The latest from Twitter: @Peace_Coffee plays cupid with “Caffeinate Your Cutie,” @triplerockmpls is serving @surlybrewing Mild at $3.50 a pint, @bittercube celebrates the long-anticipated opening of Eat Street Social, and @Masu_NE will feature a suggestive little Valentine’s Day roll through Tuesday.
James Norton / Heavy Table
Nineteen miles over the border into Wisconsin on Hwy 94, mere yards from the exit marked “Baldwin,” there is a Mobil station.
If you stop at this Mobil station and fill up, you may glance over and notice a sign in the window that is unlike any other sign on any other gas station (Mobil or not) between St. Paul and Chicago.
It reads: “WE SERVE AMERICAN AND EAST INDIAN FOOD IN RESTAURANT — CURRY TANDOORI SHAKES LASSI VEG SPECIALTY CHAI.”
Six months ago I noted this with interest. There is no commercial reason to be serving Indian food off the side of Highway 90 / 94, a notorious food desert. Locals won’t clamor for it. Passers-through are close enough to or from Minneapolis-St. Paul that they won’t pull over and eat a sit-down meal. The only real explanation for the sign is this: Somebody is so bloody determined to serve Indian food that they’re doing it, commercial imperatives be damned. The sign smacked of hopeless, pointless, beautiful love.
I promptly forgot that the sign and the Mobil station existed. But this week, driving back from Madison and half-mad with both curiosity and hunger, I pulled over to check it out. The assumption was that whatever quixotic impulse had led to its construction had burned out. But, no. The sign was still there.
The Mobil station’s restaurant is called Ray’s Southside, and it’s a tired-looking place. Swinging wooden shutters separate the counter from the kitchen; one shutter dangles half off of its hinges, and swings at a 45 degree angle. On a Tuesday afternoon, multiple groups of old men in overalls were eating chicken wing “wing dings” and hamburgers. One of the waitresses was aware that the Super Bowl was being played the next weekend, but couldn’t think of who was in it; the old man at the counter only knew that the Packers weren’t, so he didn’t much care.
But there on the specials board — right below “wing dings” — was the Indian special of the day, “Chicken Shahi Korma,” for $6.99.
I ordered it, and was asked if I’d like my dish mild, medium, or hot. I blurted out “mild” without thinking, and then immediately regretted my answer. Ordering a “mild” anything in a bad-to-mediocre Indian restaurant is the kiss of death, and will result in a castrated dish, devoid of flavor.
So when I put the first bite to my lips, I was braced for blast of bland. But no; the food had depth of spice, it had balance, and it even had a mild but pleasant kick of heat at the back of each bite. The dish was rich without being caked with an artless, cream-based sauce — much of the pleasure from the plate came from the full-flavored paneer, the raisins, the almonds, and the multidimensional sauce that brought all the various elements together. And when the dish hit my table, it was not barely warm, congealed from hanging out under a heat lamp, but delightfully piping hot.
Korma is often creamier and more almond-driven — this version had a tomato base, and consequently more acid than you might expect. Still: legitimately delicious. And serendipitous. (Hunger is the best sauce; serendipity is the second best best sauce, and they layer beautifully.)
I talked to my waitress about the dish and my experience. The dish, she said, was a “team effort,” put together by everyone in the kitchen. The Indian food isn’t typically available on weekends. It has been served at Ray’s Southside “for some time now.”
Clearly getting nowhere, I settled my check and tried the East Indian woman working the counter at the gas station half of the establishment. She was pleased but slightly bemused to hear that I enjoyed the food. She said that she had no idea if it was a family recipe, or, even, what exactly it was doing there. “My husband makes it,” she said, disclaiming responsibility with what may have been a faintly detectable rolling of eyes.
Next time I’ll talk my way into the kitchen and shake the hand of the chef. But he probably won’t need to hear my words, as he is clearly cooking for himself.
Ray’s Southside
American and East Indian Food in Baldwin, WI
501 US Highway 63
Baldwin, WI 54002
715.684.4729
VEGETARIAN / VEGAN: Yes / Possibly
ENTREE RANGE: $5-10
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
We’ve already written a hymn of praise to the scratch-made Latin food being served up at Sonora Grill in the Midtown Global Market, so here’s a much shorter piece — a limerick or ditty of praise — to the restaurant’s chilaquiles ($6.50).
This classic Mexican hodgepodge of ingredients starts with tortilla chips soaked in a salsa or mole, and from there it’s up to the chef to improvise and improve. Many chilaquiles feature chips that are soaked to the point of becoming soggy but the chips in the Sonora Grill version stayed crispy and extremely light, even amid the huevos rojos (eggs and salsa) and scattering of queso fresco. That crispiness gives the Sonora Grill chilaquiles a textural contrast that serves them well. Depth of spice and overall seasoning is balanced, and the upshot is damned tasty way to start the day, particularly in colder weather when something fortifying fits the bill.
