The Bachelor
Going to the State Fair is sort of like going on a long road trip. Oh, it’s all fun and exciting and nostalgic in the planning stages. But about 10 minutes in, it dawns on you that you’ve made a huge mistake, and you find yourself clicking your heels and wishing like mad you could be magically transported to someplace more calming and serene, like say, oh, I dunno, a dentist’s char. This occurred to me shortly into the 49-mile walk from my parking spot somewhere near Lake Elmo to the entrance of the Fair.

I entered the Fair hot, sweaty, tired, frustrated, and generally seething. Oh, but it gets better. About 15 feet past the front entrance it hit me:  the dreaded “State Fair wall.” Or rather, I hit it. A wall of flesh, consisting of half a dozen extremely well-fed, big-boned, yardstick-carrying yokels taking up every maneuverable inch of street and walking at a pace that makes the glaciers seem speedy.

Arggghhhhhh!!!!!!!!

So I had two choices: Start swinging my elbows maniacally into every love handle that dared jiggle my way and eventually find myself locked up in one of the stalls of the swine barn, or smother my rage with salt, oil, and fat.

What better place to start than with French fries. And the State Fair fries are durn tasty. Crispy, hotter than the surface of the sun, with a good coating of oil, but not soggy. Bravo. But even for a man whose personal food pyramid is based on fried-potato products, those 10-gallon tubs of fries seem a wee bit absurd.

I could think of no better way to cleanse my palate than with some nice refreshing chunks of nature’s candy:  fruit—deep fried, coated in powdered sugar and impaled on a stick, of course! I fully expected to retch, but this sweet and oily kabob was strangely not bad. I burned the roof of my mouth 19 times, but I ate the entire thing.

I crammed various other “treats” into my mini donut hole:  errr, mini donuts, root beer, honey lemonade (don’t listen to the Food Snob, it’s not that great). But nothing could top the deep-fried Twinkie. I know, I know, this is soooo 2005, but I felt compelled. Once again, I was shocked to find myself enjoying this abomination. Apparently you could deep-fry a carburetor and I would find it delectable.

Well, there you have it, I’ve knocked about 14 years off my life after my day at the Fair, but I did it all for you, dear readers…..The Cheapskate
There are a few simple rules. Never go to the State Fair without a compatible eating companion. Split everything except drinks because, let’s face it, everything at the fair tastes good for exactly three bites. Maintain a ratio of 1 deep-fried to 3 non-fried entrees. And finally, when you start to understand that you would actually save money by buying a $7,000 massaging recliner in the Grandstand, proceed to the nearest exit and do not let them stamp your arm for re-entry.

No, really, I love the fair. Here’s the Cheapskate’s guide.

Wake up with a Moon Beam: In unknown coffee environments, always put the odds on a place that is equipped to make espresso. I’ve had decent luck with Moon Beam Coffee, a kiosk in the shadow of Ye Old Mill. You can get a simple, decent cup of iced coffee for $1.75 plus the $11 entry fee, bringing your first coffee of the day to a tidy $12.75.

Breakfast with the Bulldogs: The St. Bernard’s Bulldog Diner is a haven of orderliness, cleanliness, and un-deep-fried-ness. You and your Designated Eater can split the Spike’s Breakfast Special, add two very generous, very hot coffees, and pay about $5 apiece. Plus, the good ladies of St. Bernard’s sell handcrafts in the dining hall, and who can resist a doily?

The rights of lefse: Eventually you have to grit your teeth and dive into the claustrophobic mayhem of the Food Building. I paid $2 for a lefse roll that was a slight disappointment this year. Three bites in, all I had found was dry lefse. People! Lefse must be buttered and sugared all the way to the very edges. And as any Fair eater knows, the first three bites must be the best three bites, because by that time you’re standing in line for either the restroom line or the next entree.

Operation Dessert Storm: Funnel Cakes and Nitro Ice Cream, both in the Food Building, are the perfect ending to a perfect half-day of eating and wandering. The powdered-sugar-doused funnel cake beats the Bachelor’s mini-donut any day—fresher tasting, more interesting texture, and without the chemical aftertaste. The Nitro Ice Cream, flash-frozen on the spot using liquid nitrogen, is really different from regular ice cream. It’s creamier and has more flavor. You’re eating vanilla ice cream—and you’re not wishing it had something else on it or in it. I guess it really is rocket science.

The Food Snob
Wake up and smell the coffee, folks. The State Fair is not about food. It’s a paean to our agricultural heritage. At least it used to be, until they took the tractors off Machinery Hill and replaced them with (yuk) lawn tractors. Still, I go to the Fair celebrate farming. I eat there only as a tribute to the animals and plants that yield our nourishment.

I start with a tour of the animal barns. From there, it’s a short stroll to the “All the Milk You Can Drink” booth. It’s not a nickel anymore, but it’s still delicious. Then, taking the goodness one step further, I duck into the building-formerly-known-as-dairy. After admiring the artistry of the butter heads, I grab a milkshake. Just cream, sugar and a bit of vanilla.

Next it’s the Horticulture Building to revel in the bounty of our state. I feast with my eyes on the prizewinning vegetable exhibit, the mounds of crisp apples, and the mouthwatering Farmer’s Market displays. Then it’s time for my special reward: honey lemonade, the most pure and delicious food at the fair. I admire but never touch the honey ice cream studded with sunflower seeds, and just order my cup of nectar.

And that’s it. Well, I might snag a cheese curd from a friend, steal a bite of roasted corn or grab a French fry or two. But the Fair is not about fast food or heinous ‘on a stick’ creations.  It’s about the smell of fresh hay cradling the sheep in their coats, the thousands of seeds that comprise Jesse Ventura’s portrait in the Crop Art display, and the darling pink “Oink Booth” headbands that you get for free in the pig barn.

Hey, if I want mediocre, mass-produced fried foods, I can get those on any arterial highway in any city in America.  No, I go to the fair for pure food and a large dose of agricultural kitsch.

The Chowhound

Similar to a marathon, the State Fair requires considerable training. In days prior to the event I made sure to watch what I ate and I carefully planned my route so as to be in and out in the shortest time possible. This year I beat my previous record, clocking in just shy of 2 hours from door to door.

While most athletes diet to stay trim, I diet in order to eat as much as possible. However, on game day I made the rookie mistake of burning all of my energy in the first 15 minutes. Yes, I ate an entire plate of Australian Battered Potatoes, best described as inch-thick, potato-shaped slabs of fried batter, optionally topped with Cheese and/or Ranch sauce for a total of $6.75. Don’t get me wrong, these mammoth Aussie tots are good, but are best as a relay event for a team of four or more.

Knowing now that I would need to seriously limit my intake, I scaled back my original route to include only one sweet, one beverage, and simply one thing on a stick. In a last-second stroke of genius I combined my sweet and my beverage, racing from Sweet Martha’s with a large cone of hot chocolate chip cookies ($5.50) all the way back to the all-you-can drink Milk Stand ($1/cup). This saved much-needed space for my corned beef and cabbage on a stick.

