St. Louis Eats and Drinks With Joe and Ann Pollack

On The Road: Driving and Drinking in France

I haven't really meant to create a series of non-St. Louis entries, but the other day I got something from France in the mail. It's been very difficult for the average person to visit French (and German and Italian and...) wineries. Folks with a close relationship with their wine merchant could sometimes set something up through channels, wholesaler to negociant to winery management, and perhaps a few intermediate steps that I'm not aware of. But now marvelous Burgundy can be investigated, thanks to those smart folks at the BIVB, the trade group of Burgundian wine houses.

Burgundy itself is exciting; take the train to Dijon, rent a car and head south, and occasionally a little west, and find treasures in wine, food and history. It's not just the stunning sight of the cathedral at Vezelay towering above the countryside, or driving through town after town whose name you've seen on bottles of wine.

The food from this traditionally prosperous part of what eventually became a single country - at one time, the Dukes of Burgundy controlled more land than the Kings of France - is remarkable, much more meat-centric than compared to, say, Provence, which was poorer and whose cuisine emerged with far more emphasis on vegetables. I recall from one visit to the biennial Burgundy wine expositions a lunch buffet that offered, among other things, a crock of duck rilettes more than a foot tall and about 10 inches wide.

You may not encounter that crock, but now you can visit Burgundian wineries. The BIVB has created an 80-page book that has maps, a calendar of wine-ish events and, big news, a list of many wineries that have agreed to receive visitors and offer at least one wine for tasting. The charts show what languages are spoken, who's available on-site that presumably might be able to talk with guests, and whether food and even overnight accomodations are available. Yesterday, Relish put up my discussion of this booklet there, and you can connect to that, and its link to the BIVB and instructions to get the booklet or download here.

New York: Dim Sum

Just posted on the St. Louis Magazine blog Relish, this piece is about our favorite Chinatown dim sum spot. If you like St. Louis dim sum but think you keep getting the same choices, this is the spot for you. Huge and busy and open for dim sum 7 days a week, it buzzes with action, both with carts and a buffet line.

Besides, an excursion to Chinatown in New York is always an adventure, whether by bus, taxi or subway.

The Mud House

Antiques, Black Bear Bakery and Mexican food aren't the only things found on Cherokee Street. There's the Mud House, which belies its name in nearly all ways. You can read about it here where I covered it for St. Louis Magazine's Relish.

Noshing in New York

A fast run to New York City, courtesy of one of those short-notice airfares, and a few casual meals plus one more formal one. That was at Danny Meyer's Maialino, located in the Gramercy Park Hotel, where I broke yet another of the Food Critic Rules: I ate out on Mothers Day. Indeed, I ate brunch. It looks as though the details of that will be on the St. Louis Magazine blog Relish, and when it goes up, I'll post a link.

But most of the time, the meals were partly due to where I happened to be walking at the time, whether alone or with a friend, and partly due to vague memories of something I'd wanted to experiment with when I read or heard about it. Both those factored into a mid-afternoon Saturday lunch at one of the locations of Shake Shack, Meyer's chain of burger spots born out of his St. Louis roots. The flat-grilled hamburgers are really not Steak 'n Shake (or Carl's Drive In) thin, but they're cooked to order; the ShackBurger, available as a single or double, sports lettuce, tomato, cheese and ShackSauce. My single was hot, moist, and not overwhelmed with the sauce, whose exact ingredients are the source of intense discussion at several places on the Web. Mayo based, to be sure, but frankly I thought it fit in so well (and was so hungry) I didn't do the wipe-and-lick that I often do. Passed on the crinkle-cut fries, a personal no-thanks of mine, had a glass of Bonny Doon Vin Gris de Cigare, the perfect match on a hot, sunny urban afternoon, and topped it off with a coffee shake, rather than a concrete, which they also do. The frozen custard flavor varies by the day, and each month the weekly rotation changes to offer an alternative to the constancy of vanilla. On my visit it was Mexican chocolate brownie, and quite zippy it was with some pepper as well as cinnamon. I was thrilled with the shake, which propelled me uptown to Kitchen Arts and Letters, the cookbook book store.

Extremely casual, family friendly, more expensive than McDonald's (the ShackBurger was $4.55), and very popular, so you'll be lucky if you don't have to wait longer than the time it takes to cook your food.

Shake Shack

various locations, including beyond New York City

www.shakeshack.com

 

 

 

Poking around in the East Village, I saw Baoguette Cafe. There are several places called Baoguette, sort of like Ray's Pizza came to be, not necessarily related or even formerly related. But the basic banh mi sandwich, the focus of each of the Baoguettes (although they have noodles and pho), was a remarkable $6 sandwich. They grill their sandwich in a light press, put the spicy ingredients on at the wishes of the customer, and thrill the mouth with tender pork, crunchy-spicy pickled cucumber and carrot, and sprigs of cilantro. I'd never had one hot before, but it's like hearing a favorite song in a new arrangement. Also tempting are a fish version and another using a gravy-sauced curry. The other Baoguettes seem mostly to be in areas where they serve (and deliver) business lunches.