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
For a more conventional start to the day, there’s always the egg-stuffed breakfast burrito ($6.95, or $7.95 with the recommended addition of chorizo.) Fresh and satisfying, the Sonora burrito defies the sometimes greasy and leaden tendency of the dish in favor of a cleaner, simpler look. The only drawback is that the bed of tasty, spicy fried potatoes that the dish arrives on tastes even better inside of the burrito… so get ready to do a bit of improvised burrito adjustment.
Sonora Grill
Latin American restaurant in Midtown Global Market
920 E Lake St, Minneapolis, MN 55407
612.871.1900
OWNERS / CHEF: Alejandro Castillon and Conrado Paredes / Alejandro Castillon
HOURS:
Mon-Sat 10am-8pm
Sun 11am-6pm
RESERVATIONS / RECOMMENDED?: No / No
VEGETARIAN / VEGAN: Yes / No
ENTREE RANGE: $7.50-$8.50
Katie Cannon / Heavy Table
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
Come Yuletide, it is our duty to produce cookies, be they gingerbread, spritz, or rugelach. The main thing is that they’re homemade; bonus points if they’re delicious and / or they’ve got a good origin story.
Should you find yourself unwilling or unable to produce the numbers of cookies required by social convention, there are any number of reputable bakeries or grocery stores ready to step in for you. Unfortunately, their products are largely loveless, and, pardon the expression, cookie cutter — one commercial bakery’s product is interchangeable with another’s, and few if any would fool anyone into thinking they were homemade.
Thus the appeal of the cookies at the Black Forest Inn. Though baked commercially, they have a restrained and sophisticated European flavor sensibility and believably natural appearance that give the appearance of being homemade, albeit by a baker who knows his or her business.
The Black Forest Inn sent us a Mixed Dozen Plus ($15) of their cookies for review, which includes each of eight sorts of Christmas cookies plus one piece of decorative marzipan.
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
WOULD NOT EAT AGAIN
Marzipan: There are few Play-Doh-like sculpting mediums as visually charming as marzipan, which can be used to create small, cartoonishly colored reproductions of simple, geometric fruits. Someday, someone will invent edible marzipan. Until then, leave it unmolested on the plate.
While the Black Forest version has much less of the sawdust flavor that generally renders marzipan so unpleasant, it’s so richly flavored and dense that one or two bites is enough to send the eater reeling off in search of a glass of water.
GREAT WITH TEA
Russian Tea Cakes and Pfeffernuss: These dour little lumps are dry and crispy, the tea cakes with a nutty, powdered sugary sweetness, and the pfeffernuss with a bit of peppery bite. Neither is brilliant straight up, but taken with a tea or coffee, they shine — they’re a perfect complement to a hot beverage, which renders them more tender and flavorful.
Black and White Spritz: It’s hard to get over how little this thing resembles the spritz of my childhood (which I still turn out by the dozens each Christmas season.) It’s much larger, its appearance strangely apes the otherwise completely dissimilar black and white cookies of New York City, and it lacks the sprinkles and other toppings that made my childhood spritz what they were. Still: They’re buttery, and the chocolate half packs a nice, understated cocoa kick. A fine match for a cup of tea. Continue reading German Holiday Cookies at the Black Forest Inn »
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
When ‘nduja (en-DOO-ya) was first explained to us about a month ago, it was described as “spreadable pepperoni.” (We missed The New York Times-spurred mini-craze for the stuff in 2009; they summed up the soft, spicy sausage as “red Nutella.”) Although ‘nduja is of Calabrian origin, the name is derived from the French andouille sausage. Its slow-to-build but assertive kick of heat comes from roasted hot peppers.
If you’re a true lover of food, the proposition is exciting: all that spicy sausage kick, in a paste that can be spread on bread or used to build deep, powerful pasta sauces. “Spread it on a toasted bagel with some cream cheese — legit,” writes Underground Food Collective partner Garin Fons, suggesting another use. The Madison-based UFC made the ‘nduja we sampled recently, and they seem to have their heads around other creative ways to use the stuff: “Also, pull off a piece and throw it in the base of a frying pan; scrambled eggs never tasted better,” Fons adds. “Similarly, omelets need filling and we’re experimenting with ‘nduja-stuffed croissants.”
Locally, ‘nduja pops up at Bar La Grassa, where it’s served as an ‘Nduja Egg Raviolo. Our UFC package of spreadable sausage cost about $5 for three ounces — the group was selling product at the Wisconsin Cheese Originals show and sampling ‘nduja for guests.
