Rye, newly opened in the former Auriga space (North of the intersection of Hennepin Ave. and Franklin Ave.), has staked its claim as the first delicatessen in Minneapolis to declare itself Jewish. With veteran chef Tobie Nidetz and restaurateur David Weinstein at the helm, Rye specializes in contemporary, high quality, locally sourced food made from scratch.
What sets Rye apart from its competitors like Mort's and Cecil's is that Rye boasts a full bar. You might wonder if a neighborhood deli that also dishes up French toast and porridge can mesh with the Twin Cities drinking crowd; one step inside Rye's welcoming yet sharply designed space, however and you'll wonder why restaurants don't operate this way more often.
The flow of the venue and the wrap-around room ensure that families have ample space, sunlight and a wall-sized chalkboard for their little ones up front. Separated by the counter and deli case, Rye's bar has a distinct vibe from the dining area, so those wanting to imbibe can enjoy flat-screen TVs, tall tables and adults-only conversation near the back of the venue. There's also a third seating area with smaller tables, banquettes, quirky artwork and soft lamplight that makes an ideal escape for friends catching up over coffee or independent eaters working through lunch with a laptop.
With breakfast, lunch, dinner and kids' menus, Rye offers endless options for every palate. Traditional Jewish noshes like cabbage borscht, cheese blintzes, matzo balls, bagels and lox make an appearance, of course, but so do modern twists like grass fed burgers on toasted bialy, challah grilled cheese and the Vera Schwartz sandwich (chopped liver, red onion, chopped egg on rye).
You really can't go wrong at Rye as long as you include bread in your meal. Baked in-house, the bagels are love at first bite. The sandwich breads are robust and the bialys deliciously dense. The tabouleh packs a wallop of parsley, mint and onion; a few forkfuls are all you'll need to feel satisfied. Likewise, the corned beef sandwich we sampled packed enough meat for two meals and that's without all the fixings! For those with stealthier stomachs, we dare you to polish off a plate of Poutine (crispy fries, cheese curds and gravy with optional smoked meat) or the Deli Debris (bagel chips, smoked meat, cheese, hot and sweet peppers).
Prices are moderate and service was attentive. As far as first impressions go, Rye is as stunning for the eyes as it is for the tongue. The owners' vision of a family friendly deli that doubles as a hip hang-out has certainly come to fruition. Here's hoping Rye becomes a staple on the Uptown eatery scene.
FEAST YOUR EYES ON: MOJO MONKEY DONUTS
Nestled in the middle of several old-fashioned store fronts on West 7th Street in St. Paul, you’ll find your mojo. Mojo Monkey Donuts, that is. I stopped in for a nibble at this brand new bakery, where owner Lisa Clark told me she waited for a year to find the perfect space for her delicious vision. “This neighborhood was the right fit for us,” she said.
The interior space encourages lingering. With baby blue walls, exposed brick, big windows and plenty of small round tables to nosh at, Mojo Monkey feels like a bona fide neighborhood bakery with a hip twist.
In addition to a gourmet coffee bar, the bakery had over a dozen different varieties of fragrant doughnuts on display. I indulged in the trademark Maple Bacon Long John, the popable Chai Doughnut Holes, a decadent Red Velvet, a moist Chocolate Glazed Old Fashioned sprinkled with crushed Oreos and a sophisticated Mocha Mousse Filled Doughnut.
In brief, these pastries are ridiculously delicious; not too sweet but perfectly pillowy. Our taste buds were totally blissed out. A return trip will be mandatory to try the Crullers, Cinnamon Twists, Cranberry Mousse Filled Doughnut or an Old Fashioned topped with Toasted Coconut or Peanuts.
“Come back Saturday and Sunday for beignets!” Lisa insisted. Mojo Monkey will be serving up the fried delights hot and fresh on weekends…as long as supplies last. “We’ll try to make it until noon this week,” Lisa said with a laugh.
Even if an early weekend pit-stop won’t fit in your schedule, the bakery is open Tues. through Fri. from 5:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. and Sat. and Sun. from 6:30 a.m. to 3 p.m.
My advice—come hungry and leave your willpower at home. These doughnuts are highly addictive! If only these pictures were scratch n’ sniff…
PIZZERIA LOLA
"We could have made this at home," I said to my dinner companion as I surveyed what $50 got us at Pizzeria Lola...meaning very little bang for a lotta bucks.
"No way," he replied. "I wouldn't let you do pizza again unless you made the dough at your place and brought it over."
