Going out on a Limb at Peninsula

After a harrowing jaunt through Eastern Europe (or at least through the north eastern tip of downtown Minneapolis), one would think that my dining companion and I would opt for something a bit predictable and comforting. A Juicy Lucy at the Nook, perhaps... or a coal-fired pie from Punch. But instead we headed to Eat Street for a Malaysian meal at Peninsula. And not just any "masquerading-as-American-Chinese-food" Malaysian... we're talking "dive-right-in", "I-hope-this-tastes-better-than-it-smells" Malaysian.

We arrived slightly after 7 and walked into controlled chaos. A hoard of people was eagerly trying to grab the host's attention, although one look at the scribbled, scratched out wait list made me wonder if that effort was in vain. The cash register, situated down the counter from a tiny full bar, was the scene of an unabashed disagreement between a bus boy and a cashier. A large family was trying to get coats on kids, pinning patrons to the wall as they swung hoods and hats and arms in a two yard radius. Undaunted, my dining companion pushed through the activity and signaled the hostess for a table.

We were seated right away and eagerly cracked the drinks menu. Peninsula offers a variety of wines and mixed drinks but we were were drawn to the list of Asian beers. I ordered a Tiger Lager from Singapore, which basically tasted like Budweiser but sported a much more exotic label. My dining companion selected the Singha, a slightly hoppier beer from Thailand.

While Peninsula is a busy, efficient restaurant, I wouldn't recommend it for diners who are in a hurry. Waitstaff, dressed in black from head to toe and each with a vibrant sarong tied around their waists, darted from table to table but did leave long intervals between visits. We used this to our advantage, ordering drinks first and taking the next 20 minutes or so to peruse the lengthy menu.

Feeling particularly adventurous, my dining companion eventually set his sights on Sambal Sotong, or squid with belacan. Belacan is a quintessentially Malasian flavoring made from fermented shrimp paste and is notorious for yielding one of two reactions: 1) shovel more in my moth I can't get enough, or 2) I'm gonna hurl. Feeling particularly risk averse, I opted for the Mango Shrimp.

Our food arrived quite a bit later despite our waitress's visible hustle. And after a bit of confusion over a mystery platter placed before my dining companion, she returned with the correct dish and the games began.

My dining companion took one bite of his Sambal Sotong and made it abundantly clear that he would not be eating any more. Ever. I didn't find the belacan flavor quite as distasteful and it actually started to grow on me, but I won't order it again any time soon. (I would take the time to describe the experience with more detail, but doesn't "fermented shrimp paste" say it all, really?) My mango shrimp was a bit more enticing, with fresh slices of juicy mango, finger sized tender shrimp, and a sauce that tasted suspiciously like your everyday sweet and sour. (Again, I would take the time to describe the experience with more detail, but doesn't "everyday sweet and sour" say it all, really?)

After picking at one dish and devouring the other, we had plenty of time to reflect on a meal that felt both death-defying and disappointingly normal. Our overall experience was "just OK," but we agreed that there is a certain allure to a place with a menu the length of Moby Dick and an infinite combination of flavors of foods, both familiar and exotic. A restaurant featuring that many options is understandably hit or miss, so while neither of us considered our respective choices to be a "hit," we just might be back one day to take another swing.

Kramarczuk's? Kramar-yuk's.

Let's be clear about one thing: I do not need good food to survive. I have been known to eat tasty dishes like "old tortilla smeared with jam" or "Twizzlers and beer" for dinner. So while I enjoy a good Beef Wellington as much as the next girl, my standards can sometimes be fairly low. That said, I may have met my match with Kramarczuk's Eastern European Deli.

This legendary, informal eatery is tucked just northeast of downtown and 1 block from Nye's. A local socialite recently named it her favorite lunch venue in the Twin Cities. The place is hopping on Saturday afternoons, forcing patrons to spill over into the parking ramp around the corner. The old school, blinking street sign has clearly stood the test of time and makes you want to taste what makes Minneapolites so devoted.

