Intoxicating

Uptown's newest fun palace proves you shouldn't drink where you eat

Tonic
1400 W. Lake St., Minneapolis
612.824.8898
www.tonicofuptown.com

You know what's fun? Drinking in the sunshine on a fine summer's day. This summer there will be no better place to do this than on the rooftop deck at Tonic, the brand-new, zillion-dollar, 17,000-square-foot, drinks-and-dining techno-looking carnival that has appeared in the heart of Uptown.

This deck affords a truly breathtaking view of the downtown skyline in all of its Emerald City glory, as well as a fascinating look at the Margaritaville crowd down on Bilimbi Bay's rooftop deck. And it offers the chance to see what happens as the ever-changing sea of twentysomethings nearby get hammered on top-shelf Long Island iced teas.

Now, I have had a personal journey with top-shelf iced teas. When I first learned of them, while being crushed to bits at the bar at the Redstone Grill, the man crushing me was bellowing instructions with the sort of volume and authority I previously associated only with foghorns during storms--Sapphire, Sapphire! I actually found myself checking my pockets for any stray gemstones with which to placate this chasm of longing.

At this early juncture, I must confess I thought these things, these $10 teas, were the absolute height of tackiness, the highball equivalent of embroidering the paper bag that holds your drink with the Louis Vuitton insignia. If you can afford it, why not just drink something worth drinking?

Years later, I thought: No. Very frequently in life one will encounter tree stumps that must be removed, concrete slabs that require illegal dumping, and kegs that must be hand-stood upon, and without the top-shelf iced tea, that wing of the species would surely die off. I mean, how else would those men, those men who speak without nuance, infrequently, and mostly at top volume during sporting events or in the dawning moments of physical altercation, how else would they woo their mates? What else would lubricate the wheels of conversation? And otherwise.

Now, though, my feelings about top-shelf iced tea have mellowed. Now I think that this drink is simply a post-adolescent phase, like thinking that Charles Bukowski is deep, or that clothing that proclaims Diesel! is wildly more sophisticated than clothing that announces Abercrombie!

Abercrombie. Diesel. Abercrombie!

And so of course at Tonic we have the Uptown iced tea, made with Grey Goose citrus, Bacardi Limon, Bombay Sapphire, Cointreau, sour mix, and Coke, for $9.50. We also have the Watermelonini, made with Grey Goose and Watermelon Pucker, for $8.50. And the Volcano, which has four sorts of rum, including two of 151 proof.

And what will mom say if you puke in her car? That, as they say in crime novels, is your pigeon.

But the rooftop deck is awfully pretty.

It's just too bad the dining part of the restaurant doesn't offer anything as attractive.

I've been to the restaurant six--six!--times now, so convinced was I that the faults I was finding originated with opening jitters, or my own mis-ordering, or galloping snobbery. But no. Unfortunately I have had to conclude that the food that comes out of the restaurant is almost entirely that awful thing produced when incompetence is exposed by overambition: It is embarrassing.

Tonic is the kind of place that serves a $28.50 Kobe beef sirloin steak, just like they do in the restaurants that movie stars eat at, but at Tonic the prestige steak, which is so pricey and renowned because of its tenderness, is served tougher than an old flip-flop. And it's served with carrots that are peeled so carefully that they look just like the carrots in magazine photos, except that when your fork bounces off them you discover that they have been served nearly raw. The final disgrace on the plate is a lump of sour-tasting mashed potatoes so mouth-sticking, so dense, so lukewarm, and so utterly unpleasant that it defies common sense.

It's bad enough that the sea-salt-roasted chicken ($14.95) is described on the menu as "baked in Fleur de Sel (French dried salt that flowers grow on)," which is both untrue--Fleur de Sel are large salt crystals that look a bit like flowers--and also just makes no sense whatever. Ever hear that thing about salting the fields? It's not the first step in gardening. And I wouldn't even bring it up if the chicken wasn't overcooked, sodden, greasy, and just generally awful.

Which made it about twice as good as the Seafood Beach, a $35.95 platter of chilled seafood that, the first time I ordered it, contained chilled, ammonia-smelling shrimp; dishwater-tasting seafood salad; a mealy and dissolving langoustine; other different overcooked and overspiced shrimp; and finally, undercooked scallops that were also violently overspiced with a mouth-drying layer of dust-tasting cumin and coriander seeds. This Seafood Beach was such a disaster that I actually went back three weeks later and ordered it again, because I would just hate to condemn a place on the evidence of some terrible night when, say, the cooler was out and the chef was in urgent care. However--alas, alack, alarm!--the Beach was nearly as bad the second time: The shrimp remained far from fresh, and the scallops were even more raw and unpleasant. And the seafood cocktail was even more dishwater-flavored, as though the mixture was tossed together while the seafood was still frozen and the water from the defrosting used as dressing.

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