Unfortunately, the corned beef and cabbage on a stick turned out to be a dud and I lost countless minutes as a result. I had imagined tender chunks of corned beef rolled in fresh cabbage, breaded, fried and eventually speared. So when the cashier handed me a soggy corndog I was thrown off track. After some convincing on her part I took a bite and was disappointed to find no trace of cabbage, just a hot dog-shaped piece of corned beef hiding under the breading. This was the worst $4 I spent. To add insult to injury, I had to sit across from this fit guy wearing expensive running shoes and boasting about his delicious sloppy joe on a stick. I was robbed.

All in all, I can’t be disappointed at my performance, especially factoring in the record time, but next time I will not peak prematurely at the first stand I see.

One glance at the menu told me all I needed to know.  There it was, Genuine Broaster Chicken, my favorite way to eat a bird. While others pondered, I scanned the fine print, and there, in italics, was another gem: Schroeder’s Homemade Chicken Pot Pie – Frozen to Go – $7.25. Now dinner was solved too. 

My two pieces of white meat chicken ($7.25) reclined on a giant pillow of mashed potatoes (recommended over the fries by our friendly server). The chicken was piping hot, moist and flavorful, with just the right meat-to-crispy-coating ratio. The potatoes were mashed in-house, but I’m not a fan of throwing garlic in everything. Fortunately, the gravy was pristine, tasting of nothing but chicken, dairy, salt and pepper.  The side of cole slaw was a bit heavy on the mayo for me, but everyone’s tastes are different. My meal was so good, that I barely grabbed anything from my companions’ plates. And I was too distracted by the chicken to order dessert.

That night I popped the pot pie into the toaster oven, and was delighted again.  Bits of chicken were swimming in that same gravy, the onions, carrots, celery and potatoes appeared to have been cut by hand, and the crust was flaky and just right.  A far cry from Swanson’s, and four times as large.

I could kick myself that I worked for 10 years just a stone’s throw from Schroeder’s and never stopped in. This is my kind of place:  friendly service, homemade comfort food, big windows, free parking, and reasonable prices.

The Cheapskate
I, too, can’t believe how long I worked a few blocks from Schroeder’s and never even knew it was a restaurant. It always looked like just another dimly lit neighborhood bar, with maybe popcorn and poppers on the lunch menu.

And for a moment I thought my impression was right, because we accidentally entered through the bar door, and through the murky mood lighting I saw drinkers but no eaters. We must have looked dazed and half-starved, because the bartender didn’t say a word, just pointed toward the door to the restaurant side of the building. It was like night and day entering the bright, spacious café with plenty of window booths and the smell of good, homey food.

I ate the special of the day-the Meatloaf Dinner plate-and it was glory days for a Cheapskate-two slabs of juicy meatloaf, a giant mound of mashed potatoes, and a little bowl of mixed vegetables-everything doused with bunches of brown gravy. The plate must have weighed 2.5 pounds, all for under $7.

“Notice the light gravy for the chicken and dark gravy for the beef,” began the Food Snob, who can somehow turn even plain old gravy into the basis for a pedantic monologue. She said more, but it sounded like that Wa-Waaaa-Wa-Waaa noise that the grownups make in a Charlie Brown cartoon.

I have two pieces of “constructive criticism” to offer the fine people at Schroeder’s: 1) Way too much oregano in the meatloaf (but I still managed to eat both slabs); and 2) We are now in an age when coffee has to actually taste good-I had bad decaf with a chemical aftertaste (not to mention fore-taste and during-taste).

The Snob’s cole slaw was just fine with me (“too much mayo” is not a phrase that has ever passed my lips), and the Bachelor’s pan-fried walleye was very tasty, (I stabbed a piece while distracting him by saying, “Hey, do you think that dark-haired, sloe-eyed beauty over there looks lonely?”) The Chowhound’s fries were also just fine. Other than those teensy samples, I stuck to my own plate because-even for a Cheapskate-I definitely got my money’s worth at Schroeder’s.

The Bachelor
There are no walleye in Minnesota. That’s right – while you’ll find all sorts of other finned beasts, squishy invertebrates, flying carp, skunky-smelling weeds, 10 trillion rusting Hamm’s beer cans, and at least one wallet that contains a fake ID I cherished when I was 19 – you will find no walleye lurking in any of our 10,000 lakes. I should know. I swear I’ve plumbed the depths of each and every one of our sky-blue waters. I’ve tried everything from Shad Raps to Lindy Rigs to sucker minnows to tossing a few M80s over the side of the boat in hopes of blowing these mystical creatures from their watery lairs. But nothing. Therefore my verdict is in: we can safely lump the “walleye” together with such fairytale creates as unicorns, jackalopes, snuffalufaguses and low-maintenance single women.

So you can imagine my astonishment when I looked down at my lunch plate at Schroeder’s to see a lightly pan-fried “walleye” sitting there just as plain as day. Yes, a walleye!!! As my shock subsided, my heart swelled with boundless gratitude when considering the extraordinary lengths the good people at Schroeder’s must have gone to in order to locate, trap and transport this rarest of rare creatures. It must have taken a team of divers, icthyologists, and seers, months and months of research and international exploration to find the one walleye that still exists in the world and bring it to my plate. And all for only $7.25!

Still reeling with disbelief, I gingerly cut my fork into the lightly seared, golden brown flesh and lifted it slowly to my gaping maw. Would I wake up with a mouth full of pillow? No, it was real, and it was delicious. It tasted like fish.  The mashed potatoes tasted like potatoes.  And the sloe-eyed beauty?  Well that story’s for a different publication.

Schroeder’s
605 Front Street
651-489-9633

This is how it’s been for about 70 years: You live somewhere near Rice Street. You go to Mass at St. Bernard’s. You go to eat, drink, tap your toe to accordion music, and try to win a whole bunch of raw meat at Tin Cup’s. I learned this from a couple of different friends who grew up in the twin shadows of the St. Bernard’s spire and the giant blinking Tin Cup’s signage. When they heard I was going to Tin Cup’s they said, “I’ve spent half my life there.”

So now that I’ve been there, I have a whole new insight into the whole North End Experience. I feel a little bitter that I didn’t grow up there. Of course, before it became smoke-free a couple years ago, I couldn’t have stepped inside without an oxygen mask.

I’ll let my colleagues go into the details. Judging from our table talk, I have a feeling they have a lot to tell you.

Cheapskate Bottom Line: Go for weekend breakfast, served until about 2 p.m. Excellent breakfast that you’ll get for a song.

And no, they don’t have a Web site. Duh.

Food Snob
When our esteemed editor informed the Without Reservations crew that the Monitor was expanding to the North End, I rejoiced.  Since Day 1 of our glorious reign as food reviewers, I’ve chafed at geographic boundaries.  My contention:  people have cars, or they can ride the bus to restaurants.  (Shameless aside: Have you seen the new web site www.bustales.com?  It’s a must-read for anyone who uses public transportation).