We arrived at Kramarczuk's just past 7PM, eager to join the fan club. The restaurant doesn't close until 8, but the place was fairly empty and staff behind the counter had started to close up for the night. This should have been our first clue but... well... you know what they say about hindsight. One dining companion ordered the Polish Sausage and Kraut, which sounded appetizing until I saw the woman behind the counter hand her a huge, heaping bowl of gray sauerkraut. Upon further inspection we noticed that it was actually peppered with small hunks of meat, but the presentation was, uh, "questionable". After eyeballing the Polish with some trepidation, the rest of us ordered the Cossack sandwich. The woman behind the counter topped two Ukrainian sausages with kraut and cheese, chucked them in the microwave, and voila. Dinner.

Discouraged yet eager to push our ethnic boundaries, we then ordered a plate of Varenyky. Think large, exceptionally doughy peirogies stuffed with meat, kraut, or cheese and potato. One would think that my biggest gripe here would be the cool, congealed texture of a starchy dish that had clearly been sitting out for hours. But let me put it this way... when one of my dining companions took a bite from the meat variety, her face pinched into a disgusted grimace and the food slipped right back out of her mouth (no chewing involved). Not to be rude, but my cat enjoys eating some pretty horrendous canned meat products and I suspect that even he would have thought twice when faced with that Varenyky.

The funny thing is, 24 hours later I'm no longer focused on the old food or the lonely atmosphere. I'm more focused on my own disappointment; I really wanted to love this place. I'm reminded of the Wizard of Oz, when the wizard steps out from behind his curtain and reveals himself as a just short old guy. It turns out that Kramaczuk's isn't a fabulous ethnic find in the heart of our city. It's not a place to try new flavors and textures, nor a place to work your way down a tantalizing menu, nor a place to showcase our city's enriching diversity. It's just a deli with a loyal lunch crowd and some fairly nasty meat.

Blackbird Cafe makes my mouth sing

I've driven by the small black awning for years, always wondering what was inside. And after a dreary, rainy, January day, when winter sports are out of the question and there's nothing to do but hunker down, we were ready for a little adventure. Dawning galoshes and umbrellas, we headed southwest to 50th and Bryant.

Minneapolis is sprinkled with neighborhood dining gems, but this tiny restaurant may be the crown jewel. We arrived a bit after 7 and sent the 20 minute wait perusing Shoppe Local, a nearby store featuring locally made gifts and nick-nacks. (Both Shoppe Local and Patina stay open until 9 on Saturday nights, so even patrons with longer waits will find plenty of retail distraction). When our table was ready we strolled back, parted the tapestry that separates the entry from the dining area, and let the surprises begin.

Space is really at a premium at Blackbird, but the restaurant manages to be more cozy that claustrophobic. The decor is eclectic: small racks of antlers dot the walls, branches with Japanese hanging lanterns spring from a corner of the ceiling, and the warm lights are kept dim for extra romance. Wanting to linger, we ordered a bottle of syrah, a plate of olives, and took it all in.

Blackbird's menu is small but mighty, changing at the beginning of each new month. I struggled to choose between the London Broil (a flank steak sliced over house made truffle gnocchi); gnocchi with lobster cream and hazelnuts, or the salmon. I ultimately opted for the salmon, which was served over a bed of sushi rice, drizzled with blood orange yuzu glaze, and came paired with a tasty shrimp ceviche sidekick. It was a dish truly worth of royalty. The tender, flaky fish was enhanced by the tart, subtly smoky bite of the glaze. Veggies in the tangy ceviche had just the right crunch, and the soft, sticky sushi rice was the perfect neutral base for bringing the whole act together.

My dining companion, after much conversation with our server, ordered trout over a warm pork belly potato salad. I confess that the sound of this dish didn't initially perk my taste buds, but the dish was truly a delight. The potato salad, which was welcomingly devoid of mayonnaise, was more like potato hash. Spuds and pork belly were diced and spiced, the perfect accompaniment to the smoky grilled fish. The pork belly was flavorful, not at all like the tripe I was expecting. It was an adventurous choice and a true surprise.

While we usually stay away from desserts, our dinner was such a knockout that we couldn't resist. Although tables nearby were ordering a tempting tower of coconut cream pie, we opted for the "trio," a sample platter of jasmine tea creme brulee, mocha cake, and carrot cake. Like everything else we had at Blackbird, these were favorites with a twist. The creme brulee was perfectly crusted, with a floral tone to the custard that really cleansed my palate. The mocha cake featured something that so many cakes lack... actual flavor! Rather than merely tasting sweet, this tasted of rich cocoa and dark coffee. And the carrot cake, two relatively thin cookie-like layers sandwiching frosting based on goat cheese rather than cream cheese, was an unusual take on the classic.

