Happened upon this place on my way to a quarantine facility. I figured I may as well indulge in one last hearty meal before surrendering myself to the vestiges of human civilization.
So here I am, seated in this pseudo-chic, simulacrum of an "elevated dining" restaurant. Thus far, nothing out of the ordinary. To my left, a haughty Minnetonkan couple salivating over the above-market prices. To my right, two Nordic Instagram-frenzied princesses. The rest of the room is much of the same ilk, a perfect match to the cream-toned walls.
Marcus, my gregarious bearded server, introduces himself and proceeds to cover all the bases. It goes without saying--he lets his beard do most of the talking. Pining for warm tropical flavors, I naturally start by ordering a Singapore Sling. Closing my eyes, I prepare to be slung into the revitalizing forests of the sweet and balmy lands of the East. I take my first sip, only to find myself overshot by 180 degrees back into the wrath of Minnesotan winters. The liquor-to-mixer ratio was completely out of wack, analogous to the bitter taste of the subzero temperatures.
Marcus returns hungry for feedback. "Yes, everything is great thank you." No one wants to get involved in these bouts with their server. Now, I await my "introduction". Belgian endives quickly creep their way onto my table. I inspect the plate to realize that it's going to take some sleuthing to find any hint of duck prosciutto. Finally, I bust two unassuming pieces fornicating under a bed of endives. I struggle to pull apart the passionate lovers, but in the end I think they understood what's what. I impaled the beau along with an endive onto my fork and let them rest easy in the enzymatic chambers of my mouth. Let me tell you, my bouche was certainly not amused! The prosciutto was stiff, the endives bitter, and the supposed zest of quince lost somewhere in the middle of a Venn diagram that never intersected. Whatever, introductions are always awkward anyway, so I'll let this one slide.
Now it's time to get serious. Marcus ushers out the bison tartare and all 100 occupants go silent for a millisecond as the plate touches down on the wooden table. This, I would say, was the most hyperbolic moment of the evening.
The presentation was lacking in finesse. The socca came in two jagged slabs and the tartar appeared to be bashfully hidden under a clumsy pile of watermelon radish and cilantro. Just imagine a sumo wrestler cannon balling through the wooden floors of a ballet studio whilst holding an herb garden starter kit, and this is what you will get. The bison was fresh and grassy until it wasn't. Suddenly, my tastebuds were robbed at gunpoint by a wave of harissa aioli. Needless to say, I couldn't make it past two bites. This may not be the best start to a dinner, but I'm not willing to dash just yet.
Alright, now I'm ready for the Casoncelli. I knew this was going to be a good choice as I give an affirmative nod to Marcus upon ordering. He arrives shortly with the dish, cheeks rosy with jubilation. This dish was by far the best as far as presentation is concerned, but looks can be deceiving. I was expecting to be taken into Poseidon's royal underwater esplanade with the king crab, but it became very clear to me that I wasn't going anywhere. Yes, the ricotta was soft, comforting even, but boy did the cheese stand alone. Swiss chard was nowhere to be found, but I did manage to summon it with my imagination. As for the preserved lemon, well, what can even be said about that?
Despite the uncouth progression of the dinner, Marcus remained steadfast and deliberate in serving the dishes. He now presents the piece de resistance: the bison striploin. I was absolutely smitten by the pavé potatoes: crisp, buttery, and calculated. Now, I cretinously examine the striploin, delighting in its black pepper jus micturate. I take a couple of bites and I can undoubtedly say that it is in fact a steak. Anything beyond that will require deep contemplation and even deeper deception, neither of which I had time for.
All feelings of hope are deserted, but now it's time for dessert! Lemon-almond milk cake was the poison of choice, and I guess one could say it was palate cleansing. I was anticipating a moist cake base with lush citrus flavors, but the only thing lush about it was that it tasted like soap! The toasted marshmallow ice cream...now that, I could have taken another scoop of.
It's a funny thing about farm to table these days. You know what to expect the majority of the time--understated dishes ignited with hints of verdant vegetation. There's always an endives plate, oysters
of unknown ubiquitous origins, and gilded accoutrements that look too good to eat but not good enough to savor. Often, prices determine expectations; but as far as I'm concerned, cooking truly is a dying art at Spoon and Stable. read more