Sometimes I feel I'd rather go to lunch than dinner at a new retaurant, simply because there's less at stake. Or maybe it's because food just doesn't mean that much to me. In any event, I've been doing a bit of midday eating out.
Masa is a Mexican restaurant at the corner of Nicollet and Tenth run by the men who operate Cucina D’Amico and D’Amico and Sons, a chain of cafeteria-style Italian eateries. The windows looking out onto the street are tall, the floors are covered with light gray linoleum, and the plaster walls are decorated with cartoonish drawings of elongated women in elegant toreador costumes. Our waitress was animated to the point of aggressiveness, although she obviously meant no harm. We ordered a shrimp soup that was so thick and creamy Hilary couldn’t finish it. I ordered two individual tacos and a bowl of red beans. The beans were spicy but also far too salty—the tacos were good enough, though somewhat on the bland side. The overall effect was of cold, clean, oddness. In the summer time the pale airiness of the place might be appealing, but on a snowy winter afternoon I found myself wishing I were a few blocks down the street at the dark and cozy Salsa de la Salsa, where the food is a whole lot tastier.
Maria’s Table is a cheerful cafe on Franklin Avenue, kitty-corner from the new bakery and adjacent to the Native American gift shop. It’s run by a Columbian woman named Maria, and it has a very good vibe, with Latino businessmen in suits, construction workers saying a prayer before they eat, and young women passing around their pictures from Cancun. The dish I ordered, a Columbian version of Huevos Rancheros, (the waitress didn’t know how to translate the Spanish expression, which seemed odd) was basically just scrambled eggs—and they charge extra to bring you a second white cup of salsa. On the other hand, Hilary’s corn pancakes were fine. A nice place to sit with a cup of coffee. Better luck next time with the food.
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A Willy Ronis Picture |
The entryway to La Fougaise looks like the lobby to a European pension—long, narrow, and nondescript. On the table near the door lies a book of photographs by the French photographer Willy Ronis, many of which depict scenes of communal warmth, with people dancing, eating, strolling through the streets of Paris, drinking wine, etc during the immediate post-war years. This mood stands strikingly at odds with the mood of La Fougaise itself. The walls of the dining room are of an institutional pale brown color. There are no windows. And the accoutrements are austerely elegant. The room has a bend in it, like a hockey stick. As I waited for my friend to arrive I chatted with the waitress about snowboarding. Then I eavesdropped on two elderly men in blue-gray suits who were sitting at the other end of the otherwise empty room discussing capital-gains.
The food at La Fougaise is interesting. My squash soup with pumpkin-seed oil was beautiful to look at and very tasty, though a little on the lukewarm side. My friend’s salad was also very attractive, with pale green spikes of curly lettuce rising up from the plate like the spume on a Venusian whitecap. The dressing seemed to consist mostly of oil and salt...but it was a fine salt.
On the other hand, the risotto that was delivered to me was meager in portion and runnier than any I had ever seen—as if raw egg yolks had been mixed up in it just before it was brought to the table. I found it vaguely unappetizing though I ate every bite. My friend’s salmon was good enough.
The entire eating experience at Fougaise was rooted in a serious-mindedness that I respect, but don’t seek out very often. I must confess that there was an undercurrent of joylessness in the proceedings, like a faintly alluring dream that continues to play itself out although it knows it’s doomed.
Remember Chet’s? The storefront on Raymond Avenue just north of University Avenue? Well now it’s Jay’s. The room is still tiny, the decor bare-bones, the tables small and close together. The lunch menu is varied and interesting, however. And as the late morning sun streams into the place, I cannot envision a nicer place to be sitting.
I ended up ordering a plate of pork hash with two poached eggs on top. My friend ordered a pasty with sausages and herbs inside. Though what he eventually got was a large slice off a roll, rather than an autonomous fully-encrusted pasty, it was very flavorful. Meanwhile, the hash was coarsely cut, sharply flavored, and free of the excess grease that so often accompanies that dish. I had been tempted by the eggplant focaccia sandwich, and also the egg and smoked gouda crepes. A return visit is definitely in the cards. I have only one suggestion for immediate improvement. Jay ought to upgrade the coarse plastic tumblers now being used to serve the wine. Peasant chic is one thing, Salvation Army Special is another.
On our way back from cross-country skiing at O’Brien State Park in Marine one day, we stopped in at Club Tara, which is on a hard-to-find frontage road just south of Stillwater. We used to eat lunch there thirty years ago when we lived in Stillwater, and it hasn’t changed much, which is a good thing. Stillwater itself has seen the arrival of multi-storied condominiums which give the northern end of Main Street a more cavernous urban feel than you’ll find on any street in Minneapolis or St. Paul, and one of the recent additions in particular is going to be make headlines the next time the river floods.
Club Tara, on the other hand, retains its simple log-cabin look, with snowshoes hanging on the walls and a bar in the back, and it exudes a warmth and friendliness that’s quite nice. The menu had several appealling specials including a fish soup that bore certain marks of sophistication, but they had run out by the time we arrived, and I settled for a Rueben sandwich, in honor of St Patrick’s Day. Hilary had a Gyro sandwich on pumpernickel with plenty of tzatsiki—always a sign of a first-rate joint.
