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It looks as placid as a museum, but things go on behind the ceiling-height windows of Vincent that are terribly, terribly intriguing. Trout fillets, crisped till you expect to hear them crack if touched by a fork, recline decadently on smoky beds of bacon, leeks, and chanterelles; tripe stew becomes lush and creamy as a bowl of custard; roly-poly roast nectarines laze in pools of velvety sabayon. Once paired with the reasonably priced wines of southwestern Europe, the intrigue grows. (Be sure to check out the inky malbecs of chef and co-owner Vincent Francoual's native Cahors.) The intrigue reaches a near-fever pitch once you realize that this is the one thing Minneapolitans suspected could never be done: a not-too-expensive, chef-driven, non-themed, neighborhood jeans-and-business-and-romance restaurant smack dab in the middle of Nicollet Mall.