The Bloated Belly

My bad?

Had an interesting exchange a while back at a Dunn Bros in an upscale Minneapolis neighborhood. After completing an interview with a subject at her restaurant, the subject gave me some food in a small package to sample. I had some time to kill between the interview and my next gig, a massive press junket involving custom motorcycle aficionados, loud music, chaps—all an occasional day in the life for me. Anyway, I wandered into a Dunn Bros down the street to type up my notes and grab a drink before I had to jump back in the car.

Now, I had the package in my hand. I was hungry. I realize that eating food not from the establishment you’re in isn’t cool, so I bought an Italian soda and a chocolate covered graham cracker to the tune of about $4.25, and deposited the change in the tip jar.

Some history: I frequent the Dunn Bros on Grand Avenue in St. Paul. There’s a Breadsmith three doors down that has many tasty treats. Many Dunn customers wander in with their Breadsmith treat, buy their coffee or espresso drink, sit down, drink and eat. I follow this same procedure. The owners at that Dunn Bros don’t seem to care that many people opt for Breadsmith fare rather the cookies and sweets offered under glass.

Still, there is etiquette, and people do buy at least a coffee if they’re going to take up space in the store.

Back to my snack. So, I’m sitting there, having just handed five bucks to the guy at the counter for my drink and dessert. Unpack computer—one of the many laptops cracked open in there. I start typing. Sip my drink. Munch the food sample. A guy walks up to me. “Next time, we don’t allow food and drink from another establishment in here,” he said. “We are a restaurant after all.”

I politely explained my reason for the food, and also noted that I purchased the dessert and the drink. It was by no means a rude exchange, but inwardly, I have to admit, it got my dander up a bit.

When I think of a “restaurant,” Dunn Bros, as much as I enjoy their product, does not enter my mind. Neither does any other coffee shop. Now, if I walk into Lucia’s take-out joint with my own sandwich and take a seat, that’s a definite no-no. But in many urban neighborhoods where there’s a coffee shop, it isn’t uncommon to find a shop serving delectables on the same block. What’s the problem of one helping out the other, both drawing business to each other? Huh? Huh?

Important wine study

'Nuff said.

The important wine study, here.

And now, back to business

Well, that was fun, wasn't it? Yeah, the ol' McCain and RNC keywords in the last post sure caused a spike on the hit meter for this here site. But no one left a comment. Well, I hope that just means everyone got a laugh out of it, from both sides of the political aisle. One thing that's definitely happened in politics is a complete absence of humor.

Here's a few photos from an afternoon spent in downtown St. Paul during the RNC for the day job. Asked the restaurateurs how they were doing, and, by and large, they said "Shitty." In addition to a large area being baracaded from automobile traffic, the powers-that-be erected a 10 foot fence in a wide perimeter around the Xcel Energy Center. It made it difficult to get around, that's for damn sure. I recall reading in the paper in the week running up that all areas would be open to foot traffic. Er, no. And if you wanted to get from the west side of the Xcel to the east, and you didn't have security clearance, your option was a mile-out-of-your-way walk down by the river on the south, or John Ireland boulevard on the north. Nice. Anyhoo, enjoy. And we'll be back with regular commentary later this week. BBHQ just invested in some new equipment.

The button folks. They have a company, design and sell 'em. They were out in Denver, too, for the DNC. When I find their names I wrote down, I'll post 'em. Nice folks.

Hey! Lookit! Bush and Cheney made it down after all!

Trojan had a booth in a parking lot urging folks to "get it on"—the agenda, that is. As is discussion about safe sex. A pretty good point, considering Palin's stance on abstinence-only sex education. Which has worked out well for her daughter. Anyhoo, part of the booth was a relay race, where contestants raced to a night stand for a condom, ran back to the display table and rolled the condom onto a banana. This here is two Wyoming delegates, if I recall correctly. She kicked his ass!

And this here was the problem for many restaurateurs on West Seventh Street, west of the Xcel Center, and other restaurants on the east side of Xcel toward St. Peter Street: This here big ass fence, with only one access gate for credentialed peeps. Restaurant owners said they weren't told by the city about this. And city officials said the RNC didn't tell them about the fence (the concrete barriers restricting auto traffic was understood) until 24 hours before the start of the show. Nice. These restaurants were expecting about 50,000 people wandering around. Most said it was worse traffic than a regular week. And many delegates just hopped in the reserved coaches for the trip to Minneapolis.


