The Bloated Belly

Il Vesco Vino, part two

Madame Broccoli was so timely with her post, turning it in on Friday, June 29, the day after her dining experience. But, alas, I was not timely in posting it. So now, without further delay...(and, read the first Il Vesco Vino review here).
—Lewis

Il Vesco Vino: Friendly to children and vegetarians but far too expensive for either!

Perhaps I was particularly crabby having turned 42 years old, but at last night's birthday celebration I was not all that impressed with my experience at Il Vesco Vino, dining outside in their newly opened patio.  The service was very good and the staff friendly, in particular to my charming three-year-old son, Miles, but it was not the right choice.  The evening was kept relatively short because Miles decided to sit at the bar with a glass of water and flirt with the pretty bartender for most of dinner. This, of course, would have been fine (even encouraged) except that he alternated between five minutes in the bar chair and climbing through the rock garden!  However, in a very short period of time we managed to accumulate a bill exceeding $100—and this for just two adults and one small child!  Just to give you some perspective, our selections included a child's size portion of pasta, one glass of milk, two glasses of $8.00 wine, one appetizer and two entrees.  No frills and excesses here.

Now, if the experience had been thrilling and food excellent or if I were celebrating my 22nd birthday rather than 42nd and my date did not share my bank account, I would not have given it a thought but this was not the case.  The appetizer was the best thing about the meal.  My husband and I shared a very generous starter from the "fried snacks" portion of the menu, Arancini—ragu rice balls stuffed with mozzarella and spicy tomato garlic sauce.  For my entree, being a vegetarian who generally avoids seafood, it was a difficult choice.  My only real option was the Alaskan halibut (I will only eat fish from a "chemical free" source) and the one noted on the menu, served with spicy smoked pancetta and cauliflower orzo sounded pretty good. However, that option was not available and I instead had to order the Alaskan halibut from the "specials" which included sides of corn and a grapefruit sauce side which sounded horrendous, but I was trying to keep an open mind.  The halibut was cooked to perfection but the sides were not, in my opinion, palatable.  Extremely spicy and not very good.  No water was served with the meal, forcing me to initially guzzle my $8 wine until I caught the attention of my server and requested water with the meal. My husband ordered some sort of meat item and being a vegetarian I just looked away. He requested it be cooked medium and it arrived medium rare (even more appalling for a vegetarian so I continued to avert my eyes). He placed his sides on my plate because he despises vegetables (with the exception of "Madame" broccoli, of course!).  According to the menu, the side was to be creamed potatoes but clearly they were not.  I consider potatoes to be my absolute favorite food item on the planet and yet I could not eat them.

The staff was so very sweet to my little boy but I am afraid he will have to wait until he has his driver’s license to return. I am sure the bartender will have moved on by then (as well as Il Vesco Vino) but he can dream about her in the meantime. No doubt, she will be conducting a train rather than serving drinks!  My recommendation would be to stick to Il Vesco Vino as a place to meet friends for a glass of wine and some appetizers. Anything more may be pushing your luck and pocket book.

~ Madame Broccoli

Brasa Rotisserie brings Belly writer back from dead

Did you miss me? Don’t answer that. I can see from the collective eye roll that you most definitely have. Yes, friends, like a two-foot turd after a painful bout of constipation, I’m back. Here once again to regale you with that special blend of caustic nonsense and inane banter. And please, ignore those ridiculous rumors of booze-induced comas and gender bending exploration. That was a damn kilt.

Anyway, I’m sad to report that the rather long interlude since I last put together a post could hardly be described as constructive. That is, while my tolerance for all things mind altering is at an all time high, the same can’t be said of my vocational satisfaction. No, I remain disengaged and beat down at work, and I’m still obliged to glance upon Lewis’s sorry mug five days a week. Talk about hell to pay.

And so our ritual lives on, that carrot that gets us through the week. A press release announcing the opening of the new Brasa Rotisserie found its way to my inbox, and like that our Friday lunch destination was set. Brasa is the brainchild of Restaurant Alma chef Alex Roberts, serving “simple food of the Americas” in a far less formal setting than Alma.