 

Baoguette Cafe

37 St. Marks Place, New York

347-892-2614

 

St. Louis doesn't hear much, if anything about Korean fried chicken. I'd been trying to taste some for a couple of years, and finally got the chance. Served primarily as wings and drumsticks, it's double-fried, making it extremely crisp. Most of the outlets in Manhattan are in the Koreatown neighborhood near the Empire State Building, but one of them had branches in several locations, and I just aimed for the nearest, which was on Second Avenue near 51st Street.

Bon Chon is far nicer than anything the Colonel or his friend the sailor man offer in decor. There's a liquor license, a calm decor with table service, and plenty of customers who might have been eating this kind of chicken for decades. The chicken is cooked to order, and can be had with a soy-garlic sauce or a hot sauce. I split my order down the middle, added a pajeon, or onion pancake, and had a cocktail of sparkling wine, a little soju, the korean drink that's rather like a slightly sweet vodka, and a lychee. The pajeon was large, and full of browned onion-y goodness, and could have been a meal in itself. But the chicken made it superfluous. Yes, crisp. Yes, greaseless. I'd expected to prefer the hot wings, whose heat gathered steam slowly and kept the fire down to a point where tastebuds remained alive. But the soy-ginger surprised me with its charm. The garlic had been cooked slowly enough that the minced bits had become sweet, giving a nice contrast to the salty soy sauce. Alongside came cubes of pickled radish, much more approachable than kim chee. The wings are enough to make someone give up the blue cheese dressing and celery sticks and stick with this Seoul food.

Bon Chon

958 2nd Avenue, New York

212-308-8810

Lorenzo's Trattoria

If anyone wants proof St. Louis isn't as stick-in-the-mud as some folks claim, consider Lorenzo's. The moderately upscale restaurant on The Hill does what can only be called Modern Italian. That's in considerable contrast to its neighbors who, except for the Spanish-tabled Modesto, range from Italian delis to black-tie haunts of folks wanting what they've cherished for the past 40 years. Don't let the word "modern" raise blood pressures, though; there's a pasta section on the menu, but there are plenty of beyond-the-usual options there, too.

Fried calamari, yes, but chef-owner Larry Fuze pairs them with strips of zucchini, both lightly battered and quickly fried, then anointed with a saffron-touched vinaigrette that gives a little added zip. Hard for some of us to imagine zucchini being satisfying, but this certainly does the job. A nightly special's lobster ravioli didn't arrive with its promised white wine sauce, but rather a chunky brown sauce tasting of artichoke and tomato with perhaps some marsala thrown in, delicious and complex.

The Bibb lettuce salad, fluffy and tender, sports small dice of salami and what seemed to be mortadella, as well as red onions, crisp, and fresh parmesan croutons. The dressing described as sweet onion reminds us that this is Vidalia season, and onion in salad dressing is an underappreciated addition. But this turns out to be a lightly onion-y dressing that is sweet, and that's what happens when a diner is reluctant to ask. A good dressing, just not what we'd expected.

Yes, pizza, about 10 inches in diameter, a handmade crust that's medium-thick, and toppings that reflect the house's style, like roasted garlic, pepperoni and black olives or grilled chicken and pesto. Ours wore a generous amount of mushrooms, diced prosciutto that crisped up, and some sage, making it particularly hearty. And a good, good crust.

Veal chops are standard on most Italian restaurants around town, and Fuze's t-bone chop was succulent. But it was the side that stood out, a tomato bread pudding with truffle, the rich flavor absolutely seductive, the texture moist but not soggy, a little chewy at the edges, a remarkable dish. A marsala sauce on the chop seemed not just wan but superfluous, though; still, it didn't intrude on the whole game. Lorenzo's liver is a long-standing favorite. Tender, not over-cooked, and dressed in a balsamic reduction with pearl onions and mushrooms, plus some crisped-up pancetta, the base of the dish is a serving of polenta, perfect for wiping up the savory-sweet juices and sauce.

The house bread pudding arrives as thin slices, which emphasizes even more its delicate texture. A nice hit of cinnamon melds well with the caramel sauce, although the promised amaretto seems almost indistinguishable. That's fine; this is still a particularly good version of a dish that's now almost ubiquitous on local dessert menus. This one can stay.

Primarily an older crowd, although a table with a couple of very young children added to the din of dining. Amiable service, certainly, although slightly uncoordinated at times, but nothing to seriously distract from the pleasures of the table.

 

Lorenzo's Trattoria

1933 Edwards

314-773-2223

www.lorenzostrattoria.com

Dinner nightly

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Poor

Smoking: No

Entrees: $15-$27

Atlas Restaurant

Is the greatest menu compliment "Ahhh! I want everything"? It seems to happen to me, and many of the pals I eat with, at Atlas. If it has changed at all since its sale to Bryan Carr of Pomme, it's become even more the French bistro. And that's a good thing.

Clearly a regular stop for many folks on their way to the Grand Center culture spots, it slows down after eight or so and becomes a date night venue or one for catching up with four or five pals. Noise levels, thank you, are reasonable, too.