Here's that one gate at one corner of the Kellogg/West Seventh intersection. Again, only credentialed people in or out, and if you were a delegate or reporter coming out who wanted to get to a restaurant on the other side of the street, you had to walk down about two blocks to the end of the barricades, then come back up the other sidewalk. Many opted for the bus ride across the river.







Hey! Ben Stein!



























Hey! Snipers!

RNC News: John McCain's convention speech, first draft

Ah, good ol' Harold. You remember Harold, right? Sure you do. He's still out there, doing what he does best: chasing skirt and consuming alcohol faster than an ethanol-converted Hummer. But he's nothing if not timely. Into the RNC Headquarters he stumbles, rifles through a desk or two and comes out with an early draft of Sen. John McCain's (the fella under Dubya's arm there) acceptance speech, or part of it anyway. You saw it here first, folks. Enjoy that convention. Or, at least all the pandering during a potential Gustav-caused tragedy that might be go down in New Orleans in its stead. —Lewis

An early draft of Sen. John McCain's convention acceptance speech:

My friends, for too long our nation has been held hostage by hostile, oil rich nations preying on our insatiable thirst for that viscous black gold that powers not only our automobiles, but the very engine of our economy.  As a nation, we’ve painted ourselves into a proverbial energy corner through decades of inaction, and now the Chavezes and Ahmadinejads of the world have us by the shorthairs.  Our once great country has been reduced to begging these dictators for more and more oil, like a heroin junkie pleading with his dealer for one more fix.

My friends, an America beholden to the whims of oil-hoarding towelheads is not the America I fought for, and it’s certainly not the America my fallen comrades gave their lives for. This nation was built on the hard work, ingenuity and independence of generations of freedom-loving people.  We must again tap those most American of qualities—qualities that reside in each of us—and make this country the great beacon of hope and advancement it was always meant to be.

To that end, I am here today to unveil my plan for finally attaining the energy independence this country needs.  While my opponent offers little more than half-baked ideas on the subject, I have a concrete plan that will have us sucking the teat of the OPEC countries no more.  If—like some spliff-smoking Dutchman—you want to depend on windmills to end our oil addiction, than vote for my opponent.  But if instead you want a real energy solution, I have your answer.

My friends, my plan is as simple as it is elegant. I propose we harness the most ubiquitous, renewable force known to nature. The same force that brought that apple down on Newton’s head is the very force that can lift us up to an energy independent future. My friends, that force is gravity.

Imagine a world where everything is downhill of everything else, a world where gravity—clean, dependable, renewable gravity—accomplishes what only oil can now.  Going to work? Simply get in your car and coast there. Running the kids to soccer practice? Coast there.  Christmas at the in-laws?  Head downhill and coast there.  Friends, our flat infrastructure has made us slaves to oil, and my downhill plan will set us free.

Now, my opponent speaks of downhill, but in an entirely different vein. He’s quick to remind us our economy is going “downhill”.  The incumbent party’s approval rating, he assures us, is rapidly going “downhill”.  A vote for me, he insists, will merely continue the nation’s “downhill” trajectory.  Friends, at this critical juncture in our country’s history, do we really want a Debbie Downer in the highest office of the land?  I say downhill can be our path upward.

Imagine never needing to put anything in your car besides air in your tires.  Own an SUV? Friends, my opponent would have you trade it in for a go-cart. With my plan, that four ton vehicle assures you’ll get to your destination in half the time.  My opponent envisions an America that has us commuting with Big Wheels; I envision an America coasting in domestically produced Hummers.  And with my plan, energy independence only begins with transportation.

Friends, what is the single biggest source of untapped energy available to us?  My opponent would have you believe it lies with the sun or wind, or as I like to call them, “hot air and bluster.”  Imagine, instead, the energy we could sequester from a fleet of some 200 million cars feverishly braking as they reach their downhill destinations. That technology exists today, friends, and the potential for energy production boggles the mind.