I’ve been to Restaurant Alma once and the meal was fantastic. But friends, I’m a poor writer by trade and a raging boozehound to boot, so a wine-heavy meal at a place like Alma really does a number on my budget. Meals like that on anything more than a quarterly schedule would likely mean losing the house. No scallop is worth that.

So, the opportunity to eat Sir Roberts’ fare at a far more affordable price is something to get excited about. And as we made our way over to east Hennepin, that excitement was palpable. Sure, much of it emanated from our lurid descriptions of the delicious office intern and her fun bags. But some, too, was in anticipation of the rotisserie chicken to come.

Physically, this is a great restaurant. Large garage doors open to what will soon be outdoor seating, and on a beautiful day like today the interior bleeds seamlessly onto the patio. The menu is perfectly populated with the two big guns—chicken and pork—and a variety of southern sides like collard greens and sweet potatoes. Beers, too, are available, including, I spied, Sammy Smiths.

Lewis ordered the quarter chicken and I, glutton that I am, went with the half. For my two sides I chose the black-eyed peas and the creole potato salad. All was good. The chicken was moist, as you’d expect, and generous in size, with a roasted skin that alone sent my hangover packing. The potato salad, while not obviously “creole,” was tasty and the black-eyed peas were out of sight. Even the dollop of cole slaw was remarkable.

Now, this was a good deal of food, but frankly it had better be for $13.50. I feel duty-bound to point out that not too far from Brasa, a hungry lad in search of rotisserie chicken could visit the venerable Holy Land and grab a WHOLE one —complete with salad, rice, hummus and pitas—for a scant $7.99. (I’m not talking grocery store chicken here, folks, this is quality chow.) Of course, Holy Land is hardly a place you want to relax at on a beautiful summer day. Given Brasa’s ambience, the price is justified.

As for the 23-year-old virgin that played the part of our server: he’s lucky we didn’t brain him. It was discussed. To work in a restaurant, one needs a sense of urgency. Daydreamers need not apply. This guy was in a permanent thick fog, and it wasn’t from repeated trips to the walk-in cooler. He’s the kind of guy that would be far better suited to selling women’s lingerie. Or wearing it.

Perhaps that’s a bit harsh, considering the place just opened. But service counts for a lot. I haven’t been back to Barley John's—Barley John’s for chrissakes—in a few months thanks to an inept server that pissed me off on more than one occasion over there. Just be efficient, accurate and attentive. That’s all it takes.

Enough of that. Being a resident of Nordeast, I’m always thrilled to see new independent eateries open in the hood, and all the more so when they’re as unique and appealing as Brasa. I envision many a summer day devouring chicken and abusing my liver on that inviting patio. Let’s hope Roberts has more concepts up his sleeve.

Kisses,

Harold

Stuck by Steak Knife

Harold and I again struck off again for Dinkytown for our Friday meal. We know the above average players (Kafé 421, Loring Pasta Bar) the solid players (Dinkytowner, Vescio’s, Chowgirls, The Library, Burrito Loco) and we know what to avoid (Schuang Cheng, Qdoba). But we had not yet tested Steak Knife.

In we walk, and were impressed with the space itself—one could easily see a legit bistro fitting in cozily. Not feeling at all like a steak (especially one that costs between five and seven bucks—what kind of meat would that be, exactly?), Harold orders their turkey dinner special, I order a gyro. Safe bets? Not exactly. The turkey was sliced off one of those processed rolls, the mashed potatoes obviously box-born. It also came with one slice of Texas toast. Not pretty, not tasty, but Harold shoveled it down like a trooper—starving, he was, after yet another night out carousing and boozing without taking in any food.

My meal? Well, the gyro was edible. Although looking at Harold’s processed turkey, I speculate there was considerable filler within that meat, which tasted lamb-ish.

Alas, the only delicious thing at Steak Knife was the young woman working the counter, a dark-haired beauty with an athletic build; the legs protruding from her jean skirt teased the imagination. Yes, she let us disappointed diners move our thoughts happily away from our plates as she wiped down tables with occasional glimpes down her shirt. Sadly, she was not on the menu. And, even more sadly, unless she seeks employment during her college years at another eatery, we won't see her again.

Mai Village

Here's a post that's short and sweet.
Try Mai Village for veggies and meat.
Flavors subtle and sublime
It's always quite fine
So place a big order and eat.