And the food? Those who love mussels need to try these, with their classic white wine and garlic broth. Huge, tender, and steamed just until they open, they're a perfect example of why they've become so popular in the last decade. The lettuce and radish salad, a stalwart on the menu, now carries more fresh tarragon than ever in its creamy dressing, which is slightly pungent, still good enough to lure diners away from some of the more dramatic first courses.

For those who wonder at the presence of pasta on this French-ish menu, please understand that along the eastern part of France's Mediterranean coast, pasta has crept over from Italy. It's a little disconcerting to see "pates fraiches" scrawled on a chalkboard outside a restaurant in Nice, but this isn't fresh pate to serve with bread and cornichon pickles, it's fresh pasta. (Watch for pates au pistou for the Provencal version of pesto.) At Atlas, ricotta gnocchi, very tender and not at all gummy, are bathed in a pale green pesto sauce studded with nuggets of sundried tomato.

Difficult to pass up the lamb shank braised with red wine and served with couscous, but we managed. A succulent pork chop perched on a slice of potato gratin, happily awaiting its fate. Duck breast, quickly sauteed and sliced, wore a light sauce of ginger and just a little lime, a good contrast with its innate richness. Alongside was polenta and strips of braised sweet peppers. Daube, the classic beef stew from Provence (pronounce it as if you were starting to say "Doberman"), was pretty much spot on, its gravy thick and redolent of red wine and scented with orange peel, nuggets of carrots here and there, the meat managing to be both lean and tender. The only disappointment was the olives, which were so bland they tasted like the canned California ones. A swirl of fettucini and some emerald-green sauteed spinach finished off the plate.

Another never-can-resist comes with the dessert choices. Profiteroles are classic French, cream puffs filled at the last minute with a scoop of ice cream and served with a pitcher of warm chocolate sauce. This is all about texture and temperature as well as taste, think of a hot fudge sundae in a tender cone. Blissful, whether you choose vanilla or coffee ice cream. And then there's the lemon torte. And this really is a torte, not a tart that someone misspelled. A layer of cake is topped with a creamy mousse that has raspberries and blueberries in it, some whipped cream on top, and berries alongside. the berries peer out from the filling to give hints of what's to come, and add a nice tartness that balances well, since the lemon notes are moving slightly to the sweet side.

Knowledgeable and very pleasant service. We see they've starting weekend brunch as of May 7. Probably worth an investigation.

 

Atlas Restaurants

5516 Pershing Ave.

314-367-6800

www.atlasrestaurantstl.com

Dinner Tues.-Sat, Brunch Sat.-Sun

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Entrees: $19-$25

A Coming Attraction

Meeting up with an old pal at the Missouri Botanical Garden, this is what I was greeted with. He's not quite finished yet, and there are a couple of his siblings not quite so far along, but it's clear that the Lantern Festival is going to be something very exciting.

 

Farther along inside the Garden, we saw this pagoda, which is seemingly finished, and you can also watch from a distance as the Chinese artists do their thing in the west parking lot.

 

 

Read more about the festival here.

Brunch: Three Monkeys

Remember the old Yogi Berra line, "Nobody goes there any more - it's too crowded"? I did something I've counseled others not to do. I went to a restaurant right after it got a notable review.

Three Monkeys brunch was featured in the recent restaurant issue of the Riverfront Times and in a burst of bravado, I broke that rule, and another one: Make a reservation. Arriving about 11 a.m., folks were told a 30-minute wait. "I'll be glad to sit at the bar," I said to the hostess, who wrote down my name. After 45 minutes, two seats opened at the bar. I cornered the understandably frazzled hostess and asked. "You can sit anywhere at the bar if there's a place open, sure," she replied in surprise.

Wisely, the restaurant has food in three different areas. Beyond the bar is a station that carves beef, makes omelets and warms pasta to order. In the north dining room, there's a hot line and a cold one. In the latter, plenty of cold shrimp and a zesty cocktail sauce wait alongside large chilled mussels on the half-shell, topped by a cold, lemony sauce, a nice move to avoid possible drying out.

The mob was mainly around the station with the omelets and beef, the only place where traffic was so dense I passed on the entire crowded table's food. There was enough elsewhere. Perhaps it was the rapid turnover, but the scrambled eggs were moist and not rubbery, shocking when one considers their stay in a chafing dish. Good bacon, and first-rate biscuits, although the sausage gravy was short on sausage and seasoning. Pancakes and waffles, too, from another chafing dish, and an urn next to them to dispense hot syrup into small cups, a deft touch that showed someone was thinking.

Nibbles of cheese and sausage cubes, and some wee puff-pastry triangles that were crisp and tasty from the pastry itself but whose filling was so negligible as to be impossible to analyze. Spinach-artichoke ravioli turned out to be toasted, not sauced, and a first-rate twist on the STL standard. Probably the most remarkable dish was the fajita lasagna. I couldn't see much layering from the mauling casserole-type dishes always suffer in these circumstances, but it was cheesy/tomato-ey/spicy with the expected notes of cumin and pepper, pleasantly but not overwhelmingly gooey.