Pressured by my colleagues, I have grudgingly agreed to stay within the Monitor’s boundaries (mostly) for years.  Now we have new territory to conquer and no one can stop me.

Tin Cup’s Place is almost too good to be true, with a menu of all homemade American favorites, at prices that seem rolled back to the ‘60s.  A full breakfast (with a very tasty steak) for about $5, with a Bloody Mary or Screwdriver thrown in for an extra 50 cents?  No way. Yes, way.  So Bloody Marys all around, not too spicy and rimmed with celery salt. Oh, and with a beer chaser thrown in for free.

Fried chicken (or maybe broasted, although the cooking method isn’t specified) is the specialty at Tin Cup’s, and I splurged with the all-white half chicken for $8.95.  Not only did two gi-normous breast/wing combinations show up on my plate, but they were perched precariously on a mountain of crispy hashed browns.  All this food was preceded by a choice of salad, soup or coleslaw. Seeing me torn between the vegetable beef soup and the slaw, our server brought me both. The soup was rich and beefy and the cole slaw nice and sweet.

Tin Cup’s doesn’t serve dessert, so I indulged in some pull tabs instead.  I won back my $1 investment, but may be the only patron to ever cash out. The attendant was incredulous when I asked for a greenback, but I’m not a gambler. A glutton, yes, and Tin Cup’s is a sure thing for folks like me.

The Chowhound
The last time I had a Bloody Mary this tasty was, believe it or not, at an airport on the way to my honeymoon a few years ago. Considering that the airport bloody cost $13 and the one at Cup’s is only 50 cents with a weekend breakfast order, I think it’s safe to say I’ve found my new favorite place to drink. That and the fact that the airport was in Dallas, which is a bit further than the 10-minute drive to Cups.

But it’s not just the cheap drinks and the impressive bar that stretches the entire length of the building that’s going to keep me coming back. Nope, I’m going back for the home-style cooking.

While I was busy reading through the crowded menu, which appropriately showcases six clip-art tin cups on the cover, I heard the server say something about a hot ham and cheese sandwich with soup and chips ($6.25). I closed the menu. That was exactly what I was craving. The meal made good on its promise: buttery-grilled bread with melted cheese and ham, wavy chips, and chunky vegetable beef soup. Just the way I would have prepared it.

Everything about Tin Cup’s is authentic. Where sometimes I complain about less-than-perfect design (remember when I suggested a certain café rethink their signage?), here it’s just part of what makes Tin Cup’s such a great place. Dark orange pleather chairs and green and orange tiled floors don’t reflect what we might consider pleasing color combinations today, but I wouldn’t want anything else from a place that’s been around for 60+ years.

The Bachelor
I have a knack for being in the right place at the wrong time. Take the time I was standing outside The Ed Sullivan Theater (where David Letterman tapes his show) just moments before Pamela Anderson was ushered out to her limo. Oh, to have “brushed” just one molecule of that cinematic genius. Doh!

Well, I found myself in the same predicament during our recent lunch at Cup’s. (Well, there was a lot less silicone involved … and a lot more Brylkreem.) Our crew grabbed a table near the bar (of course every seat at Cup’s is near the bar, which is the length of a city bus). After waiting a few minutes for my vision to be restored (this place is not exactly well lit), I noticed posters above every booth featuring an elderly gentleman cradling an accordion. That man was none other than Roger Van Horn, and the poster promised me “Funtime Music!”

Funtime Music! I like fun. I like music. Count me in! Alas, it was only 12 p.m., and Roger wouldn’t be storming the stage ( right there near the pull tab booth) for another two hours. My heart sank when I realized there was no way I’d be able to convince my three curmudgeonly dining companions to stick around that long. There would be no fun. There would be no music. There would be no Roger Van Horn for me. Just another entry on my list of missed brushes with greatness.

So I took solace in comfort food. And if you crave comfort food, Cup’s is for you. You may find yourself whisked off to an early grave from the deep-fried this and red-meat that, but you’ll be sufficiently comforted for the journey.

I ordered the cod dinner ($7.95), which consisted of five triangles of breaded cod, a crater of mashed potatoes and gravy, buttered toast, and some truly yummy coleslaw. (I did cast a raised eyebrow toward my “cod,” having noticed Gimp’s Live Bait directly across the street, but my meal was not in fact breaded bait). I wolfed everything down, and each bite reminded me of countless dinners of my youth: greasy, salty, unimaginative, and oh so good.

Finally, if you ever have a chance to bask in the reflected glory of Roger Van Horn’s “Funtime Music!,” please send me an e-mail with every aching detail so I can live vicariously through you.

Tin Cup’s Place

1220 Rice St
St Paul, MN 55117
(651) 489-7585

Contact us: withoutres@yahoo.com.

I had the very best mousaka of my life (I usually spell it moussaka but I’m going with the official Shish menu here). It was the special of the day, so I hope you are as lucky as I was when you visit Shish. The eggplant and potato slices were perfectly cooked, the seasoned ground meat layer was subtly scented with cinnamon or something similarly delightful and unexpected (to my palate at least), and the custardy top layer was light as a feather and delicately flavored. Yum.

And the Turkish coffee. I could write pages about it. Fresh off the burner in the traditional little brass (or maybe copper) pot with the long handle, the Turkish coffee at Shish is my favorite in town so far. It’s got the traditional mud of powder-fine coffee grounds in the bottom, it’s generously sweetened and spiced with cardamom, and you get to pour it into a tiny, exquisite china cup and saucer. Turkish coffee is meant to be lingered over, but unfortunately the other three were sitting out in the car double-parked, waiting for me to gulp it down so that we could keep our working lunch down to … two hours.

I would not say the service was slow – it was blazing at warp speed all around us. But there were only two people sprinting around to staff the whole front end operation on a very brisk lunch hour.

The owner was helping the cook, taking orders, and running food to tables, while the apparently only other staff member was similarly multitasking. The wait was within reason for the entrees, but our baklava dessert took 10 minutes to order (starting over at the back of the lunch order line) and 20 more minutes to put on a plate and deliver to the table.

But why quibble when the food is this good and the prices, while not exactly true cheapskate territory (that’s $5 or less), are very reasonable. Go early, like we did (arriving before 11 a.m. for lunch), or go late, after the rush. Order your dessert right when you order your food.

And when you do have to wait, amuse yourselves, as we did, with a little game of “Gee, do you think that free-spirited intellectual in the Russian fur-lined hat and Birkenstocks goes to Macalester?”

The Food Snob

The food at Shish made me wonder why peace in the Middle East is so hard to achieve. After all, much of the food is similar – same herbs, spices, respect for vegetables and use of meat almost as a condiment. Which is why I asked the owner of Shish (several times) the nationality of his cuisine. “Jerusalem,” he said finally, acknowledging almost sheepishly that he was half Israeli and half Palestinian.