Mai Village
394 University Ave.
St. Paul
651.290.2585

April snow brings...

Picture this: it's around 10:30 p.m. on April 3 in St. Paul, Minn., and the last time your humble narrator took a gander out his kitchen window, there was a coating of snow on his car, and the glaring light from an alley lamp revealed a gusting wind propelling snowflakes into blizzard-like conditions. Nice. Not that the narrator minds, however. He grew up in Montreal. No amount of snow experienced during his life in Minnesota has come close to the average winter in Montreal. And the chillier, drier weather makes his hockey-damaged joints feel much, much better. But even this sad sack wouldn't mind a legit run of warmer temeratures. Nothing crazy like the 81 degrees felt only a week ago. Just regular, spring-like weather, which, in short order, leads to this:

Yeah, the St. Paul Farmer's Market. How can you not love that?

And, underneath those nifty permanent awnings in Lowertown, you'll find scenes like this:

Yeah. The narrator likes his St. Paul Farmer's Market. And soon—sooner than you think—everyone will be able to wander down there.

Oh. It's still snowing.

Cookbook better than its cover

Another instance of not judging a book by its cover. Yep. Looks silly, doesn’t it? But it’s not bad at all.

See, about a year ago (seriously! I’m ashamed), cookbook author Renee Pottle contacted me to see if I’d be interested in reviewing her cookbook, "I Want My Dinner Now: Simple Meals for Busy Cooks."

I said, “Sure!” I was flattered that someone who had the discipline to put out a cookbook (her second or third) wanted lil’ ol’ me take a gander at it.

It’s a good book. Is it something I’m going to use? Probably not. But I’m not the target audience. That audience is the busy parent (most likely mom) who isn’t an experienced cook, who, on top of raising the kids and a job, still needs to find time to cook a meal at home. These recipes are good, quick, and avoid time-consuming prep work that many of us pretend-chefs embark on to test our culinary chops.

Nope, this stuff is about straight ahead simplicity, quick nutritious meals. When this book calls for garlic, it just might be garlic powder—all the stuff mom used when she got home from work and was throwing stuff together for the family.

From a text standpoint, Pottle is doing something that I wish would be applied to other cookbooks: bigger type (it was nice to glance at the book while I was whipping up one of her recipes and read the words without having to stoop over) and listings of possible sides. Ever want to cook up a killer entrée and are left wondering, “Well, what would be good with this?” Also handy is, at the beginning of the book, Pottle lists pantry necessities, and with each recipe in the book, there’s a labeled “pantry items” box to draw your attention.

What did I cook from the book? I followed along her recipe for a light pasta fettuccini Alfredo (I ad-libbed a bit, since I had a bunch of other stuff to use in the fridge) and “Apple Sauced Pork Chops.” Both are solid recipes with good flavor for the time put in.

She’s got a great variety of stuff, from black beans and rice, to casseroles, to tuna steaks. She also tosses in a good mix of recipes for various appliances. There’s a quick nutrition summary and a handy glossary.

Know whom else this book would be great for? The college student, post dorm. I would have appreciated a book like this back then, although not with its current cover art. But it would be great for the student who doesn’t want to eat pizza and sub sandwiches every other meal, wants to save a little money, and who ain’t afraid to cook.

What a great idea, Ms. Pottle! Repackage the book for the college-age punks! I get 10 percent for that.

Pottle also kindly sent me a copy of an earlier cookbook she wrote, titled “The Contented Heart Cookbook,” a text to help folks lower their cholesterol. The book includes a chapter on heart healthy foods, and all recipes are constructed to be low fat and low sodium. On the read through, Pottle again provides ample information for the inexperienced home cook to provide themselves healthy meals.

Check out the site at www.craftandcook.com for other things she’s got going on.

Artery clogged, and no pleasure had

Howdy folks. Could offer another excuse for my absence, but what’s the point. People who get paid to write have to write to get paid, and when there’s a whole lotta writin’ to do to make the money the last thing a fella wants to do in his free time is park in front of the computer to write more. So the bloggie took a back seat. And I watched a season and a half of Deadwood. Y’all understand, right?

One of my assignments this past month for the day job was to eat a meal of my choice at a chain restaurant and then cook it at home, as sort of a cost analysis type-deal. Most disturbing was the nutritional analysis, of course.