Very good, very fresh small Danish rolls offer a sweet option, and the cookies were also fresh. Plated desserts in smallish portions had been somewhat depleted, but a peanut butter-chocolate cake tasted homemade, and I saw cheesecake and tiramisu dance by me on previous trips through the room.

Icy-cold mimosas, included in the price, had been made ahead of time, and the coffee was surprisingly good. Bartenders kept up with the crowd and mostly managed to clear dishes at a reasonable speed. One of them remarked to another patron they'd expected a very busy day, but hadn't reckoned with it being too wet for using the sidewalk tables. For a while, tables weren't being cleaned very quickly, but that seemed to get organized eventually.

The darkish interior reminds the first-time visitor that this originally was an old South Side tavern, and most of the crowd seemed to be the youngish patrons who populate it most evenings. There were, eventually, some families, and even some guests in post-church attire. Noisy, although not conversation wasn't impossible.

 

Three Monkeys

3153 Morganford Rd.

314-772-9800

www.threemonkeysstl.com

Brunch Sun.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Yes

Smoking: No

Brunch (adults): $19

The Big Meal

William Grimes, who was for several years the restaurant critic for the New York Times, has left that beat. But not, to a certain degree, very far; in today's Times he has a story about "The Big Meal", a play that's set in a restaurant about three generations of a family's life. The foodish among us revel in such comparisons like restaurants and theater, which Grimes does,and you can read about it here.

And for a review, rather than Grimes' feature piece, here's Charles Isherwood's from March 22.

 

Dao Tien Vietnamese Bistro

Olive at Woodson and McKnight seems to be becoming a culinary hot spot. Only the gas station on the southeast corner escapes gastronomic action. Dao Tien, in a building that began life as a Dairy Queen, sports a lime green and red-orange interior and a nice, clean fish tank, the latter a nice change from some places around town. Busier at lunch than dinner, many of the customers seem to be regulars.

The appetizer list is fairly brief, various rolls except for fried chicken wings. An order of grilled chicken goi cuon, spring rolls, was worthwhile, the chicken still moist and of a generous amount. Nuoc cham, the dipping sauce, sports more zip than usual, a nice little hit of heat in it, a good addition.

It took considerable self-discipline to pass up the chicken pho, which is listed with the specials rather than the noodle soups, in favor of the more usual beef-based phos. The special pho with oxtail, though, was alluring, oxtail being an old favorite cut of cow. The pho broth itself is rich and well-flavored, without the anise notes that some renditions have. Tossing in a few slices of jalapeno allowed a little of their heat to spred through the broth, and from the plate of add-ins, Thai basil, the long, narrow leaves of culantro, a wedge of lime and some bean sprouts all expand the options for the curious and the aficionado. (Hoisin and chili sauces are also at hand.) The special contained, besides the broth and noodles, large, thin slices of what might have been eye of round, but was very tender for that cut, meatballs in the dense, slightly chewy Asian style, a few ribbons of pale white tripe, and just a bit of equally pale beef tendon, with its slightly gristly texture. The large, thick cut of oxtail topped the bowl. As much as its friends love it, there's no tidy way to eat oxtail that large; it requires fingers or surgery with a knife and fork; it went home with the leftovers to be devoured in privacy. A good, satisfying dish, the broth light and full of flavor.

Banh mi must keep the lunch crowd pretty happy. Six different kinds of the sandwich, including one with sunny-side-up eggs, The "special" was packed with grilled pork, chicken, beef and a sausage, along with strips of cucumber, some lettuce, cilantro and a swipe of mayonnaise. Heavier on meat and lighter on vegetables than many of its kind, it's a large and hearty sandwich on a narrow baguette, the bread reminding us that the years of French colonial Vietnam left their culinary influence.

While the papaya with beef jerky sounded really interesting, a server explained to a nearby table that it wasn't being offered that night because the papaya available at the market was too ripe - the dish calls for the crunchy, unripe flesh. to be used in this salad-like dish. Nice to hear that they pay attention to this sort of detail. From the same section of the menu, entitled "special", a dish of spicy and salty spare ribs was a winner. Small pieces of ribs, easily picked up with chopsticks, are sauced with garlicky juices with plenty of black pepper and just a little faint sweetness. And, yes, salty as well, although the rice cuts both the salt and pepper nicely. (Black pepper is more used in the northern part of the country, interestingly.) Altogether, a worthwhile dish.

Che chuoi, described merely as Vietnamese banana dessert, brings chunks of warm banana in a coconut sauce thickened with tapioca, the whole thing topped with finely chopped salted peanuts. The combination of the salty, crunchy nuts with the sweet tender fruit is a revelation.

Dao, the proprietress, is frequently in the dining room, and often volunteers in the course of her conversation that she'll cook things the diners want. It's also a comfortable place for solo diners, and it's easy to get explanations about the food from the server on duty during my visits.

 

Dao Tien Vietnamese Bistro

8600 Olive Blvd, University City

314-995-6960

www.daotienbistro.co

Lunch & Dinner Mon.-Sat.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $8-$16

 

Stone Hill Norton Vertical Tasting 2012

Saturday night was the 24th annual Norton Vertical Tasting at Stone Hill Winery. It's always a fun night, full of people interested in wine and in having a good time.

