Best Of :: Food & Drink
A friend of ours was scheduled to go on a blind first date with someone she met online. He suggested one of those places with the animatronic bears. The date never happened, no matter how we assured her it must have been a joke. Hey--people are skittish. Which is why jP is such a great choice: Anyone with any variety of good taste likes jP. Is the date in question artsy? Then she or he will likely already know the place due to its next-door proximity to Jungle Theater. Is she interested in architecture and community preservation? Then she'll enjoy the salvaged and repurposed old tire building. Is he into the New York restaurant scene? Then he'll enjoy knowing that chef and owner J.P. Samuelson spent two years at the original Bouley before moving through many other important restaurant kitchens. Is she into the Minneapolis restaurant scene? Then she'll enjoy remembering that J.P. was involved in some of the biggest restaurants of the 1990s, opening Bobino, and going on to head things at D'Amico Cucina. Is he nuts about family? Then you can talk about how jP's is a mom-and-pop shop, with J.P. and his wife Cheryl on the premises almost every night. Is he a vegetarian? Then he'll enjoy feasting on potato gnocchi with organic green beans, toasted hazelnut crème fraîche, and chive oil. Is she a bow hunter? Then she'll like something such as a pan-roasted venison steak in a cranberry-red wine reduction paired with Yukon-gold potato puree and roasted Brussels sprouts. Whatever you order, serious attention and skill goes into every plate. If this first date goes well, you can move into jP's attached bar for a nightcap. And if it doesn't, you can always run screaming across Lyndale and into the Herkimer brewpub to meet your friends and explain what went wrong. Whatever it was, at least you know you can't blame the restaurant.
It always happens: We stop in to Shuang Hur for a jar of curry paste or a bottle of fish sauce, and we leave $30 lighter but toting the makings for any number of quasi-made-up meals. Because, you see, there is not one kind of curry paste, or even one discrete display, but an aisle of tins and tubs to be inspected. An aisle that dead-ends at a wall of fish tanks playing hospice to all manner of live seafood, adjoining an aisle crammed with sticky-rice steamers and green tea flavored with roasted rice, more or less near aisles of produce cases bearing Chinese chives, purple basil, long beans, greens, greens, and more greens, and big packets of minnow-shaped Thai bird chiles. If all that's too ambitious, there's a freezer aisle full of ready-to-heat dim sum items and a butcher counter boasting lacquered duck, red-roasted pork, and sundry other less labor-intensive meal building blocks.
Pastry that looks too good to eat? Well, it probably is. But at Franklin Street Bakery, the trays of scones, tarts, and muffins are irresistible precisely because they are not egg-washed and jellied to perfection. Instead each is a crusty, browned, homey individual. And Franklin Street offers something that practically nobody else in town does: savory pastries. Chewy individual brioches topped with mushrooms and Gruyère. Hearty focaccia rounds with caramelized onions. Pint-sized croissants overstuffed with ham and Swiss. Not everyone wants a muffin for breakfast. Individual pastry prices are a little out of keeping with the neighborhood (keep in mind, you're paying for real butter here) but the bread is priced for the masses: baguettes, seedy whole grains, and simple white loaves are just two and three bucks. (Take that, Aldi.) The woman behind it all, bakery chef Michelle Gayer-Nichelson, was lured to the Twin Cities early last year, after tenures at Charlie Trotter's in Chicago and La Brea Bakery in Los Angeles. In 2003 Bon Appetit named her Pastry Chef of the Year.
It's largely a myth that you can't get good barbecue in the Twin Cities--scores of places do up barbecue in some sort of "authentic" style. The trouble with that, of course, is that paying homage to some variation of barbecue feels anything but authentic. Great barbecue here is rare. Some exceptions to this faux home-cookin' aesthetic this year were the old standby Market Bar-B-Que on 14th and Nicollet and the upstart Big E's down the road on 18th and Nicollet. But Market suffers from being a little too familiar and Big E's was closed for a spell and is now under new ownership. That leaves St. Paul's Lee's and Dee's as tops for most authentic barbecue. Opened by Lee Smith and his wife Dee 12 years ago in St. Paul's Summit-University neighborhood, near Selby-Dale, this fewer-than-10-booth storefront feels more like something out of Smith's home state of Mississippi than Minnesota. Lee's and Dee's serves real soul food appropriate for what was once Rondo, St. Paul's long-gone African American neighborhood. Some say the crisp, grease-free catfish here is the best in town, and the place gets major points for its smoky, chewy rib tips. The true test of any real barbecue joint, though, is the pulled-pork sandwich, and the one here does not disappoint: Delicate shreds drowning in a sauce that leans more toward honey than vinegar, but not too much of either, on a simple white bun. (One quibble: The hot sauce isn't nearly hot enough. But then again, this is Minnesota.) Smith gets his meat from a company in South St. Paul, and his prices reflect the aesthetic of a local small-business man. (The catfish and pork sandwiches are both under $6 with fries; a rib dinner runs less than $10, and a full rack of ribs less than $20.) The only notable decorative touches are some personal photos of folks like Don King and Ice-T dining in with Lee and Dee, old-school style. And that, folks, is authentic.
As evidenced by the myriad scowling youths slouched behind coffee counters across these fair cities, the service industry is a cold, hard racket. Which is a bummer, because it usually takes a gem of a person to decipher, let alone fulfill, our pre-caffeinated demands. One such gem can be found at the 2nd Moon. If you're new to 2nd Moon, you'll know her by her contagious smile (punctuated by the best-placed lip piercing this side of the Mississippi) and gracious demeanor. Regulars know her as Nicole, and if you're a regular, chances are she knows your name too. She's got it filed away in her happy head with your regular order, the order of your friend who's waiting in the car, and probably the names and orders of about 50 other regulars. On top of all that she makes a damn fine latte, which in this world of scorched milk and weak cappuccinos is cause for celebration.
Turtle Bread knows crust: the splinteringly crisp but tender crust of a baguette, the soft shell of a potato loaf, crackling and toothsome ciabatta. Turtle also knows crumb: airy baguettes, soft and open hearth loaves, dense brioche. What's amazing is that, like a batter in a cage hitting ball after ball out of the park, Turtle Bread makes nearly three dozen unique breads, consistently producing excellent loaves. Most of them are set apart not by futzy seeds or olives, but by masterful manipulation of the same four basic ingredients: flour, yeast, water, and salt. But, while the ficelle, levain, campagne and other classics are remarkable, the chocolate bread alone, an Italian-inspired yeasty loaf with the emphasis on the cocoa, not the sugar, deserves its own special award.