“Do you go home and beat yourself up?” asked the Bachelor in one of his politically incorrect moments. Yet it broke the tension, the same discomfort I’ve observed at other Middle Eastern restaurants, even the ones that call themselves Greek or Mediterranean.

I believe food should transcend politics and it’s hard to be partisan when your mouth is full. During our lunch at Shish, my mouth was almost as busy as my hand, which was sneaking on to everyone else’s plates to steal grilled vegetables (the Bachelor’s veggie kebab), yellow rice and chunks of lamb (Chowhound’s kebab), and huge bites of that succulent mousaka. It was a two-way street. I put my giant pile of fries in the middle of the table and they disappeared in record time. I refused to share my lamb burger though. It was too good, sparked with fresh mint and served with a salad bursting with tomatoes, olives, fresh greens (and vitamins too I’m sure).

If only the food had been the center of attention at Shish. In fact, it was hard not to be sucked into the chaos all around us. The staff were so overwhelmed that I wanted to get up and help. Instead, I chafed while waiting for our pastries – sitting right there in plain view in the dessert case – to be put on a plate. As for the aforementioned Turkish coffee: Cheapy and I both ordered decaf, but the server said one of them was caffeinated. We asked for a replacement, which came quickly – too quickly. It reminded me of the old caterer’s maxim: “If they want decaf, just tell them it’s decaf.” Perhaps my superhuman energy that afternoon came from creative inspiration, or a pre-menopausal power surge. I think it was the concentrated caffeine in that syrupy Turkish elixir.

The Bachelor

According to that sentry of truth and accuracy called Wikipedia, a hookah is “a multi-stemmed, often glass-based water pipe device for smoking. It can be used for smoking many substances, such as herbal fruits, tobacco, or cannabis.” Of course, had I gone online just a few minutes later, it could have just as easily been defined on Wikipedia as “a rust-colored toupee worn by albino Scottish monks” or “the odor produced by potatoes that have sat in your cupboard for more than eight months.”

Thankfully, I have had my fleeting encounters with our friend (one of my closest “buds”) the hookah, so I know its true and noble purpose. Although “herbal fruits”??? Hey, I went to college, and I never saw anyone try to cram a Honeycrisp into a hookah!

My point? Good question. Not sure I have one. But I did spot a hookah adorning the wall at Shish. Alas, it seemed pristine, a mere decoration that has never felt the loving flame of a Zippo.

Indeed, much of Shish felt a little too sterile, a little too … oh, I don’t know … Pier One, if you know what I’m sayin’. I like a little grit with my ethnic dining, a little sketchiness. Shish was like dining in my dentist’s waiting room. In other words, it was altogether too respectable and pleasant for me.

But if you’re into that sort of thing, you’ll feel right at home at Shish. My veggie kabab was decent , but like the atmosphere, it was missing a little something. A sauce of some sort would have been nice – cucumber, mayonnaise, butter – you know, dippin’ sauce. I will say that the vegetables were grilled beautifully, to the point where even I said, “Hey, these vegetables taste different somehow!” However, I feel they did not need to provide me with an ENTIRE onion. My eyes would have been just as watery and bloodshot had they served me that hookah for dessert.

The Chowhound

Me: So where is Sheesh?

Everyone else in the car: (laughter) It’s Shish, as in shish kebab, duh.

Now that we’re all pronouncing the name the same way, I can start by saying that Shish is great lunch spot. The fast food style ordering (think McDonald’s menu on the wall, but much nicer) means that as long as you get there a few minutes before the lunch rush you won’t wait long in line and your food will be delivered quickly to your table. It may be too informal for a romantic dinner, but it works just fine for lunch.

Wanting to stick with something familiar, I ordered the lamb kebabs. But that didn’t stop me from sampling some of the other dishes on our table. I loved the Cheapskate’s mousaka. Had we not been on opposite ends of the table I would have easily stolen several more bites. You see, growing up with three siblings I became the master of sneaky food tactics. Whether I was swiping the desirable cherry in the canned fruit cocktail from my sister’s plate or draining my brother’s glass of water, I always went undetected. It was with this stealth that I also admit stealing a bite of the Food Snob’s lamb burger. I know it was wrong, but I’d do it again.

Just like the other dishes, my lamb kebabs were delicious. They came squished tightly together, so tight that at first I thought I was about to eat two long lamb tubes. I breathed a sigh of relief when one by one they slid off the skewer. Because of their close proximity to each other, the meat was very tender, especially the larger chunks. I should also point out, if only to rub it in the Bachelor’s face one more time, that my kebabs came with a tasty white sauce. I’m not sure what it was, but it did the trick.

So whether you’re looking for a yummy shish kebab or just want to mooch off of your friends’ lunch plates, then Shish (remember, it’s not sheesh) is the place to go.

Contact us: withoutres@yahoo.com.

Shish – A Mediterranean Grill & Cafe
1668 Grand Avenue

651-690-2212

www. shishcafe.net

“This must be St. Paul’s best-kept secret,” exclaimed one of our merry band of diners after tasting the array of delicious dishes that appeared in front of us at Café BonXai. Well if it’s up to me, this Hmong-owned French/Thai/Italian restaurant will become a household name, at least in Midway-Como.

I admit it was a titanic struggle to get me there. Rarely does the Cheapskate assert herself, but when she does – watch out. I was determined to visit a highly regarded Middle Eastern place on Grand Avenue (stand by for next month’s review), but Cheapy insisted on staying in the neighborhood.

Naturally, the Bachelor sided against me. He kept screaming “Banzai!” as if auditioning for the role of a kamikaze pilot. Little did we know that the restaurant was named for the miniature trees that are tortured into submission over decades. One of the owners admitted that they didn’t know what to call the restaurant, but on a visit to Menard’s, spotted a mini-grove of bonsai trees. Thus Café BonXai was born. I’m very glad.

Let me count the ways. First, because a former Best Steak House has been reborn as a hip, casual, affordable spot with really good food. Second, because the menu is truly wacky, running the gamut from gyros to fajitas to pad thai to fettuccine alfredo. Third, because the homemade desserts would do credit to any swanky downtown place but are half the cost. And fourth, because watching the Bachelor compose a three-course meal based completely on coconut was a delight.

There are many more: truly fresh grilled salmon for a change (only $7.95), a succulent pork chop with sautéed fresh mushrooms ($5.95), one of the best and lightest versions of pad thai around ($5.50 with tofu), and extra-vigilant service (perhaps motivated by my refusal to hand back the menu so I could take notes on it).

My final word: Put down the newspaper. Get in your car. Go to Café BonXai. Scream banzai all you want on the way. You’ll be smiling on the way home.