This is a 10-year vertical tasting beginning with the most recent harvest, so it ran from 2002 through the new vintage of 2011. After considerable discussion and tasting, guests vote on their favorites, using the Chicago system: Vote early and vote often. So, given that people can vote for more than one wine and that this is, to use the technical phrase, a self-selected group, I thought it might be interesting to find out about some of the highest vote-getters.

In fourth place was the brand new vintage of 2011, what Jon Held called "a sort of nouveau Norton", soft and fruit-forward after the very dry summer last year. A small crop, but clearly one to keep an eye on. Usually these newcomers aren't nearly so interesting.

Third went to the 2002 Norton, which tied for first last year. A big guy at the peak of his power, it took a Double Gold at the International Eastern Wine Competition in New York. It cries out for a large slab of prime rib.

The 2003 was the other 2011 first-place winner, and it placed second this year. Smooth, and almost Pinot Noir-ish, this needs some fine veal to go with, or perhaps lamb.

First place this year, the 2005 is nicely complex with notes of spice and a faint aroma of tobacco. Again, I'm thinking beef with this, although there are some mushroom-y pasta dishes (I'm thinking with little or no tomato) that would also work well.

Interestingly, the year of the Easter freeze, 2007 produced very wine, of course, but what Norton there is, is choice. Complex and serious, it was one of my favorites.

The evening starts with bubbly and hors d'oeuvres in the cellar, goes upstairs to the tasting, and ends with dinner in the winery restaurant. And the dinner this year was perhaps the best I can recall. Next year's date has already been set, April 13.

Changes to Facebook

 

In response to some people who were uncomfortable seeing Joe's face appearing on Fb with a blog post, I'm getting ready to switch things to my newly-created Facebook account. All postings will appear there as well as on St. Louis Eats and Drinks. I acknowledge that I haven't taken his name off the blog. In time, I imagine I will, but I'm sure readers will understand that it's difficult for me to do all this official obliterating.

So you can find me as Ann Lemons Pollack on Facebook, and we'll continue to meet there as well as on the blog.

Medianoche

Mexican food in the non-fast-food division has returned to central St. Louis County with a flourish we haven't seen since the Gallardo Grill opened at the St. Louis Galleria. Mike Randolph, who gave us Half & Half for breakfast and lunch in this spot, changes gears after he closes in the afternoon, waves a wand and some pottery, and there's Medianoche. Alas, despite early hopes of some of us, it's not actually open until the witching hour for which it's named, but nevertheless, there's much to smile about.

First of all, service, which has struggled in the daylight hours, seems to be in much better shape as the sun begins to set. And the menu, which offers both the expected and the unexpected, charms. The combination is probably going to be enough to overcome a faint feeling of my-way-or-the-highway that creeps in at times.

The only excuse for missing the guacamole is an allergy. Made tableside on a simple, un-gimmicked-up cart, it's avocado, red onion, cilantro, minced pepper, salt and lime juice. A good example of letting the ingredients simply do their work, it's still a little lumpy and really doesn't need the house salsa, which arrived earlier. That salsa, by the way, is faintly sweet, perhaps from roasting the tomatoes, and not, as such things go, very hot at all. In the guacamole, the pepper is quite mild, perhaps Anaheims, giving flavor but little heat. And heat isn't necessary, this is such a vivid rendition of the beauty of simplicity. Chips are fresh, even warm.

Available as a first course or a main, the posole does have some heat to it, and a rich, ruddy color that warns the diner of such. The pork is lean but very tender, the cumin and Mexican oregano notes forward. It's no big deal that they're using shredded lettuce rather than the usual cabbage to garnish, but a small serving of soup in a large cold bowl does tend to lose heat quickly. We admit, though, that chatting with the bartender did delay our attack on the otherwise first-rate dish.

Tacos don't fall prey to designer garnishes. Looking as though they could have been found on Cherokee Street (a compliment), two small tortillas cradle the chosen filling topped with chopped onion and cilantro, a lime wedge alongside. An order is three tacos; we're sad to announce that the policy is only one kind of taco per order, rather than mixing up, say a carne asada, an avocado and a pork belly. "We politely decline requests for additions or substitutions" says the menu, and that's that. Those pork bellies are diced, the filling very porky, a little seasoning added, but nice and juicy and, yes, greasy. Hey it's pork belly; lean doesn't happen. Beef cheeks the fourth option are even beefier than the pork belly is porky, meltingly tender, a little swoosh of a tan chili-ish sauce at one end of the tacos. Both just as messy to eat as their kinfolk served elsewhere, but you expected that, right?

It's often difficult to resist duck, and at Medianoche, there's no sense in doing so. Sliced grilled duck breast, medium-rare, and what the menu calls duck carnitas, but is almost like confit, appear with diced fresh pineapple, onion rings and slices of guajillo pepper, all grilled and resting on a mole sauce that finishes the dish off to near-perfection. This may be the best duck dish in town right now, and the bulk of the credit goes to that sauce.

