Buster’s: Don’t judge a joint by its name

Now that the Holiday daze has subsided, it has occurred to Lewis to pick himself off the floor and sling his liver over his shoulder to relay a few dining experiences had in recent weeks. From the dim crag of memory, he recalls a surprisingly pleasant experience at a joint called Buster's on 28th in Minneapolis. Buster’s? That’s not a name that sticks. Kinda like James "Buster" Douglas. Remember him? Huh? Huh? You do now. But you'll forget again.

Anyway, t’was the first Christmas party of the year, the first Friday in December, but not for Lewis. No, t’was for his lady friend and her co-workers.

Lewis is a character who often doesn’t perform well in large groups, particularly among people who have extroverted personalities. He sometimes gets surly, and, with alcohol, the filter between brain and mouth—already smaller than regulation—shrinks further. Does Lewis get loud? No, he does not. But he tends to speak his mind to those that deserve it the most.

Your narrator will only speak in generalities here, to protect identities. But your narrator is not a tease. Did Lewis cause an argument? No. Did Lewis otherwise cause any kind of ruckus that evening? No, he did not. Lewis, after being engaged in a lengthy conversation he can no longer recall, tucked safely in the back corner of a long table, a Surly Furious (appropriate, no?) in his hand, followed by a second, and, eventually, a bison burger with chipotle cream cheese and a pile of tasty fries.

Most at the long table ordered burgers, but Lewis was engaged with reality enough to study the menu, and noticed, besides burgers and sandwiches with gourmet twists there were also a few entrees that could be considered eclectic for the environment, such as a pan-fried half chicken with “smashed” potatoes, a butternut squash risotto, and balsamic glazed beef shortribs with “smashed” (Lewis has had enough of that term on menus, by the way) sweet potatoes and spicy carrots. Not bad. Given the perfection to which his bison burger was cooked, Lewis decided he would give one of those entrees a shot next time.

And beers? Oh, heavens yes. A list of 27 taps, heavy on the Belgian varieties, and, he estimated, about 80 bottled beers. And there is a palatable wine list, for those who don’t like the suds.

The evening ended without Lewis offending anybody, which pleased the lady friend. He even behaved in as a Midwestern gentleman should once in a while—he cut himself off from the booze so the lady friend could tip back a couple more with her co-workers and later settle comfortably in the passenger seat for the ride home.