I feel slightly transformed every time I walk in this place. Imagine being welcomed by a round gold table, deep red banquettes, jewel tone accessories, a decadent reclining nude (on the wall, of course), vintage circus posters, and colorful hanging lights that look like bubblegum on a stick. I love my urbane corner of St. Paul, but this atmosphere makes me want to pack up and move. Romance such as this is best experienced as an easy pied-à-terre on your favorite corner, a joyful whim you can come to love.

We ordered frites to start, because who should do without them? This is the half order, which our server advised would be more than enough. She was right. There wasn’t enough mayo, but that’s OK. And I would have loved a bit of cracked pepper, but that’s OK, too.

Ronelle ordered grilled Fischer pork loin with pear currant compote, Wisconsin wild rice, pine nuts, braised greens, and raisins. 

I ordered one of the specials. Braised Minnesota beef daube Provençal with organic root vegetables, nicely served with two pieces of white bread for mopping up and eating every last drop of the sauce.

Barbette’s classic French cooking is so faithful and sure of itself that it allows the experience of living, dining, and discussing to be the real star of the show. When great food, gracious service, and an imaginative setting come together this seamlessly, you have found a restaurant that can take you somewhere. Mid-evening, I looked around and noticed that the place had reached a pitched equilibrium, with every seat taken and no one waiting to get in. The buzz was high and the crowd consisted of packs of suits, ladies of six, and one particular table of two sitting next to us – a man and a woman so drawn to each other they just had to be physically enmeshed. At Barbette, that’s perfectly all right. Barbette makes me want to date intensely, fall in love, or broker a really big deal. The setting transports you, and the food makes you remember who you are. Maybe this is why the place is named after a circus act, something that is kind of exotic, but kind of dorky – and as I see it, thoroughly Minnesota Chic.

Maude Is the Broad

Last Saturday, at the quiet hour of 5:30, I went to Cafe Maude in South Minneapolis with Lisa. Lisa is like a quirky aunt you love to have in town because she keeps you apprised of the city’s cultural events that other people might take for granted. This time, she asked me to join her in volunteering to usher at The Jungle for Hedwig and the Angry Inch. After our meal, we darted to the theater to hand programs and ear plugs to a full house both happy and gay. In return, we enjoyed the show for free. And what a show it was!

My job for the evening was to pick the restaurant, show up, and eat. And eat we did. I was eager for this one. My antenna went up numerous times when I reviewed this restaurant online. Great graphic design, a creative concept, and an effortlessly cool motto. “Civilized Leisure.”

I’m a self-proclaimed detail junkie when it comes to food. I might feast on a shoe if it was listed on the menu alongside irresistible and slightly exotic sides. At Cafe Maude, the attention to detail is obvious in everything they do: the colorful decor, the wide variety of thoughtful food, the stellar drink and cocktail list,the musical acts, and the absolutely creative way in which it all is presented. These people think outside the box, and I love them for it. I wondered if Maude Armatage, who the restaurant was named after, was as flirtatious as this. The Rubber Ducky lemonade? Served with a candy Peep on top. A cocktail called This Charming Man? Served with an English cigarette. The check? Delivered in a vintage hardcover library book tucked into a relic of changing times: the due date pocket. Did I say love? Yes. I did.

The service was friendly and authentic. The food was beautifully presented and consistent. We didn’t experience any Rachel Ray-style meltdowns upon tasting any of our items. But Lisa and I both agreed. We recommend it for dates and any casual night out where you might be inclined to linger over a glass of wine and the company you are with. But if you really want to knock a foodie’s socks off, you might consider going elsewhere.

Grilled halloumi, a Greek goat and sheep’s milk cheese with apricot pistachio marmalade. Halloumi is one of my favorite cheeses, and since it is so unrepresented at restaurants, we had to try it. Not great. It was overgrilled, and the cold cheese tasted like it was taken off the grill an hour ago. If it had been slightly warm and did not taste like the skin of a charred Minnesota bratwurst in July, the flavors would have been delightful.

Lightly fried tempura squash blossoms filled with goat cheese and served with a side of citrus honey. One of the specials, and delicious. Just don’t overdo the citrus honey dip, and you’ll be happy with this curious mix of texture and flavor.