The Bachelor

[Excerpt from St. Paul Police Report] – A 34-year-old Caucasian male was reported missing from the Midway Como area of St. Paul at 1300 hours on Dec. 12, 2006. Described as tall, lanky, with a full head of luxurious hair, a tiny button nose, and the smell of coconut on his breath, the man known as “The Bachelor” (aka Rico Suave, aka Captain Obstinate) was last seen leaving a lunch date with two boisterous and demanding older women and a young man with a basset hound dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. (The hound, not the young man.) Subject was last seen next door to Café BonXai, near the entrance to an establishment known as the “Love Doctor.” Anyone with information on the whereabouts of “The Bachelor” is encouraged not to tell his mother.

The Chowhound

Food: amazing. Design and atmosphere: almost.

Let me elaborate. I loved everything I ate, and I ate a lot. To start, I had the coconut soup. It is delicious, and the small piece of buttery Texas toast that came along was perfect for dipping. For my main dish I chose Basil Lemongrass with shrimp and, amid conflicting recommendations, ordered it spicy instead of medium. That turned out to be a mistake (is it normal to sweat out of your hair follicles?) but the enormous and tender shrimp more than made up for it. To top it off I ordered the crème brulee. In addition to being tasty it had a piece of hardened caramel sticking upright that looked just like a reindeer. Whether or not this was planned, the chef gets extra points for presentation.

Now let me explain my comment on the design and atmosphere. While the Food Snob might say otherwise, the real reason it was so hard to convince her to eat here is that Café BonXai has no curb appeal. The vinyl banner covering up only two-thirds of the leftover “Best Steak House” sign doesn’t at all prepare you for what awaits inside: black furniture and ceiling, burnt-orange walls, and deep blue hanging lights that create a soothing atmosphere. My advice to Café BonXai: Give the exterior the same love and while you’re at it, trade in the photocopied menus so we know you’re here to stay.

The Cheapskate

The Chowhound may offer unsolicited advice to restaurant owners, but I am here to advise our readers. And all I I can do is to parrot the Food Snob: Put down the paper and go. Drive, walk, take the 16 bus, but get there soon so that this amazing restaurant, just a stone’s throw from Cheapskate Manor, can become a permanent part of our neighborhood.

The chef makes up a new special every morning, so next time I’m going to try that. For the record, I don’t mind the photocopied menus. They may not meet the Chowhound’s aesthetic standards, but I like knowing that this chef can change it up any time he wants.

Here is the watertight case for Café BonXai. The Food Snob ate her own words, falling in love with a place she was determined to disdain. The Cheapskate walked away with change after paying for a ravenous group of five (we four plus one groupie) on our starving-artist wages. The Chowhound with his discriminating eye kept looking around and saying, “This place is actually really nice.” And the tough-guy Bachelor was so entranced by his coconut trifecta (coconut soup, coconut curry with rice, coconut panna cotta) that he swooned after two bites of dessert. I saw it. His eyes rolled right up into his head. This explains why he had to fabricate a cover story involving the unsavory emporium next door, to stop himself from using words like “exquisite” and “excruciatingly good” to describe the food at BonXai.

More evidence: We were back two days later with two skeptical friends. “What’s the name again? In the old Best Steak House? French, Italian AND Thai? Are you sure we want to go there?”

Two hours later, as they debated who had the better crème brulee—Café BonXai or the Saint Paul Grill—they had only one remaining question: “Is this place open for dinner?”

Indeed it is.

Contact us: withoutres@yahoo.com.

Café BonXai

1613 University Avenue

St. Paul

651-644-1444

Open Monday-Thursday, 11 a.m. – 9 p.m.

Friday-Saturday, 11 a.m. – 10 p.m.

Closed Sunday

Gnomes are among the most benign of the legendary creatures. Their name comes from the Greek word for knowledge and according to legend (according to Wikipedia), gnomes hoarded secret knowledge just as they hoarded treasure. Hence, the namesake of the Happy Gnome restaurant, bar and musical torture chamber (more about that later), must know something that Without Reservations doesn’t. Hoping that it was fine food, the Without Reservations crew – accompanied by our cub reviewer Bassett Boy – went to unearth the Happy Gnome’s treasure.

We found a clean, sunny space that formerly housed Chang O’Haras, and surprisingly ambitious food for a bar that purportedly offers more than 100 beers. Among the dishes we sampled were salmon in coconut curry, fig and wild mushroom pizza, bacon bison burger, and desserts from the nearby A Piece of Cake. I ordered the crab cakes, which were more like croquettes – firm and somewhat dry. There was more breading and less crab than ideal, but the accompanying salad was nice and fresh.

It was difficult to concentrate on the food because of the ‘70s middle-of-the-road music playing (loudly) throughout our lunch. As the oldest person at the table, I knew all the songs, but I didn’t really like them 30 years ago, and find them less appealing now. The music acted as an irritant to my younger companions, as if I was forced to listen to Perry Como for an extended period. Gnomes must demand easy listening music like Harry Chapin, but what about the rest of us? Try the Happy Gnome for beer, above average food, but consider bringing earplugs.

The Cheapskate

I have been studying up on the nuanced distinction between obstinacy and stubbornness. Being obstinate is when you refuse to do something. Being stubborn is when you refuse NOT to do something. The Bachelor is obstinate. If he is not on board, you can threaten and cajole to your heart’s content. He just smiles with implacable serenity. The Snob, on the other hand, is stubborn.

Between the two of them, it’s always interesting to predict which form of hard-headedness will prevail. In this case, the Snob was so stubbornly intent on visiting a beer palace at lunchtime (which sounded dubious to the rest of us) that even the Bachelor’s obstinacy was reduced to a sad, knowing shake of the head.

Thus it was that we found ourselves strapped into the red Matrix, barreling down Selby Avenue and screeching to a halt in the barren tundra that is the Happy Gnome parking lot at 11:30 a.m. The Happy Gnome is open for lunch … technically. On the bright side, we had our choice of seating and enjoyed a spacious, sunny booth right next to the bar. It was almost as if we had the entire wait staff and kitchen staff to ourselves.

Wait, we did.

The Gnome thing was bugging me before we even got there. It’s over. It was clever in “The Full Monty” and all those TV ads for something or other. But gnomes have seen their day. Somebody needs to inform Wikipedia. The food is not your average bar fare. I had the salmon, served over fresh greens soaked in a sweet coconut milk sauce. I really enjoyed it. Learning that the desserts come from A Piece of Cake bakery across the street, we split a couple and polished them off in no time.

Bottom line for the Cheapskate: Ample free parking is a boon on Cathedral Hill, and I’ll be returning sometime in the near future to sample the beer and the atmosphere—in the evening. The Happy Gnome, by its location and ambitious menu, has lunch destination potential. However, in my view, it did not measure up to the gastro-gnomic reputation that made the Snob so stubborn about going in the first place.