In this new America, energy will be as plentiful as the clean air we’ll breathe. We’ll be able to heat and cool our homes, power our computers and televisions, and operate our factories all without releasing a single greenhouse gas or sending a single greenback to freedom-hating, oil-peddling nations.  At long last energy independence, this great nation’s birthright, will be a reality.

And friends, my plan will create millions of new jobs for hard-working Americans.  Imagine golf courses lit up 24 hours a day, requiring second and third shifts at pro shops across this great country, creating good white-collar jobs as a result.  Energy rationing will be a thing of the past.  No longer will children suffer their father’s ire for keeping the refrigerator door open too long.  Granny-killing blackouts on hot summer days will be little more than historical footnotes of a more barbaric time.

Friends, change of this magnitude does not happen without roiling the Washington status quo. The lobbyists that have so heavily padded my opponent’s campaign war chest will not simply acquiesce to the new energy paradigm. Already my opponent is attacking my plan, complaining that “only an idiot would suggest that everything can be downhill of everything else.”

But friends, my opponent fails to appreciate what I have always admired about this great land: that even an idiot can rise to the top and see his plan through to fruition, no matter the facts or laws of nature.  My opponent talks of hope and change, but he offers no more than hollow words.  My campaign brings a new, downhill topography to Washington. Friends, join me as we coast to an energy-independent tomorrow.  

Thank you and God bless.

Big Daddy's: Big barbecue

Well, nothing like some bonafide barbecue to snap a fella out of the doldrums. That barbecue being Big Daddy's, on University and Dale in good ol' St. Paul, right next to the vacant lot that not three months ago stood the local cop shop.

Been driving by the place for a while, smelling the goodness coming from the smoking hardware in the back lot. Trouble is, Big Daddy's is a catering company. But they had the kindness to open to the public on Saturdays, then added Fridays, too. The last Thursday at a speaking engagement at the Minnesota State Fair (yeah, for the day job) the host of the show mentioned this place and was stumped on the name. I knew, of course, and resolved to try some on the weekend.

So look at this:

True 'cued beef ribs, The Flintstone ribs, they call them. And that was just a half slab. A parcel of three huge rubs, which they remove and slice all nice for you. That's about four pounds of meat right there. And after one-and-a-half sandwich's worth was removed. The verdict: Tender and tasty. Although a little fatty in parts, too. But that's all the better on the reheat, to keep it all tender and tasty.

Big Daddy's also offers up chicken by the half or the whole, pork ribs, whole and half slabs, nice, fresh coleslaw, potato salad and desserts.

Damn tasty. But I wish they'd do a sandwich of some kind, so a guy could grab-n-go without having to bring along a cooler for the leftovers.

So, with that Bloated Belly HQ is back up and running. Still a few quirks to work out in the new digs. Yep. New digs. Since I last posted, we made some serious moves and got rid of a huge headache. No need to go into the deets at this time, but, lemme just say, if any of you are looking to purchase a condo, you better talk to me first. I know every question you need to ask and get answered.

The grill is in the yard, the relatively new Jenn-Air in the kitchen (with a real VENTED HOOD! Yay!) and the motivation trickling back into the veins. I'm flat broke, but I'm back at the stove and keyboard. Thanks to y'all who have kept checking in during the hiatus.

Big Daddy's
609 University Ave.
St. Paul, MN
651-222-2516
Open for walk-ins Fri. & Sat., 11 a.m. to 8 p.m.

Lemon Grass? Kick ass.

Yes, The Bloated Belly soldiers on. Through great floods of alcohol and avalanches of food, the remaining crew at HQ do remember that there is a blog floating out there, and, when inspired, muster the energy once in a while to drop in a review.

And, inspired we were one recent Friday, escaping the office doldrums for a meal.

At first, it didn’t look like much. I mean, would you eat here?

Eh. Maybe. But you definitely should. Inside is some of the best Thai food you will ever—and that’s EVER—eat, short of visiting Thailand. Crazy claim? Perhaps. I’m still taken aback by the sausages I ate.

Sausage at a Thai restaurant, you ask? Uh, yeah. Jimmy Dean ain’t the first. See, lookie here. These are my leftovers.