"Did I make that much of a mess?" I asked, trying to recall the Sunday several weeks ago when we made Stick-To-Your-Ribs pizza.
He nodded like a flour tsunami had ravaged his kitchen and I had somehow gone amnesiac on him.
"Hmm," I said. "I don't remember it being that bad. But it obviously got cleaned up, right?"
"Because I was the one who cleaned it all up," he said.
I didn't remember that part about the pizza-making experience, either. Even if the process was a tad messy, the pie was amazing. Pizzeria Lola? Not so much.
I don't mean to knock South Minneapolis's latest buzzed-about locale, but what you're paying for when you plop down $20+ per person (and that's just the food; we didn't drink anything besides water) is a lot of ambiance and not much else.
Which is fine, if that's what you're in the mood for, which I was. Spoiling me by caving into my craving to try a new venue was definitely a good strategy on my companion's part. I'd heard a local food critic gushing about Pizzeria Lola on The Current. I trusted her judgment because she was the same foodie who recommended the venue for my Insatiable book launch party at Cafe Maude, which was fantastic.
My companion and I arrived at Lola Pizzeria's 5 p.m. opening, knowing that the popular spot would fill up quickly--and did it ever--but people can't possibly be coming for the food, can they? 'Cause it sure didn't knock my socks off. (I still insist Aster Cafe has the best pizza in the Twin Cities.)
Yes, the combinations of toppings are quirky. My companion ordered "La Creme," made with Italian red sauce, shaved parmigiano-reggiano, cream, olive oil, and basil.
My pie was "The Forager," a combo of mushrooms, truffle cheese, and truffle salt. He added bacon to his; I added sausage to mine. Despite what seemed like awesome ingredients on paper, the flavor was, well, "meh."
"Wait," you say. "Your pizza had truffles and it didn't wow you?"
That's exactly right...and the underwhelmingness of it all is precisely why Lola's let me down.
I applaud the owners' tenacity. Quitting your day job to open a hipster hangout is a ballsy decision. Bravo for following your passion. I also loved the large windows through which sunlight flooded the room, betraying that it was, indeed, a still-chilly late March day. The decorations were swap-meet chic, the music piping through the speakers was funky and there was (my favorite part) a retro photo booth in the back of the restaurant.
But...our first table was so wobbly we had to move, there was only one bathroom for each gender, our waitress was overbooked (or inexperienced, I'm not sure) and the pizza was a lot smaller and no more satisfying than what you'd get at Papa Murphy's. When we asked for our leftovers to be "boxed up," the waitress returned with the slices wrapped in foil...and nothing else. I had to unearth a plastic bag from my purse so the scent wouldn't pollute my handbag.
All in all, the experience certainly wasn't worth the price tag.
"We could have had a huge steak dinner for fifty dollars," my companion said. "What are we paying for here anyway? That salad was ten bucks--for a bunch of romaine and a little bit of cheese."
"They have a lot of staff," I said, counting at least seven employees in black t-shirts.
"And yet their service is slow," my companion noted.
"Their ingredients are probably organic and all natural, which is important to some people..."
My companion raised his eyebrows, still waiting for the $50 justification.
"You're right, this wasn't worth it. I'm sorry," I said as he huffily pulled out his Visa (the restaurant doesn't take American Express, another one of the small, but mounting annoyances at Lola's).
"It's not your fault," he said. "You wanted to try something new. You heard it was a good place. It's just frustrating that they got so much hype when the food is nothing special. Places like this give restaurants a bad name."
"I agree," I said. "But look how these people are eating it up."
The tables, plus the bar, were now packed with cake eaters. (Understandable, as the venue is a stone's throw away from Edina.) There were several more customers waiting in the doorway and pizza boxes steadily passing hands every few minutes. They were acting as if they were dining on some rare delicacy, not mediocre Italian grub.
"Wanna open a restaurant?" I asked my companion. "You could fund it and I'd make the food. And you know it'd be way better than this."
He chuckled.
"I guess what you're paying for here is to not have to clean up afterwards," I said.
I think that soothed the pain of the bill, just a little bit.
"And because it's fun!" I added.
"Fun?"
"For silly people like me who like to do stuff like photo booths!"
My companion resisted, but when he saw how excited I was to try out the photo booth (and that the $3 charge had already been charged to our tab), he relented. We've yet to get a picture we both look good in, but the ones that popped out of the machine a couple minutes were really cute. There's one I especially love where he's got this gorgeous, genuine grin on his face. He's leaning in to kiss me but my fist is up in the air like I'm about to smack him. It pretty much sums "us" up.