Fish appears in the form of thin slices of snapper flash-fried, and again the sauce magic is at work. While the fish is hot, this is clearly influenced by escabeche, which involves cooked fish with a cool lime-juice-based sauce. The menu calls it a mole verde, its ingredients beyond its mildly hot pepper a green mystery, but it works well with the avocado, radish and cucumber that accompany the fish.

Dessert offerings vary from day to day, but the bartender urged the churros. Ridged strips of deep-fried dough that have been tossed in sugar cinnamon and some grated orange peel, they arrive hot and fragrant. Chocolate is the traditional accompaniment, but it's not drinking chocolate, it's dunking chocolate, thick and creamy. Medeianoche offers it in Oaxacan style, which cranks things up by including a little spicy heat. The serving is generous, more than enough to share unless dinner was very light indeed.

Serious attention is paid to the beverages at Medianoche. The attention to coffee that marks the morning hours persists, of course. In addition there's a small but interesting list of wines (cava with Mexican, anyone?), un-cliched beer and a serious cocktail list that bears studying.

Do not expect margaritas that resemble those at most restaurants. Served up, which is to say not on the rocks, they're strong, less sweet than most folks are accustomed to, and deserving of respect. The bartender was seemingly taken aback when I asked if his pisco sour was the classic version, which resulted in a little vigorous conversation. Instead of a capirinha, the house offers a capiriuva, which muddles grapes with the lime juice, a variation the bartender assured me was also a classic. It turned out to be a first-rate drink, and a fine pairing with the snapper.

The menu offers a prix fixe option called a probando. The whole table has to choose it, and they must agree on their choices of one appetizer, one kind of taco and one entree. (Please note that this is also available to tables of one.) Those servings are mostly not as large as they would be a la carte, but for $26, it's a substantial saving. And it does leave room for the churros.

 

Medianoche

8135 Maryland Ave., Clayton

314-725-0719

www.medianochestl.com

Dinner Tues.-Sat.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Entrees: $14 - $21

Brunch: Hot Wok Cafe

So what's the difference between "Chinese brunch", the phrase Hot Wok Cafe uses for its Saturday-only repast, and dim sum, which is what most Chinese food lovers think of when the subject of weekend mid-day Chinese food comes up?

Dim Sum is dumpling-centered and this meal isn't. And while there aren't carts - which actually aren't mandatory for dim sum - there are written menus, and like some dim sum in other cities, there's a list for each table to write down how many of each item they want, much like we see in many sushi places.

Unsure of portion sizes, I ordered four items, and had plenty to take home. Some of the menu items may be familiar, like scallion pancakes and seafood dumplings, but other items move into the exotic. For example, the beef sesame bun sounds like something that might be found on one of those counts. Not on any cart I've seen here, though, nor on either coast or in Hong Kong. It's panini-esque, a flat sandwich composed of thinly sliced and seasoned roast beef, cucumber, and a little onion and cilantro in a rectangle of pastry that's been split in half. The pastry is tender, slightly flaky and rich, and the flavors reminiscent of a Vietnamese banh mi sandwich but on different bread. Irresistible, and I soon found out I shouldn't have eaten both halves of the sandwich.

Seafood dumplings looked more irregular and hand-made than those we'd had panfried at dinner. Dumpling sauce, a combination of soy and black vinegar, arrives pre-mixed and arrives in a shaker with them. The dough is more tender than the fried, although part of that is probably related to steaming versus frying, and while these, too, are nice and moist, the flavor is milder, the pieces of shrimp in the filling being a little too shy to make their presence known.

Shangdong roasted chicken brought slices of cold chicken anointed with a soy-based sauce with a little sesame oil. Even the white meat was moist and there was plenty of the juices in which one could dab the bird's meat for added zip. Leftovers here, along with the generous handful of cilantro, made a good sandwich the next day, especially since the ciabatta at hand was given a light smear of mayonnaise seasoned with sriracha.

And then there was what the menu called seafood porridge. It's possible this isn't congee, the traditional Chinese breakfast dish, which is somewhere between a soup and a porridge, but whatever name this goes by, this is outstanding. Most congee found on restaurant buffet tables, is deeply bland, waiting for the knowledgeable diner to add whatever seasonings their amah did. Better hotel breakfasts in Hong Kong have the electric cook pot surrounded by a constellation of add-ins, meat, fish, hundred-year-old eggs, seasonings like soy sauce, and the list goes on and on. But at Hot Wok, it's seasoned, and seasoned perfectly. As white as a bleached linen sheet, its ghostly look belies plenty of ginger, including a pinch of freshly shredded, enough pepper to make it not only the spiciest dish I'd had on either visit but to make it downright addictive. Slices and shreds of green onion, too, give a little color, and then there were a sort of crouton, slices of the thin Chinese cruller that's a morning street food in China. Resembling a churro but lighter, they gave a little more texture. And resting at the bottom of the steaming hot bowl, were thin pieces of white fish. Certainly an unassuming-looking dish, but deeply satisfying.

Next time, I'm going for the seafood pancake, the chive pie and the ting zai zhou, just because I have no idea what it is. (Googling hasn't helped.)

Lots of business, although not mobbed, some sort of gathering of young professionals in a back room and attentive, polite service.