An unassuming restaurant next door to the much lauded Heidi's, Blackbird is taking the neighborhood eatery concept to new heights. They can take risks in their menu because they understand balance: the balance of flavors and textures, the balance of familiar choices with unusual twists, and the balance of quirkiness with comfort. Blackbird has moved to the front of the pecking order, and we'll definitely be back.

Anchor Fish & Chips Blows a Lot of Steam

Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, which may be why getting a table at Anchor Fish & Chips has become a bit of an obsession for us. While the waiting area is tiny (one bench for 4 and standing room for about 5 more), determined guests willingly cram into the vestibule for 30, 60, or 90 minute waits. Good restaurants down the street are now full of patrons who "tried to eat at Anchor but the wait was too long." This place is buzzing and we had to know why.

After three tries, we finally found a trick to getting a quick table at this hipster haven: arrive early on a Sunday night. After only 20 minutes we scored a tall table by the front window, which featured a lovely view of people shifting from one foot to another waiting for their name to be called. The menu was surprisingly varied, offering hearty British staples such as shepherd's pie, cornish pasties, and curried fries, but at Anchor you have to order the fish and chips. Ordering anything else at this restaurant would be like buying a sweatsuit from Nordstrom.

Our food arrived quickly, leaving not much time to sip on Harps and smirk at the crowds starting to turn away from excessive wait times. At first the food presented well - foot long whitefish wrapped in fluffy, golden crust, piles of thick cut fries dusted with sea salt, and an extra side of tangy tartar. But after a few bites I'd had enough. I wanted to attack my plate with blotting papers. I wanted to wring the oiliness out of the fish and start all over. I felt puffy and heavy and my mouth was coated in grease. I needed a salad. And a day of fasting. Yet the crowds kept coming...

St. Martin's Table: Lunch for a Purpose

I've spent each day this week in an MHA seminar at the University of Minnesota's Carlson School of Management. While the week has been punctuated by moments of clarity, my brain has mostly been swirling in a pea soup of business jargon and Power Pointing. Create a culture of continuous innovation. Integrate into a Health System. Know your "hedgehog" concept. After 4 days of seminar and 3 days of eat-on-the go lunches of Chipotle and Noodles, a colleague referred me across the street to St. Martin's table.


St. Martin's is a welcome, if abrupt, change from business jargon and type-A personalities. It has survived the decades for a reason - they know why they're there and what they do it very, very well. They don't serve the hottest Asian -fusion fare. They don't swarm with busy wait-staff. They do donate all tips and a portion of proceeds to a different hunger-related non-profit each month. St Martin's is simply a different kind of restaurant - it's food with a purpose; lunch for a reason.

The decor is simple: patrons descend into a basement and find a seat amid a hodge-podge of wooden tables and chairs. While novice patrons like me may receive a laminated, one-page menu, the 5 menu items are written on a large chalkboard and most patrons seemed to know which combo of the 5 sandwich, salad, and soup offerings struck their fancy.

Menu items are simple but wholesome, featuring fresh salads, sandwich spreads, and savory soups. My waitress had a calm, inviting, easy-going manner, encouraging me to relax, do some reading, and have some more hot water for tea. My lunch, a small Greek Salad, was simple and satisfying with generous portions of creamy, tangy feta, a lemony herbed dessing, a smattering of briny kalamatas, and perfectly ripe bits of tomato. (Note that finding a ripe tomato in Minnesota in January is a feat on par with programming a VCR from 1988, but St. Martin's still delivered.)

While my salad was exactly what I had hoped for, the real treat was the thick slice of home made, whole wheat bread tucked to the side of the plate. Crunch and crusty on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside, slightly sweet and topped with a warm smear of butter... simply delightful.

So next time you're in Cedar-Riverside looking for a quiet place to find peace and do something good for the world, stop by St. Martin's table. And take your time - places this good shouldn't be rushed.