Before we left, I split the pics from the photo booth between us and left one on the restaurant's wall with all of the other customer's snapshots. (Now that's a great idea. Bravo, Lola.) I can't stop looking at that pic with me mid-sucker-punch because it reminds me how good I've got it. And that is priceless, unlike Lola's pizza.
Published on the Crazy Sexy Delicious blog in March 2011
THE STRIP CLUB
I’d been wanting to hit up St. Paul’s much-buzzed-about steak house since I met its owner, J.D. Fratzke, at a cooking club get-together two years ago. Unfortunately, my bank account was so anorexic that I couldn’t afford to eat his grub. That was until a politician asked out.
“Are you game, big spender?” I asked when I emailed my restaurant pick to Politico.
He was.
Does that sound like I prostituted myself for a meal? I thought so, too. So I did what a proper prostitute does: I wore a dress. With, like, stockings. And high heels that I could barely squeeze my feet into. I figured if Politico was going to pony up the big bucks for my big hunk of beef, the least I could do was provide the eye candy.
No sooner had Politico ushered me to our table (perfectly situated next to the fake fireplace), he complimented me on the dress.
“I haven’t worn this since my Insatiable release party a year ago!” I said. Politico was flattered that I’d pulled the frock out of retirement just for him. (Hey, what can I say? Buy me steak and I will dress like a piece of meat.)
I felt a little overexposed, however—and it wasn’t even my wardrobe’s fault. The Strip Club was way too bright for dinner time.
“Excuse me,” I said, reaching for the lamp behind me and dimming the bulb. “I have a thing about proper lighting.”
Our waiter arrived for the ump-teenth time to see if we were ready to order the main course. I was still waffling.
“Take your time,” the waiter said with a dash of sarcasm. “I’ll be here ‘til next week…”
Politico had been to The Strip Club before and knew what he wanted: New York Strip with bleu cheese, cooked medium.
The waiter turned to me.
“What he said,” I said.
Our steaks soon arrived, tender and red on the inside, swimming in their own bloody juices. The meat was accompanied by piles of thinly-sliced carrots that tasted way more savory than vegetables should.
“These carrots have been bathed in butter,” I said after one slid down my throat.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Not at all. What I mean is: the food tastes so good, it must be bad for me.”
I polished off most of my plate; I really wasn’t in the mood for dessert, but when the waiter arrived, Politico suggested I might want something. After the waiter waxed poetic about a peanut-butter-chocolate layer cake, I knew it'd be impossible to resist. The caloric damage would be tempered if I shared it, right?
“Do you have a sweet tooth?” I asked Politico. He nodded, almost maliciously so. When the waiter returned, I asked for the cake…and Politico ordered his own dessert!
“Are you implying that I might eat all of this by myself?” I asked when a monster wedge of “peanut butter love” was brought to the table.
“Not necessarily," Politico said. "The apple tart just appealed to me more.”
“Bah,” I said. “I could make that at home.”
(I could make the PB chocolate cake at home, too. In fact, when I shared the leftovers the next day with my 7-year-old daughter she said, “I give it an 'A', but if you had made it, I would have given it an A plus!”)
Desserts mostly devoured, the restaurant emptied and the waiter brought the bill. I let Politico pay. I didn’t even offer to leave a tip. (I wiggled my way into tights, people! I earned that free dinner!) Then the waiter informed us that my reputation had picked up a portion of the check.
“The desserts were compliments of the chef,” he said.
Politico and I were both pleasantly surprised at the sweet gesture.
“It's because I blogged about him,” I bragged under my breath.
Free sweets aside, I love the Strip Club. Upscale without being pretentious, this Dayton's Bluff gem is the place for locavore comfort food when the mercury dips. The menu is written in the same innuendo-laden attitude with which this steak hot spot was named. Leave your diet at the door and nab a table near the window to watch the sun set over Dayton’s Bluff or cozy up with your cutie pie near the fireplace. Indulge in butter smothered veggies, thick cuts of steak and moan worthy desserts. Attentive service, signature cocktails and a feast that will have you unbuttoning your pants are all part of the Strip Club experience. Check out the menu and a video of owners J.D. Fratzke and Tim Niver chewing the fat about what’s cooking at their website www.domeats.com. (Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.)
Originally published on the Man Eater blog in November 2010; select excerpt published on Metromix in September 2011