Bassett Boy

Wanting to enjoy the still bearable weather, the first thing we did after arriving at the Happy Gnome was check out the outdoor seating. Blocked off by tall privacy fences and a lot of plants, it would have been a perfect spot to eat, except for the swarm of angry bees. Well actually we only saw one bee, but the Bachelor got scared, so we headed inside.

First to catch my attention were the large totem poles on either side of the entrance. I wondered about the connection between gnomes and the strange looking figures that made up the totem poles, maybe that’s one of the secrets that the restaurant is keeping. After sitting down, my eyes were drawn to the large sign listing out the impressive beer selection. If only I didn’t have to go back to work, and function.

When the waiter rattled off his favorite dishes, I was excited to learn that they have a bison burger, and not just a regular one, a bacon bison burger. I called “dibs” and patiently waited while my counterparts decided. The food came and I took a big juicy bite. It was delicious and cooked exactly as I asked, medium rare. It was so flavorful that I avoided dipping it in ketchup, the true test of a burger’s worth. When I go back to the Happy Gnome, next time after work, I will definitely order the bacon bison burger again.

The Bachelor
I’ll have Bassett Boy know I’ve been wearing “bee beards” since his stubby little mohawk was little more than a bad case of “bed head.” I only wanted to go inside because I couldn’t find enough hornets to assemble into the proper sort of Grizzly Adams-esque chin drapery that I’m known for.

And as for the Cheapskate’s outrageous accusation of me being obstinate, let me just say I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever agree with her.

Now, on to the gnomes (you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to utter that phrase). Where the heck were they?!?! I was expecting a virtual Candyland™ of frolicking, androgynous little old men littering every conceivable inch of this rather large bar (it’s not really a restaurant.) Yet, I could only find one sad, lonely little ceramic gnome perched inconspicuously above the bar. A day trip to one of those atrocious yard ornament outlets on the way to Brainerd could have stocked this place with more gnomes that even the Food Snob has in her curio cabinets. Yet, it was virtually barren. There would be no woodland magic, no wisps of pixy dust, no creepy glassy-eyed stares from little old men. Our hearts were heavy…..

Alas, this wasn’t the first – and I’m sure won’t be the last – time I’ll be disappointed by a gnome fantasy unfilled. I was left with no choice but to try and console myself with the fig and wild mushroom pizza that arrived amid the soulful croonings of Cat Stevens (I have to agree with the Snob that the choice of musical selections at the Happy Gnome defied any explanation of taste or cognitive reasoning).

The Happy Gnome

498 Selby Ave.,
St. Paul
651-287-2018

www.thehappygnome.com

Que Nha, in the Brownstone building on the corner of University and Victoria, is bright and clean with friendly service and fast cooking. Of the five entrees we sampled, all were tasty.  The Bachelor’s Curry Mock Duck ($6.25) was spicy and savory with plenty of vegetables.  He vacuumed it up in a hurry.  I tried the Steamed Rice in Earthen Pot ($6.95) and enjoyed the crusty bits of rice that formed on the bottom.  The Cheapskate, who loves the hot and spicy chicken at Vina, ordered it here ($6.25) and got quite a tasty version, with real grilled chicken (not the stuff with the painted on grill marks).

We brought two guests to Que Nha. The bassett hound lover with the pointy hairdo proved to be a good and adventurous eater.  He sampled the hot and spicy goat ($9.95), which tasted pretty generic and swam in a cornstarch-thickened sauce.  Our final guest, a sassy young Jodie Foster impersonator, ordered the noodle egg roll salad ($5.95).  Whoever was working the grill in the kitchen isn’t afraid of high heat, and her meat slices were thoroughly incinerated.  Otherwise the dish was fine.

Que Nha is a perfectly fine restaurant. It will have trouble finding a place in my heart because of my many other favorites along the same street.  But a favorite restaurant is a very personal thing. Stop in – this may become your new top choice on University Avenue.

The Chow Hound
When we walked into the building, I was pleasantly surprised at the surroundings. On one wall there were kimonos, and on the other some sort of string instruments. Compared to my recent trip to Hoa Bien (where the walls are mostly empty) it felt quite welcoming. While it might not make the perfect romantic setting for one of The Bachelor’s mythical dates, it was great for lunch.

I took one look at the menu and immediately my eyes crossed. Just as The Food Snob points out, too many choices can drive a person crazy. Luckily I was spared the trouble. Before I had a chance to begin reading, The Food Snob volunteered me to try the hot and spicy goat.

While we were waiting I sampled a shrimp spring roll that came with an especially tasty sauce. I also had the pleasure of trying shrimp on sugarcane, which looks like an orange tire tread, but has an amazing sweet grilled flavor. When the spicy goat came, I had shoveled in at least five bites before realizing that the sauce left something to be desired. It wasn’t bad, but I think The Food Snob’s description of “cornstarch-thickened” is accurate.

Thanks a lot, Food Snob. In the future, I’ll take my sweet time with the menu.

The Bachelor
In case my loyal readers have not noticed by now, your beloved bachelor can be a little thick at times. Daylight savings time, Martinizing, courtship … these concepts have long mystified me.

Another of nature’s enigmas that has haunted me is that of mock duck. I went years without mustering up the intellectual wherewithal to ask myself, “Just what IS this mock duck?” I had the fuzzy notion that it was some sort of cynical Chinese waterfowl – one that I was not particularly interested in grinding between my molars.

Imagine my surprise when someone (no doubt that know-it-all Food Snob) eventually slapped me to my senses and explained that mock duck was not a bird at all (hence the “mock”), but rather a bean curd-based substance, or at least that’s how I explain it now. Of course, the need to make this gelatinous brown goo look like freshly plucked duck’s skin is beyond me.

So, with mock duck now an established part of my eating repertoire, it was with the serenity of the Buddha that I ordered the Curry Mock Duck with Vegetables (just $6.25). I squealed with glee when my food came well before the entrees of my companions, and downed half of it before their meals arrived. (I steadfastly refuse to abide by this ridiculous social more of waiting until everyone receives their food before eating – that’s an offense against instant gratification.)

As seems to be the case with the 13,000 or so Asian restaurants along University Avenue, the portions at Que Nha are huge … just the way I like ‘em. The dark brown curry sauce that puddled at the bottom of my plate had a kick to it that I wasn’t quite expecting, but it worked well with the sweetness of the coconut milk. The thinly sliced carrots retained their firmness, and the mock duck retained its goose-bumpy squishiness. The rice was plump and chewy, with just enough stickiness to keep me entertained while I picked it off every conceivable surface area around me. I left a happy bachelor.

Now if someone could please explain what bean curd is, I’ll be happy.

The Cheapskate
As a rule, I view appetizers as a tax on the impatient. They reel in the likes of the Bachelor and the Food Snob, people who cannot wait eight minutes for their entree and cannot envision that in 35 minutes they will be staggering out the door, groaning and holding their bellies, wondering why on earth they ordered appetizers.