“We started making ‘nduja a little over a year ago after we began producing test batches of items for our nascent meat business, Underground Meats,” writes Fons. “We were aware of a few people around the country making the product and also recalled the NYT article, but inspiration largely came from the need to produce a product from what would have normally gone to waste.”
“Our ‘nduja is a 30:30:30 mix of spices, pork, and pork fat,” says Fons. “The extra 10 percent is reserved for the salts, additional spices, wine, oils, and curing agents. We emulsify it, stuff it, place it in the greening room or sometimes smoke it using local hardwoods, and then hang it in the cure room for a minimum of 5 weeks.”
‘Nduja was smart choice for a UFC sample at the Originals show — it grabbed our attention. Its creamy texture is unexpected for a sausage product, and its taste — funky, spicy, almost wine-y — is complex and wonderful when paired with a simple baguette. UFC, which has thrown itself into charcuterie since a fire consumed its restaurant, knows their meat.
If you’re looking for ‘nduja, your best bet at the moment is to hit Bar La Grassa or to reach out to the UFC next time you’re in Madison. They hope to offer it for retail on their site, and it should stick around for a while: Fons notes, “when we first started making it we thought it would be a limited-run item. Currently, it’s one of our most popular products.”
Katie Cannon / Heavy Table
Pig & Fiddle’s Chocolate-Stout Pudding ($5) came to us in a highball glass, minimalist and unassuming yet undeniably alluring. It had a creamy head atop a chocolate body, and — we moved closer — a caramel-coffee nose. But it wasn’t a dark and stormy ale that had our undivided attention. For starters, it came with a spoon.
Katie Cannon / Heavy Table
When head chef Stephanie Kochlin and pastry chef Katie Elsing developed the opening dessert menu for Pig & Fiddle — located at 3808 W 50th St., Minneapolis — they held the restaurant’s promise of “European country fare” as a guide. Custard was a shoo-in, and since they were using a lot of beer in their cooking, it seemed only natural to toss some into the pudding. However, “toss some in” is probably misleading. The pudding’s current brew is Summit Oatmeal Stout, and it’s hardly treated as an afterthought. To understand its prominence, consider Elsing’s artifice: Take all milk and cream from a traditional pudding recipe and replace it with stout; then add some more stout, and a bit more after that (really). Cocoa powder is blended into the stout, which Elsing heats and thickens with eggs and brown sugar. She strains the mixture before folding in 60% cacao chocolate. The crème anglaise is sweetened with brown sugar to give the custard its toasted tan head.
The process is simple enough, though it certainly doesn’t taste it. Under a deep pool of brown sugar crème anglaise, the corresponding flavors of the two main ingredients meld seamlessly, to the point where you can’t distinguish one from the other. The stout and dark chocolate exert equal force in the bittersweet composite, deferring only slightly to the tempering sweetness of the crème anglaise. The thick and satiny mouthfeel is interrupted only by sporadic bits of unmelted chocolate — a reassuring inconsistency.
Chef Kochlin admits that it took some time for her to warm to a presentation she deemed “too cutesy.” But really, is there a more fitting way to package a stout-based pudding? It’s probably no matter, because once you dip into the dark and enigmatic mass, “cutesy” will be the last thing on your mind.
Katie Cannon / Heavy Table
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
The moment the clock runs out on Thanksgiving, it starts ticking for Christmas, which means one central thing: Eggnog is back in play.
A once-a-year indulgence famous for sitting in one’s stomach like a liquid brick, a little eggnog tends to go a long way. And yet: We still crave it, we still buy it, we still consume coffee products vaguely based on its flavor profile.
Eggnog made by Wisconsin-based Organic Valley (which generally retails for $4.99 a quart) is a nice variation on the theme. It’s pale, rather than yellow in color, and it’s less rich and less sweet than the usual stuff. It’s dairy-forward, not egg-forward, and the overall sugar content is moderate compared to the standard-issue nog. It still packs a creamy punch calorically (180 calories for a half-cup serving), but compare that to the conventional stuff (as many as 220 calories for the same amount) — it’s not diet, but it’s not as bad as they come, either. And while Organic Valley doesn’t go down as clean as a glass of milk, it doesn’t coat the interior of your mouth, either, unlike many of its colleagues.
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
From a rum mixing perspective, Organic Valley gives you a lighter, punchier drink than you may be used to — the flavor of the rum comes through more clearly than with the standard nog, so buy good booze (Myers’s Dark comes to mind).
So: A lighter eggnog. Blasphemy? A slap in the face of tradition? Perhaps, perhaps. But it’s also nice to be able to enjoy a more elegant, slightly fresher-tasting twist on a Christmas staple.
Becca Dilley / Heavy Table
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