For my meal I chose something that wouldn’t require too much effort from me. There’s a Romano's Macaroni Grill near the office, in Rosedale Mall, and I recalled having a meal at the one off 394 a few years ago that wasn’t horrible.

It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten in a shopping mall. It’s been a long time since I was in a shopping mall, period. I avoid them, entering only when my jeans become translucent from wear and then I scour the racks at Gap or some other godforsaken clothes shack hoping that they still manufacture a cut that comfortably fits me, and costs less than $50. Then I’ll buy two pair, some socks, and I’m good for another year.

Anyhoo, the meal. Thought I’d choose something a lot of people eating in chain restaurants within malls might try. Something non-threatening, probably with a cream sauce. Jackpot: Romano’s chicken scaloppini. Although, to give them credit, they did advertise artichoke and capers in the sauce.

Now think about that. Artichoke and capers. Together. Considering that capers are pickled, usually, and a restaurant of that type is most likely pulling that artichoke from a can, what do you think the predominant flavor in that sauce is going to be? Think that might be a little salty?

Take a look.

See that sauce? Click on the photo to enlarge. See that clear liquid pooling? Wouldn’t you just bet there’s about a stick and a half of butter in that sauce for that little bit of meat hiding underneath all the artichoke and mushroom bits and that little pile of noodles. And the flavor, yes, it was salty. Some bites flavored with what seemed like fistfuls of salt.

Yet people around me just ate and ate and ate, shoveling from bowls bigger than their head. But lots of Americans like lots of salt and gooey fat, and places like this just keep ladling it out in various forms. I try not to booze often at lunch when I’ve got to get back to the office, but, man, I had to order a glass of the house chianti (served in a large juice glass—the best part of the meal) just to rid my tongue of the scaloppini glue.

I was so ready to kick this dish’s ass in my version, definitely in flavor and at least match the cost, which was around nine bucks. There was no way I was going to replicate it—why duplicate shit, I ask you? But a co-worker already did it—she was thinking the same thing I was, a plain dish, not requiring much effort. So I clogged an artery for nothing. Now I gotta go choke down another chain meal to duplicate at Bloated Belly HQ.

Ah well. At least I can guarantee another post within a week.

Oh yeah? Bruschetta this.

Uber-home chef Jack Venus returns, taking a quick break from his graphic design studio and recent work as a stunt double for Ron Jeremy.—Lewis

This bruschetta recipe is perfect for a late night snack or for guests.

Quick and Easy Bruschetta
(serves 4-6)

Ingredients:
1 Lf. Ciabatta bread, sliced into wide 3/4-1" thick slices
2 Roma tomatoes, cut into 1/8-1/4" thick slices
1/2 oz. of freshly chopped Basil
1-2 cloves of Garlic, minced
2 tsp. Extra Virgin Olive oil
2 1/2 T. of Balsamic Vinegar
Kosher Salt
Black Pepper, freshly ground
Grated Parmesan cheese

For Reduction:
1/4 C. Balsamic Vinegar

This couldn't be easier. Add the basil, tomatoes and garlic to a large bowl
along with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.  Add a pinch of salt and grind a
little black pepper in there as well. Lightly mix this together and allow it
to sit while you prepare and toast the bread.

Next, take your bread and lay the pieces out on a baking sheet. Flavor it
with a light drizzle of olive oil for taste and slide that sucker into a
preheated oven.  You're going to bake the bread for about 15 minutes at 350
degrees to make it nice and crispy.  Turn the bread over after about 6
minutes and make sure you check the bread often. Burnt bread tastes awful.

While the bread is baking, take a small sauce pan and add about a 1/4 cup of
balsamic vinegar.  Heat this slowly and reduce the liquid by half.  The
vinegar will thicken and become very sweet.

Once the bread is a golden brown, pull it out of the oven and place the
slices onto your serving tray. Top each slice with a good amount of the
tomato mixture and then drizzle the vinegar reduction over the top. Grate a
bit of Parmesan over over each slice for good measure and salt and pepper to
taste.

Delicious.