Knife and fork Caesar. Baby romaine, Parmesan, lemon, white anchovy, tempura fried egg, and garlic croutons. A deconstruct-it-yourself Caesar salad! I adore a tangy, sharp Caesar, and this did not disappoint. Once I brought everything together, I enjoyed fresh white anchovy with every bite. This is the Caesar for me. It even came with a warning from the server. May Cafe Maude put wimpy Caesars out of business for good.

Baby spinach salad with blue cheese, bacon, grilled onions, apple, and a soft-boiled egg. Pretty. With the promise of the soft-boiled egg, we hoped it would be hiding underneath this lovely nest of a salad, waiting to be pierced. Alas. It was tossed throughout in small pieces. Still. The sweet and savory combination put a smile on our faces.

Roasted half chicken with apricot and Moroccan spices. No arguing this one. Plain-old yum, although we would have preferred a more distinctly Moroccan kick.

There seems to be no way you could go wrong with Cafe Maude. You leave having experienced a convivial meal in an exceptionally creative setting. Now I just have to go back when the music is in full swing, an entirely new element sure to turn me from a Cafe Maude coquette to a civilized habitué.

Zen for the Citizens?

In which I, for the first time, try my hand at writing a restaurant review. What do you think?

June 25, 2008

The April issue of Metropolitan magazine included quite a juicy article about the relationship between dining experiences and graphic design. The author, Steven Heller, argued that the elements that make up a great meal are only isolated statements if not somehow brought together with an evocative visual element. Like a book with an irresistible dust jacket, graphic design allows a restaurant to tell its story by artistically setting the tone for a meal.

This was fresh in my mind when I visited the brand new Citizen Cafe in south Minneapolis last week. The restaurant’s graphic design and branding is so effective I started to form an opinion of the place before I traveled down Hiawatha one weeknight to get there. The logo features a joyful chef wielding a huge knife and fork on top of a bright burst of Soviet-style yellow and red. The restaurant’s motto, “cafe for the people,” promises to unite city and countrymen through a solid array of satisfying home-cooked meals with thoughtful urban flair. All in all, the story Citizen Cafe is telling is “finally, we will eat!”

Despite this chic presentation of proletariat joy, there wasn’t all that much fun, kitschy, or communal about our experience. The setting, a low-slung neighborhood shack, is quiet, with elegant white walls, large windows, and clean lines. When my friend and I stepped in and asked if we could get a table for two, the hostess seemed so caught off guard that I had to remind her that it wasn’t a trick question.

At the table, we relaxed into the quiet hush of a new restaurant and ordered two appetizers. One was pickled vegetables, which tried to be a satisfying counterpoint to the meal I had come to expect. The other was braised beef short ribs. I don’t know much about the vocabulary of meat, but we had to poke around to identify what we should be eating.

The service, while pleasant, was a little lacking. We didn’t have water, bread, or a knife for our appetizer until well after these items should have arrived. And while we appreciated the accompanying butter and homemade beet spread, the two types of bread at the table were absolutely lifeless. In a city where every guy and gal on the payroll can pick up an acceptable loaf of freshly baked bread at Rainbow, why should we settle for less?

For my entree, I was pleased with a unique twist: a Caesar salad with scallops. A bit of a Caesar addict, I tend to rely on its distinctive taste as an indication of a restaurant’s ability to express itself. The scallops spoke to me like a perfectly fluffed bed of pillows. I dove in and enjoyed the soft taste of lemon complemented by the perfectly browned tops, but the rest of the salad didn’t say Caesar to me much at all. My friend also ordered a scallop salad, but with roasted tomatoes, bacon, and homemade creamy dill dressing. We both raved about the scallops and suspected that the restaurant was trying to woo us with their generosity. We each had five or six of the big guys.

What did we think while relaxing by the large windows and enjoying the late-afternoon sun? The food at Citizen Cafe isn’t as hard-working as their logo suggests it will be. After a long day at the office, we workaday girls felt a little toyed with rather than satisfied. However, in a somewhat unstylish neighborhood lacking a lot of contemporary restaurant options, Citizen Cafe will find its appeal. The prices are good, the setting is clean and comfortable, and the upcoming liquor license will make for a happy neighborhood clientele.