 

Hot Wok Cafe

14346 S. Outer Forth Rd., Chesterfield

314-576-7008

Lunch Mon.-Fri., Dinner Mon.-Sat., Brunch Sat.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Brunch items: $2-$10

Hot Wok Cafe

Sometimes traveling to a new restaurant is known territory, a trip down Gravois or up Lindbergh. But every now and then things get more interesting. A tip from The Old China Hand sent us out on the somewhat more complicated trail that would lead to the Hot Wok Cafe. Located behind a couple of '70's-kitchy-looking high-rise office buildings at I-64 and Woods Mill Rd./141, it's part of a low, long curve of shops.

On the night of our visit, a fairly early one because of a theater curtain, we found the majority of the patrons were Asian and many clearly were regular customers. A small bar gives room for those awaiting carryout; the adjacent rosy-red dining room has an air of calm.

Hot Wok's hot and sour soup is a classic rendition, bits of tofu, shiitake mushrooms, green onion and waterchestnut suspended in a thickish, aromatic broth, very tart and showing evidence of the Szechuan pepper. Egg drop soup lives up the egg part of its name. The creamy-dense liquid lets it be known that in this recipe, the egg (flavor) comes before the chicken. Serious comfort food. Pot stickers were moist and gingery but didn't cause excitement.

Who is Glen Hu? We have no idea, but Glen Hu's Special combines slices of tender beef and fat shrimp sauteed with mushrooms and green onion. The menu describes its sauce as sweet and spicy and even gives the dish a "spicy hot" star. That's not what came on the plate; rather, it was very like a Mongolian beef with its savory, oniony flavor. It even had the crumchy little rice noodles. Yes, there were small dried red peppers in the dish, but they seemed to have somehow been neutered, all looks and no performance. The heat issue aside, though, this was a very tasty dish, the best of the evening.

Yu shian pork gave narrow strips of meat, lean and tender, with plenty of bamboo shoots and water chestnuts in a garlicky sauce, again described as spicy and wearing those peppers but again with no discernible cranking-up of the Scovill units. It was no spicier than the non-starred tan pen beef.which shared its plate (which the menu did describe as "a hot plate") with mushrooms, baby corn and snow peas in a sauce that hit ginger and soy quite distinctly. All these things arrived hot and fresh-tasting, though, despite the lack of spicy-hotness, and that gave them a considerable edge.

A fairly basic menu for a West County Chinese restaurant, but generally above-average renditions of the food. At least that was going to be the bottom line, but we had noticed on our way in a little sign that said "Chinese Brunch on Saturdays". No, not dim sum, said the server, brunch. Hmmm, we thought. Let's try that. Fate intervened, but eventually Ann did get back. And you can read about that visit in our next post.

 

Hot Wok Cafe

14346 S. Outer Forty Rd., Chesterfield

314-576-7008

Lunch Mon.-Fri., Dinner Mon.-Sat, Brunch Sat.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $9-$18

Joe Pollack

By now many of you gentle readers will have heard our sad news. My dear Joe has left us, far more quietly than was his usual style.

I am stunned by the sheer volume of condolence messages, kind words and compliments this has caused in the community of people interested in food, wine, theater, film, journalism and the occasional wisecrack. When he retired from the Post-Dispatch, there were many good wishes and a fabulous multi-chef dinner. (Thanks, guys. He still talked about that.) But the fellow with the big ego turned to me one day in the car and said, rather quietly but with a clear note of astonishment, "They really do like me." What our family is seeing now is far larger than that, geometrically larger.

When I married Joe, I sometimes said I felt like I won the lottery. I continued to feel that way, except for the occasional 20 minutes or so, right up to the wee hours of Friday morning, and indeed I still do. Joe had a swell time in life, and I was lucky to be invited along for the last part of the ride. In all honesty, I cannot say exactly what I will do with St. Louis Eats, but I do intend to continue once we get past the immediate situation. Almost certainly things will return more closely to our original focus that's reflected in the name.

We are having a memorial service on the Mainstage of the Repertory Theatre of St. Louis this Saturday, March 17, at 11 a.m. That being St. Patrick's Day, no saloon, which an old friend pointed out would be Joe's venue of choice, is available, unfortunately. ("Amateur drinkers," Joe would have muttered.) But we will try to explain to ourselves and to our beloved younger generation just who this guy was.

-Ann

We Need to Talk About Kevin

 

The title of this very disturbing movie, "We Need to Talk About Kevin," is about 15 years late. We, or his parents, should have been talking about Kevin at least a decade ago. It's far beyond solution now. The damage has been done and we, or his parents, are not only paying for it, but also will continue to do so for a long time.

A movie of the "Bad Seed" genre, highlighted for all time by Patty McCormack's dazzling portrayal of Rhoda Penmark, way back in 1956, Kevin is her male counterpart, perhaps even more deadly. Practically from his birth, Kevin shows virulent antipathy to his mother, an outstanding performance by Tilda Swinton. Three boys, Rock Duer, Jasper Newell and Ezra Miller are Kevin as an infant, a child and an adolescent, and all are scary. Director Lynne Ramsay has brought exceptional work from them as they quietly challenge and defeat their mother. An earlier Ramsay film, "The Lovely Bones," also showed an exceptional touch with fear and terror.