—Jack Venus

Il Vesco Vino: Good for a glass of wine and an appetizer

Seems like every magazine and paper Lewis opened in the last month or so had a review of Il Vesco Vino, the Marchionda-family-and-others restaurant that swept into the Vintage’s old digs on Selby Avenue in St. Paul. The Marchiondas own I Nonni in Lilydale, which probably serves the best authentic Italian (or Roman, specifically) food in the state. Il Vesco Vino was, to everyone’s understanding, supposed to be I Nonni’s more inexpensive and accessible partner.

Inexpensive it is (in the upscale-ish dining category). But every review—and every friend of Lewis' that had eaten there—reported that needed work overall, and on the entrees, specifically. Lewis figured since it had been open since October, they might have some of that ironed out. Sadly, from the two entrees Pops and he ordered last Friday, it appears they don’t.

It’s difficult to root for something and just have it not deliver on expectations. Lewis stopped being a Viking's fan for this very reason. Lewis rooted for the old Vintage, but wasn’t surprised when it folded because it had been in decline for some time. He roots for Il Vesco Vino, too—he wants to see the old mansion remain a restaurant and wine bar, rather than the horrifying alternatives: broken into condos, apartments or office space.

Not everything at Il Vesco Vino was a disaster, however. While Lewis finds calamari to be about as novel as French fries these days, he recognizes some might interpret that viewpoint as high snobbery, so when Pops, who’s been on a calamari kick of late, ordered up a plate, Lewis politely said, “Sure,” and suggested they also order the beef carpaccio appetizer.

Both were quite good, the carpaccio with chopped arugula and parmesan cheese and drizzled with lemon juice and olive oil; and the calamari breaded and fried perfectly—not chewy at all—although, in Lewis’ opinion, the cooks went a bit heavy on the sea salt. Little did he know that was what more literate types like to call “foreshadowing.”

Yes, like the recent StarTribune review (and others since the restaurant opened) noted, the entrees were the weak link in the chain. Or, a more accurate comparison for Lewis and Pops' meals would be the bridge washed out in the road from appetizer to dessert. Pops ordered one of the specials of the evening, seared flank steak thinly sliced served with, from what they could tell, hunks of eggplant. It was a pasta dish, the pasta being pappardelle, the nice wide noodle. By the time Lewis and Pops ordered, however, the server said it was now being prepared with spaghetti noodles. Bad idea. Now, fault goes equally to Pops. He shouldn’t have ordered it, but he did, and what he got was something very unremarkable indeed, what little meat there was lost in the pile of spaghetti noodles. Nothing worked together in the dish.

This note should be delivered to the restaurant: If you are out of the pasta that provides the base for a pasta special, you are out of that pasta special.

Lewis, after reading all the mediocre reviews, was suspicious of the kitchen’s ability to properly cook the unforgiving hangar steak (one of the specials), and after consuming a large amount of beef carpaccio, decided another mammal should be sampled and ordered the lamb shank. His rationale was, “How can you fuck up braising?”

It’s unfortunate that the Italian word for shank—so I'm told—is “stinco,” and was used in the dish's title: Stinco di Abbachio. Unfortunate because the English slang “stink-o” could have interchanged, and because the joke is so easy. From appearance alone, this dish was wrong. It sounded good to Lewis: the braised shank with golden raisin and shaved grilled fennel. What appeared before him was the shank smothered in brown sauce with what appeared to be a pile of grilled onions on top. Not pretty. Not tasty, either. The thick gravy-sauce was merely a vehicle for salt, that overpowering flavor broken by a measly number of raisins. Lewis scraped the goo out of the way to get to the meat, which was very tender and delicious when not polluted by the sauce. The pureed potatoes sat in a pool of butter, and were not pureed, as far as Lewis could tell. Or maybe they were, but they had the same wall-plaster consistency of those served at many of his family's Thanksgiving meals. Not that Lewis cares much whether his mashed potatoes are, in fact, pureed. But they should have flavor. These did not. Lewis couldn’t help but think about the 19 dollars Il Vesco Vino would extract for this lamb shank meal, and how that 19 dollars would have been much better spent for the immensely satisfying Duck Ekaterina at Moscow on the Hill about three blocks to the east. Lewis nearly wept, but thought it poor form in front of his father, who, like a dilligent scientist, was trying to identify items in his pasta.