When it comes to spring rolls and egg rolls, however, I always have to eat my words. Those are appetizers I can’t resist. Chopped up into little bite-size morsels, with a good sweet/peanutty sauce to dip into, those are well worth the $2.95 you will pay at Que Nha for a pair of either fried or fresh rolls. I also broke another cardinal rule of cheapskateness by actually purchasing a beverage. I can’t resist the sweet, strong, creamy Vietnamese Ice Coffee.

Naturally the Snob had to also order the most expensive appetizer her eye fell upon, the $4.95 Grilled Shrimp on Sugar Cane. That money buys you two grilled shrimp, each spread-eagled over a short stick of sugar cane. They tasted good, but $4.95? We’re talking entrée money here.

My undivided recommendation at Que Nha is the Hot and Spicy Chicken. Don’t worry – it’s not THAT spicy. You can get it with vegetables or just with sliced onions, either way for $6.25. As the Snob has noted, the chicken had a fresh-from-the-grill flavor that was outstanding, and the sweet-hot sauce hit the spot. Considering that several of my fellow diners kept coming back for more while their own entrees languished, I feel I can recommend it without reservations.

Another reason I recommend Que Nha is the bright, clean simplicity of the space. The Vietnamese décor is understated, and the place just feels clean and open. We found the staff extremely friendly, ready to talk over recommendations, and very quick. The Snob may find herself torn among too many Vietnamese restaurants along University, but I say that the combination of good food, excellent price, top-notch service, tasteful décor, and uncrowded and unharried atmosphere is not all that easy to find. I’ve got both thumbs up for Que Nha.

Que Nha Restaurant

651-290-8552

Mon.-Sat. 10 a.m. – 9 p.m.

Sun. 11 a.m. – 8 p.m.

Roseville

651-631-1222

Menu: www.indiapalacemn.com

Open daily 11 a.m.-2:30 p.m. and 5-10 p.m.

Exceptions:

Fri. and Sat. dinner until 10:30 p.m.

Sunday lunch starts at 11:30

That’s a shame, because Hoa Bien has reliably served some of the best Vietnamese soups and stir-fries in St. Paul for a long time. It was just a handful of tables in a crumbling old building on University, just west of Lexington, but a real refuge on cold days when nothing but hot soup would do. And on one memorable occasion when I was restricted to clear fluids in advance of a certain invasive medical procedure, two bowls of Hoa Bien’s broth kept me going for nearly 24 hours.

Now there is a new Hoa Bien, just a few steps from the old one, right on the corner of Lexington and University. It seems almost as large, if not as fancy, as the expanded Mai Village. As we drove up, the Bachelor said: “Does University Avenue really need two Pho palaces?”

After a meal in this large but modest space, I say yes. I do miss the old Hoa Bien, especially the manageable menu and prompt service. But just because I loved the caterpillar doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the butterfly. At the new place, your choices have increased exponentially, including the opportunity to cook meat and seafood on a portable grill right at your table. I chose squid and beef, which came with rice paper spring roll wrappers, a bowl of warm water in which to soak them, and a garden’s worth of lettuce and fresh herbs. The grilling, soaking and assembling process was messy and distracting, but gave the Bachelor plenty of fodder for wisecracks. If my appetite had allowed, I would have ordered the seafood clear noodle soup, my favorite Hoa Bien dish. Instead we sampled flan and a layered concoction of coconut milk, gelatinous green strips and sweet red beans. It was both tasty and dramatic.

The new Hoa Bien hasn’t hit its stride yet. Service was slow and disorganized. But the food came out as fresh and appetizing as always, and by the time we left, every table was filled. You won’t see a koi pond at Hoa Bien, but smiling faces and delicious food more than make up for that – at least for me.

The Bachelor
The thought of walking up to an elegantly set dinner table and, with one grand swipe of my massive arm, sweeping everything that’s been so carefully laid upon it to the floor can at times be almost irresistible. Granted, I am a man, so there is typically no rhyme or reason behind lusting for such a senseless, destructive act. We fellows just like to see things go crash.

Yet, there are times when I would be more than justified to ruin yet another dinner party with my flailing arms. Take for example, those splendid affairs when the table is so choked with saucers, plates, butter dishes, salad plates, napkins, forks, salad forks, dessert forks, spoons, bread baskets, wine glasses, water glasses, table tents – you get the point – that you can’t hardly reach across the table without ending up with a sleeve smeared with hummus and an elbow soaked in merlot …. back comes my sweeping arm!

Although it was far from an elegant dinner affair, my lunch at Hoa Bien with the Snob and Cheapy certainly had my arm twitching. It all began when the Snob inexplicably decided to cook her own lunch. I know, I know.

In preparation, the waitress practically began piling my dishes into my lap to make room for the veritable kitchen the Snob would need. A giant bowl full of water, platters of raw this and that, and my favorite part, an immense portable grill just inches from my face. If it hadn’t been for the threat of third-degree burns up and down my arm, the whole shebang could easily have end up on the floor.

When I wasn’t waving smoke out of my eyes and dodging spatterings of hot grease, I found myself dining on a vegetable curry dish that was good enough to soothe my twitchy arm. The portions were plenty big, and the rice nice and sticky. The curry itself was a bit spicier than I’m used to, but I welcomed the distraction. Oh, man, I almost forgot. Our waitress! She certainly added a desperately needed bit of beauty to the cavernous, convention center-esque surroundings. If it wasn’t for that big rock on her finger, I would have ….oh who am I kidding. We both know I would have done nothing but silently pine for her, clutching the customer copy of the receipt she handed me to my massive chest night after night. Weep for me, Midway Como!

Back to the point of this review. So is Hoa Bien worth it? Sure. But if you’re going to cook lunch at your table, you’d best be at least an arm’s length away from me.

The Cheapskate
I wish you could all have been there for lunch with the Snob, the Bachelor, and me. (About half of you actually were, judging from the packed dining room and the line at the door.)

About 30 seconds into our visit, the Snob entered into her usual rapid-fire interrogation of the server, violating (at least in spirit) several international conventions on the treatment of suspects and prisoners. By now, the Bachelor and I know better than to intervene. We just fasten our seatbelts and enjoy the ride.

I did sit up and take notice, however, when I heard the server turn the tables on the Snob. “Do you like to cook?” she asked. And so it began … I have left it to the Bachelor to describe the unfolding of that debacle.

As for me, I have this old-fashioned notion that when I go to a restaurant, other people should cook for me. So I was relieved when my meal, the $12.95 Hoa Bien Special Seafood, came fully assembled and ready to eat.

The Hoa Bien Special Seafood is a dish I recommend. For my money they could omit that particleboard of the seafood world, fake crab meat. However, the crispy fried-noodle nest was filled with plenty of other genuine seafood – shrimp, scallops, and squid strips – and the piles of bright-green, crisp-tender broccoli, peapods and bok choy made me feel positively wholesome about eating out. The whole dish was drenched in a tasty oyster sauce that permeated the noodle nest and made it a lot more fun to eat that much broccoli.