Them things that look like sausages are the sausages. The rest of it is “pad prig,” green beans, onions and garlic sautéed in a black bean sauce. That was also outstanding, but not all that I and Harold—yes, you remember Harold, a contributor (although I’m not sure that term can be used anymore, the lazy drunk) to this here Bloated Belly blog.

Harold is a huge fan of this place, and had suggested it as our Friday lunch destination in the past, but time or cravings never quite allowed for it. Glad we finally went. I am now a huge fan of this place, which distresses me somewhat, since I’ve been a fierce loyalist to Pad Thai Grand Café in St. Paul. I suppose that won’t change, since that joint is close to my house.

But everything we tried at Lemon Grass was so…bright, for lack of a better term. Can something be both intricate and simple? Flavors were fresh and balanced, the meals substantive without heaviness.

We started with the “crazy duck” salad, boneless, minced barbecued duck spiced with cilantro, red onions, scallion, chili powder and fresh mint. That’s what the menu said. But there was also hunks of strawberry in there. It was absolutely one of the most memorable dishes I’ve tried this year, spicy and sweet, and again, the lightness of everything. Wow.

And then those sausages. From the appetizer list, called “nuea sawan,” the sausages are made in-house, made simply with dried beef seasoned with garlic and ginger and other spices. I will be returning just to purchase a pile of those.

Those two items would have been enough for lunch, and our friendly server even suggested she could bring out a bowl of sticky rice and make a meal of it. How’s that for service? She wasn’t trying to run up the bill.

Nah, Harold wanted leftovers, and after those that first round, I did, too. I wanted to try that pad prig, and stack it up against Pad Thai Grand Café’s version.

Where Pad Thai’s is more of a minced-type “sauce,” it’s also heavier on the garlic. Lemon Grass is lighter, more liquid, but equally flavorful—just different. And excellent.

I recall Harold opted for the drunken noodles with chicken—stir fried noodles with basil, tomato, chilli and eggs. Harold devoured half of it like a champ, before settling into his chair and moaning. He had his leftovers. We both did.

Outstanding, and worth the drive.

Lemon Grass Thai Cuisine
8600 Edinburgh Centre Drive
Brooklyn Park
763-494-8809

W.A. Frost: just decent, and that ain’t right.

Let me just state first off that this is not a lousy review of the venerable Cathedral Hill anchor, W.A. Frost and Company. Not at all. Everything I and the lady friend ate there about one week ago was just fine. The service was great. And if it weren’t for the middle-aged jackass trying to draw attention to himself and his money (snapping fingers for service—what a dick) at the four-top behind us, well, we didn’t have much to complain about the ambiance, either (we were seated romantically in front of one of the wood-burning fireplaces).

I suppose I should admit that, stupidly, I never dined at W.A. Frost during Russell Klein’s tenure as executive chef. But I ate there during Lenny Russo’s (he of Heartland) tenure, who began the old restaurant’s resurgence with fresh takes on traditional, Midwestern fare and use of local ingredients. Klein arrived and added to all that, returning Frost to the level of fine-dining prestige it deserved. Klein had been pondering opening his own joint, and that plan was allegedly hastened by Frost’s ownership whom, according to Kline in a City Pages article, “realized they could replace me with my sous chef for half the money.” Nice. True or not, who knows, but Klein was out on the street early in 2007, and later in the year opened Meritage in the former A Rebours spot in downtown St. Paul.

Into Klein’s old clogs at W.A. Frost stepped this former sous chef, Leonard Anderson. And, as luck would have it, on this evening our server informed us that this was the first night of Anderson’s own menu. I liked hearing this, even though I never tried Klein’s to compare it to.

What can I tell you? Well, the chef’s tasting menu, a seven-course affair with wine pairing for $110 didn’t grab me. I wasn’t repulsed by any item, I just wasn’t curious, and don’t recall anything about it. I also though $110 a bit steep. I had a five course at the dearly missed Restaurant Levain for $75, prepared by a chef and team with a reputation. Needless to say, I didn’t get Frost’s tasting menu.