Dessert was, while not anything spectacular, at least a return to normal flavor profiles. The misnamed chocolate mousse is actually a chocolate cake of sorts with a hazelnut sauce and whipped cream, and soothed Lewis' salt-coated tongue nicely. Pops ordered the gelato selection, scoops of chocolate, lavender and vanilla with strawberry. Also tasty. With dessert, Lewis ordered a glass of the Quinta do Noval 20-year tawny port, which was unpleasant. Lewis will stick to his Taylor Fladgate when it’s available. Lewis also noted that the brand was misspelled on the menu as Quinto. Or maybe it wasn’t, and it’s a cheap knock off. Who knows what the problem was, but by that time, our server was getting ready to close out—it was late, after all.

Which brings us to a point about the server: she did mostly the right things, and was pleasant. She asked how the meals tasted, and here is where Lewis and Pops, as diners, failed. “Oh, fine,” Pops said, taking Lewis aback. Pops is famous for his truthful—yet respectful—critiques in restaurants. “Not good,” Lewis has heard him say, or “Could be better, honestly.” Lewis, confused and not wanting to disrupt the evening’s flow, merely nodded in agreement.

Still, through the experience, Lewis wishes Il Vesco Vino well. there is great potential, and there was a high point of the night: The bottle of Micante Capalbio he and Pops shared was excellent. He hopes that things get ironed out in the kitchen, which could happen if the Marchiondas loaned Chef Filippo Caffari from I Nonni out for a day or two just to watch the kitchen and inject some logic. Four months in, the menu should be hitting its stride. Plans are, for the summer, to build an outdoor brick pizza oven on the patio. That will probably cause Lewis to tip-toe over from his residence a block away. Hopefully a new menu or a new chef will have the restaurant in top form.

Would you like God with your sandwich?

The Bloated Belly presents our newest correspondent, the well-traveled Madame Broccoli. Yes, she's a vegetarian, but she's got a well-exercised liver, is an adventurous eater (sans the meat, of course) and reads lengthy books, which makes her instantly qualified to be part of our highly skilled and exclusive team.—Lewis

Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  I had almost forgotten what it was like to be Catholic and my husband (Jewish) was virtually clueless, but it quickly came back to me when I entered the restaurant known as Joseph's Storehouse Restaurant & Bakery in San Antonio, Texas, located on St. Mary’s Street (no coincidence there!) on the way out of town, set on a commercially depressed strip between airport and downtown.

It was kind of creepy, like being five again visiting a nutty Aunt who wears her love of the Lord on her sleeve, displaying little statues of suffering saints in every corner of the house.  But, hey, we were desperate, on our way to the airport and traveling with a three year old who needed food NOW.  Even though the outside screamed “SOMETHING’S WAY WRONG HERE” as a neon sign tells of Sunday Worship and there were visible crosses, we decided to go inside.  In fact, the “storehouse/restaurant” looks a bit like a garage sale as there are numerous items for sale, lace doilies, candle holders and little plaques with bible verses placed about. 

The door banged shut behind my ass and the few individuals who gathered to talk about Christ over bakery goods collectively stared.  My husband had this look of someone who believes he is about to be lynched.  But I figured, hey, my nutty aunt made the best sandwiches, maybe Joseph’s would serve its purpose.  My husband refused to eat.  I tried  the Veggie Crunch sandwich because it’s just the sort of thing we vegetarians go for!  Two slabs of bread with shredded carrots, cabbage, sunflower seeds, monteray jack cheese, all held together with Dijon mustard and mayonnaise.  I must have been half crazy with starvation to even try it!  A large amateurish painting of Noah’s Ark hung above our table as well as a decorative crown of thorns.  Even though I thought the crown of thorns would be a pretty funny gag when the security guard at the airport opened up my luggage to remove the bottles of water, I decided to pass.

All sandwiches are priced at a whopping $9.15.  One high flat price fits all schemes.  I have ordered sandwiches at some of the finest eating establishments around the world but can’t recall ever having paid nearly so much.  My little guy just had the peanut butter sandwich which, thankfully, could be found on the children’s menu and came in at a mere $4.50.

I have no doubt their bakery items are worth a visit.  However, I do suggest, unless you enjoy '80s rock music and Christian décor, take it to go!

—Madame Broccoli