Mind you, thirteen dollars is a lot to pay for lunch from the Cheapskate’s point of view. It was more than enough food for two meals, but somehow I forgot to pack up my leftovers. In truth, I was temporarily unable to perform the Activities of Daily Living, overcome with exhaustion from watching the Snob stir-fry, flip, dip, soak, stuff, wrap, fold and eat with one hand – while composing email on her Blackberry device with the other.

For the record, I side with the Snobista and against the Bachelorissimo on the tri-color yellow/green/red soybean dessert swimming in iced coconut milk. I like it. It’s different – not in the sense used by my Minnesota forebears (“That’s … different”) but in the sense of “Hmm … It’s not what I usually eat out of a parfait glass, but it’s strangely compelling.”

However, when I returned the next day for another heapin’ helpin’ of Hoa Bien hospitality, accompanied by two far less adventurous eaters, they did not echo the Snob’s pronouncement that the bean dessert was “tasty and dramatic.” There was drama, all right. But it was accompanied by a shudder and I think I heard the word “dreadful” in English and Slovak. There were faces of politely masked horror, and tentative poking at the parfait glass with a very long spoon. Never mind – more for me.

So if you visit Hoa Bien (or any other Asian restaurant on University Avenue, with the possible exception of Lee Ann Chin) with people who usually gravitate more toward Perkins and Keys, take my advice. First, don’t bother to turn past page 1 of the menu (egg rolls, chicken wings, cream cheese wontons, chow mein, lo mein). Second, stay away from anything that might cause the Snob to use the word “dramatic.” And third, for heaven’s sake, let the professionals cook your food.

Contact the Gang of Three at: withoutres@yahoo.com.

Hoa Bien

1129

651-647-1011

Open every day for lunch and dinner

How much caviar can one person take?

After two weeks on an upscale cruise ship, faced with an endless procession of delicacies: foie gras, rack of lamb, dark chocolate, tiny crustless sandwiches, exotic fruit tarts, yadda, yadda, yadda – it was a relief to get back to real food.  I mean huge portions of carbs, slabs of meat, and glorious trans fats.  So, I’m probably more enthusiastic about my meal at Abettos Deli than under normal circumstances.

Rarely does a sandwich look as appealing as the thick, dripping marble rye Reuben ($5.99) I was served at Abettos.  A side order of cheese-stuffed breadsticks called Boscos ($2.65) and a pepperoni-laden salad ($2.99) were ideal side dishes.  But the crowning glory was without a doubt the dessert pizza ($7.99), a 10-inch round of dough covered with bubbling pie filling. (We had cherry on one half and apple on the other.)

Such is the contradictory nature of human longing.  Normally, I decry the lack of refined, luxurious dishes made with top quality ingredients.  But 14 days of quenelles, terrines, and noisettes had me rooting for the old-fashioned “Eye-talian” dishes served at Abettos.  To split hairs, a Reuben, of course, is not Italian.  Nor of course is it a Jewish dish – after all, mixing meat and milk products (cheese) isn’t kosher.  But it fits smoothly into Abettos menu.

Being totally honest, I’ll admit that the red sauce served with the lasagna was overdosed with dried oregano, and that the sodium content of all the dishes was off the charts.  But I’ve got just as many criticisms of the cruise ship food:  overcooked lobster, broken sauces, tough duck, etc.

Obviously, there’s no such thing as perfect food, no matter where you’re eating or how much it costs.  Does it matter whether you’re eating on china or out of Styrofoam containers?  Not really.  Now if only I could convince myself that I really believe that.  

The Bachelor

For all you Simpsons fans out there, my reaction when walking into Abettos was a bit like Homer’s when he spots free cookie samples at the grocery store. I tilted my head back and released a guttural growl of satisfaction as drool began to seep out of my open mouth. It’s as if some sort of benevolent bachelors’ fairy godmother (I’m envisioning a matronly Angelina Jolie) whipped together everything I hold dear and plopped it down on a nondescript stretch of Como Avenue.  I mean, one half of the place is a liquor store, and the other serves some of the best pizza, pasta, and breadsticks I’ve had since Hogan’s Heroes went off the air – and all in an environment that is staunchly blue collar and a little offbeat.

How could this place have been right in our backyard for nearly seven years without me even knowing it?

Let’s start with the breadsticks – or as I like to call them, heroin sticks, because they are just that addictive. At Abettos, they’re called Boscos and the centers are filled with a nice warm, gooey mozzarella. I don’t think I need to mention that I gorged myself to the precipice of a coma on those things.

Just when I was coming down from my breadsticks high, my pizza arrived. Where to even begin? I’m a bachelor. I could ramble at Tolstoy-like length in describing my love for pizza, and how so few “pizzas” out there deserve the name. The veggie pizza I ordered at Abettos is a pizza’s pizza. She was your standard thin crust, but she was anything but cardboardy. When I picked the first slice off the plate, the cheese just stretched and stretched and stretched. I could have walked the length of Abettos’ huge, church-basement-like banquet hall (it looks like the type of place pancake breakfasts go to die) without snapping the string of cheese. That’s a pizza. Even though there were plenty of sliced and diced veggies swimming in the cheese, it didn’t result in the wet, sloppy mess that mars so many other specimens.

Oh, and that dessert pizza that the Food Snob mentioned. It was all fine and dandy, but I don’t like people playing with the sanctity of pizza and its God-intended form. I ate it, of course, but not without harboring a quiet, lonely guilt.

The Cheapskate

To a substantial extent, the three magical attributes converge at Abettos: Cheap, good, and plenty. Walking in from the parking lot, I saw a sign bearing the precious message “Special – Lasagne $4.99” and I began to run. Through the window I saw someone plowing a generous spatula through a giant, steaming pan of lasagne. I ran faster.

The others have gone on long enough. I can add little to their paean of praise to this out-of-the-way spot. I will only tell you that the counter staff and kitchen staff are my kind of people – just plain nice and helpful, really wanting you to have a good lunch at a good price.

That and the fact that, a day later, I made a large meal of leftover lasagne, salad, buttered herb toast, the remains of the Snob’s reuben sandwich, and yes – the Bachelor’s guilty pleasure, dessert pizza.

Please note that Abettos does a lot of catering – your place or theirs. It seems like a very good choice for a relaxed group event (informal staff luncheon, boisterous birthday party, etc.).

Question of the month

Where does the name “Abettos” come from, and is it a plural or a possessive in search of an apostrophe? Be warned: A mere Google search is not going to help you much. Visit Abettos and ask. Send your answers (multiple choices encouraged) to withoutres@yahoo.com for your chance to lunch with the Trilateral Commission of Midway-Como Food Review.

Abettos Deli

www.actonebanquethall.com

651-488-4040

Monday-Thursday, 11 a.m. to 8 p.m.

Friday-Saturday, 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.

Closed Sunday