But the regular menu was equally challenging. Perhaps it was our mood, or the distraction of the moron at the neighboring table, but the lady friend and I head trouble settling on a meal. Perhaps it was the Asian theme strung through the menu. Now, I’m not a menu consultant, but I don’t go to a classic, Midwestern/St.Paul restaurant like W.A. Frost for sushi and sashimi. Yet there it was on the “Shared Plates” section (titled Ahi Tuna Three Ways). There was gravlox in the “First Course” section, which is more the Midwest/Scandanavian heritage “sashimi” (yes, I know it’s not technically raw) that fits better in an environment with a roaring fireplace. But with squid ink mustard? C’mon.

Foams and froths appeared a few times throughout the menu (hasn’t that trend died?) within lengthy meal descriptions. I was left with the impression of someone desperately trying to attract attention.

We shared crab and ahi tuna cakes with a peanut-curry sauce, celery, mint yogurt and toasted cashews. Sound like overkill? It was. But not bad. Although the cubed celery swimming in the broth-like peanut curry sauce was…well, I’ll just say it: stupid. The lady friend went with a perfectly acceptable “Mixed Green Salad” with “citrus vinaigrette, port reduction, cherry tomatoes and julienne carrots,” and I the “Roasted Beet and Orange Salad” with “frisée, apple-horseradish vinaigrette, goat cheese, toasted walnuts and walnut oil.”

Know what? You had me at beets and goat cheese, man. Settle down back there and cook.

For the entrees, the lady friend went with the “Braised Café Sirloin” with “garlic potato purée, lemon scented spinach, horseradish sour cream, preserved meyer lemon gremolata and red wine reduction.”

Braised sirloin? Eh, just a high-falutin’ pot roast. Lemon “scented” spinach? Funny. It just tasted lemon-y to me.

I, in a moment of insanity, chose the “Vanilla & Chili Glazed Wild Acres Duck Breast” with “cranberry and coconut risotto, spicy haricot vert with mushroom tea broth, chive oil and chili thread garnish.”

I don’t even know what to say. It sounded ridiculous, yet I understand some of the flavors he was putting together. And, it wasn’t bad. Throw in the nice bottle of cab sav we had, and all in all, it was a decent meal. But not, after tip, $180 decent (that included a couple cocktails at the beginning, too).

Fast forward exactly one week later at Moscow on the Hill (just across the street), pops and I had a totally satisfying—and all around more expertly cooked—meal, the proteins carved from the same animals (duck and cow). The price, with cocktails and a decent bottle of wine? About half the price.

So, again, nothing was terrible with our meal. But for $180 for two, ya gotta be better than good. I’m not a chef, but I’d think a restaurant like W.A. Frost isn’t an audition, it’s tradition. Doesn’t mean a guy or gal can’t tweak and twist and make an eye-popping presentation—or, on a specials menu, offer something entirely different. However, when pork in any form is absent from the regular dinner menu, someone has drastically misunderstood what W.A. Frost—for decades—has meant to the Twin Cities.

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.

The deal with Zander…

First, let me state that I like Zander Café in St. Paul. Always have. I live just around the corner, you know. I liked the varnished plywood floor, the homey-yet-elegant feel, the great food at absurdly reasonable prices. I put up with the periodic, unexplained “Sorry, we’re closed” signs, because, hey, it’s a neighborhood joint and sometimes people have things to do. As I said a sentence ago, Alexander Dixon’s food has always been top-notch, inventive yet familiar, and priced to not bust your bank account.

So, when he began yet another remodeling of the joint earlier this year, I would plunk my face against the window, shield my eyes from the glare and try to figure out what he was doing. I saw carpeting going in. Carpeting?! Over that nifty plywood? Damn!

Then the lady friend and I ran into him one day as we were peering in, and he explained his project. The bar was moved to the west room, the main dining room remained in the middle, and the east side, where the bar, live music stage and the funky booths were, would be turned into a banquet-type facility. The carpeting was to cut down on the noise. All right, I could understand that.

So, about a week after he reopened, we wandered in with pops for dinner to see it was a now a white tablecloth joint. Wha?

