I worship at the table of Isaac Becker. Named 2011 Best Chef: Midwest by the James Beard Foundation, Becker heads up a pair of prestigious kitchens (112 Eatery and Bar La Grassa) and cranks out two of my favorite dishes in Minneapolis—or anywhere else, for that matter.
Tutored by D’Amico guru Jay Sparks, Becker’s food is exquisite and imaginative, but so unpretentious you’d feel at home eating it in your pajamas. Which is exactly what I want to do. Isaac Becker, please come to my house, man the breakfast bar every morning, and whip up fresh pasta every night.
Hey, a girl can dream.
Like his food, Becker’s restaurants have a hip and easy vibe. 112’s exposed brick walls and wood floors stretch to the back of the narrow dining room, making it feel like an intimate neighborhood haunt. While BLG is all about open spaces, with energy ping-ponging around the kitchen, pasta bar, and bar bar like popcorn on a hot stove.
In the last week, I’ve been lucky enough to visit both.
* 112 EATERY *
Tonight, I had meetings downtown, with a one-hour window for dinner. Getting reservations at 112 can be tough, but since I was a table for one and needed to eat early, they agreed to sneak me in.
Usually I’d leisurely peruse the menu and quiz the server about the specials, but I didn’t have time to dawdle. No matter. I knew exactly what I wanted anyway: the tagliatelle with foie gras meatballs.
I know, I know. The stringozzi with lamb sugo is divine and the bacon, egg & harissa sandwich is to die for. In fact, it’s so mouth-wateringly tempting, I snapped a photo of it for my new blog:
Bacon rarely takes a back seat in my world. But tonight, I was on a mission for spaghetti and meatballs. The fancy kind.
Becker starts by sautéing meatballs in chicken stock and butter, creating a sauce of sorts. Then everything is ladled over homemade ribbons of pasta and covered in a mountain of Parmigiano-Reggiano, a la On Top of Old Smoky.
I swirled a noodle around my fork and fished a meatball out of the sea of cheese. The tagliatelle was cooked to a perfect al dente, and the parm provided a hearty nuttiness. But the meatballs were the pièce de résistance: velvety smooth, moist, and meaty. No chewing required because they simply melt in your mouth. Undeniable, certifiable, food fantasticness.
When a meal is this ridiculously good, I don’t mind eating alone. But usually, it’s more fun to dine with friends—especially when you’re going to a raucous place like Bar La Grassa.
* BAR LA GRASSA *
Last Wednesday, I was on tap to have dinner with my friend Theresa. We’ve known each other since our college days at Gustavus, but had lost touch for more than a decade. Through the wonders of social media, we reconnected a year ago and quickly discovered we’re both obsessed with food. Now, we go out every few months and eat ourselves silly.
Since she’s in St. Paul and I’m in Minneapolis, we bounce back and forth across the river. In July, we hit up Ngon in Frogtown, so we focused on Minnie this time around. (Incidentally, the pho at Ngon is pho-nomenal—they perform Jedi mind tricks on beef bones and oxtails to create a deep and sensuous broth that’s spiked with herbs and spices and I-have-no-idea-what-else-but-it-tastes-so-good-I-don’t-even-care).
Usually, we go to restaurants we haven’t eaten at before. But having never tasted the sweet honey that is Bar La Grassa, Theresa knew she was committing a culinary crime. It was the obvious choice, and I wasn’t about to argue.
At BLG, small plates rule the day. We ordered a smattering of items, including a beet salad whose vibrant orange and deep magenta hues jumped off the plate, and gloriously wide “silk handkerchief” noodles that glistened with a fresh basil pesto.
But for me, the star was—and always will be—the soft eggs and lobster bruschetta.
The term “soft eggs” isn’t vanity. They’re called that for a reason. Scrambled eggs conjure up images of a sous chef with a whisk and a vendetta against some helpless little yolks that have huddled together for safety. But soft eggs have been handled with care. They’ve been cooked low and slow, lovingly coerced around a pan until they’re creamy and tender.
The light and luscious eggs are combined with chewy chunks of lobster, and then finished off with a splash of truffle oil. The flavors meld together into one sinfully rich bite, punctuated by a crunchy crostini. It’s pure decadence. Squared. And I want to swim in a vat of it until my fingers turn pruney.
I always relish amazing food, but that night I was even more appreciative, because of the conversation that went with it.
Theresa had just returned from a few weeks in Malawi. As she described scenes of poverty and squalor, I remembered my own visit to Africa the year before. Homes made of sticks and mud. A starving child waiting for leftover scraps. Families aimlessly wandering rust-colored roads.
But despite the dire conditions, the people were happy and hopeful. As Theresa and her tour group made their way from village to village, people greeted them with songs, stories, and laughter. Although they lacked a great deal, they were thankful for what they did have, and felt blessed to be surrounded by family and friends.
On an evening with such luxurious food, it was humbling perspective. It’s easy to get caught in the daily chaos, and think more about what we don’t have than what we do. But in the end, what matters are the people we spend our time with, not the time we spend worrying about everything else. I forget that sometimes, so it’s a good reminder. Nothing goes better with a great meal than a heaping portion of gratitude.
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Posted by Kara Buckner. No Comments