We took our seats and saw that the inventive menu and reasonable prices remain, however. Now, this shortly-after-opening meal was back in April, So the memory is a tad hazy on details. I do remember pops had salmon en papillote (salmon and veggies cooked in a parchment bag), which he said was very good, the lady friend had a short rib special, which I recall was outstanding, and I ordered the beef tenderloin special, an eight ounce filet poached in red wine. The mat was damn near fork tender, perfectly cooked. But the flavor? I don’t know what I was thinking. It was tenderloin. Poached. It didn’t have much flavor at all. Tenderloing doesn’t have much flavor. That’s why you sear it, and often with black pepper.

Now, I only register that detail for background on our most recent meal there about a month ago. Again, t’was damn good, although the service was odd, a bit inconsistent, and the guy was just…I dunno. I really felt like punching him at the end of the meal. But hey. This review is a month late, I’ll focus on the food. I started with the three soup mosaic (roasted red pepper, cream of parsnip and sherried black bean arranged in a kind of three color zen sign) which was rich, textured and outstanding. Followed that with a roasted beet and cucumber salad—also outstanding. Entrees went like this: pops had the fish special (memory fails here, other than it was very good) I had pork tenderloin special, which came with a whimsical hash that made the entire meal a joy to eat. Good spice, cooked perfectly—I normally don’t order pork tenderloin at restaurants, because I can cook a pretty good one myself. But this sounded great, and it delivered.

It was the lady friend this time who went for the beef. The steak Dianne from the menu. An eight-ounce New York strip with a maderia wine herbed mushroom sauce, and served with herb and parmesan roasted potatoes.

It was only OK. Again, not that it was bad. It certainly wasn’t. But, I guess I’m to the point where, if I can pull it off at home, I’m not all that impressed. Is this a complaint? No. And the lady friend wasn’t, either. I mean, it was only 25 bucks. Considering the price of a nice 8 ounce hunk of black angus, plus the labor in cooking it and the sides from a damn good chef, it’s a bargain. But I gotta say, two times around, and the beef meals haven’t ben on the same par as the other dishes we ordered.

Hardly a negative review here, folks. My opinion is, Eat At Zander. But, maybe it’s the white tablecloth that throws me. Expectations are raised. I shouldn’t want to punch my server. We should have a steak that sings like everything else on the menu. Nice to see that the tablecloths are not present during the lunch hours.

Again, this ain’t a negative review. I’m damn lucky to have a joint like Zander within walking distance, and I think it definitely ranks as a “destination restaurant,” also.

Zander Café
525 Selby Ave.
St. Paul, MN 55102
651-222-5224

Lurcat: Hold the salt, please

A quick note to a very good restaurant:

Dear Café/Bar Lurcat:

You are a very fine restaurant. I enjoy you very much, and recommend you to friends. But what happened last Saturday night? Two of my party of four ordered mixed baby green salads with the lemon shallot vinaigrette and were taken aback, saying, “This is salty.” I tried them. They were. Salty, but not inedible, nothing to complain about on a busy Saturday night. It was jam-packed in there. My apple, cheese and chive salad was just right, though. We also had that buckwheat crepe appetizer and those fancy sliders of yours (was that butter in those burgers?) that were just fine. Then the entrees. Salmon for the lady fiend, shrimp for pops, sea bass (I think) for his wife and rack o’ lamb for me. My lamb arrived cooked a perfect medium rare, and I dove in for the first bite and…Wow! Salt! I mean, it was, Wow! Salt! Not inedible (I did eat it), but for a great hunk of meat (with a $34 tag), what the heck is all that salt doing on there? Way. Too. Much. Salt. Water please! Just leave the pitcher!

Just thought I’d mention it only because I’ve had many a nice meal with you. Never has there been an overpowering of any one thing in any dish—always well balanced. And, like I said, it was edible. Just not $34 edible. Next night went to Christos in Minneapolis with pops. He ordered their rack of lamb. Didn’t look quite as pretty, but was ten bucks cheaper. Cooked to a nice medium rare. Tasted great.

Don’t worry Lurcat, This isn’t a rant or a skewering—everything else was fine, including the service. I won’t abandon you. Just tell the folks dealing salt that evening to dial it back a notch.