Swinton, pale, lovely and distraught, has a difficult role and delivers in splendid style. As Eva, a sophisticated, successful travel writer, she has carved out a good place in her life, but she abandons it for home and family. John C. Reilly, always with spot-on depictions, is a kind of bumbling guy who just cannot imagine that a child could cause such mental anguish.

But the infant's screams are louder than a sidewalk drill, and his expression as he defies his parents in terms of toilet training is remarkable. Anyone who has been a parent, or even dealt with younger siblings, will understand Eva's frustration, and maybe Kevin's triumph.

There are a number of loose ends and unanswered questions along the way, but Ramsay's pacing, and the outstanding contributions from composer Jonny Greenwood and cinematographer Seamus McGarvey make Kevin a compelling character and the movie a gripping experience.

We Need to Talk About Kevin opens today.

-- Joe

Friends With Kids

Young people often take an unrealistic, or downright negative, approach to the fact that one always must take responsibility for his/her actions. Avoiding it only moves pay-up day down the road. And not realizing that it will happen, come what may, is a sure sign of arrested development.

Of course, it happens, and "Friends With Kids," while often hoping to become a comedy, provides proof.

Jennifer Westfeldt, who wrote, directed and stars, is Julie, and Adam Scott is Jason. Oh, they are great friends, but they aren't getting married, and they have good times with two married couples, Ben (Jon Hamm) and Missy (Kristen Wiig), and Alex (Chris O'Dowd) and Leslie (Maya Rudolph). Four of the six were in ":Bridesmaids," and these steps must have occurred after the wedding, or something. By the way, Hamm and Westfeld are an off-screen couple but did not want to replicate the relationship in a movie.

Anyway, Julie and Jason decide to have a baby who obviously will have all the fine and wonderful attributes that they themselves obviously possess. And they'll stay friends and date other people and share the responsibilities of rearing children.

So Julie dates Kurt (Edward Burns) and Jason dates Mary Jane (Megan Fox) and the awkward party of six turns into a nonsensical party of eight. Meanwhile, the kids who are a part of the title are left out of the rest of the movie. Westfeldt lacks the directorial experience to make all this run smoothly and, to my taste, she really hit a roadblock at the curtain line when all I could think of was the couplet from "Anything Goes," by Cole Porter, who wrote, "Good authors, too, who once knew better words now only use four-letter words writing prose."

Friends with Kids opens today.

--Joe

Corman

Roger Corman, long known as "the king of the B's," for hundreds of shlocky movies that he produced and/or directed, and which filled drive-ins and grind houses for decades, was noted for the many people who got their start with him and went on to fame and fortune. Of course, they were young and eager and willing to work for peanuts, so most of the fortune went to Corman.

"Corman's World," opening today, is a gaudy thank-you card from writer-director Alex Stapleton and lots of big-name Hollywood types. It's an okay thing, too, now, since Corman won an honorary Oscar and has been patted on the head by the Hollywood establishment.

In truth, Corman gave opportunity to dozens of actors, writers and directors, and they remember him fondly. Among the many who express gratitude to Corman are Jack Nicholson, who breaks down at one point, Robert De Niro, Martin Scorsese, Peter Bogdanovich, Pam Grier, Dennis Hopper, Bruce Dern, Vincent Price, Peter Fonda, George Hickenlooper and Ron Howard. And a young William Shatner. They are unanimous in their memories of how Corman left them alone to make mistakes, but also to grow.

Corman's early films, many based on poems and stories by Edgar Allen Poe or Edfgar ice Burroughs, used gallons of fake blood, its foamy streams covering the terrible construction flaws and limited believability of his props. Screaming, barely clad, bosomy young women were front and center in almost every shot, and his films show the change in what -- and how much -- skin could be seen on screen. Movies like "Cry Baby Killer," "The Trip" and "Wild Angels," which were box office hits for Corman and his company, AIP (American International Pictures), were remade a few years later by major studios with major stars. They became box office hits for another generation of studios and producers.

Corman began in 1954 with "Monster From the Ocean Floor," which presaged "Jaws," and his version of "Little Shop of Horrors" was a two-day shoot. "Wild Angels" set the stage for "The Wild Bunch." Corman also made movies that tackled sensitive subhjects, like "The Intruder," which dealt with racial segregation in schools.

But Disney and Pixar, Spielberg and Lucas brought forth a new generation of films in which special effects were huge, as were casts. People liked them when Corman was the producer. They liked them better when the big studios, and lots of cash, got behind them.

Stapleton obviously is a fan, but so are lots of other people, and the tribute to Corman is an excellent film, and a fine history lesson, too.

Corman's World plays tonight through Sunday, at 7:30, in the Winifred Moore Auditorium of Webster University as part of the Webster University Film Series

-- Joe

Rampart

The tale of the sadistic, psychotic policeman is not a new one, but Woody Harrelson is fierce and frightening as a rogue in "Rampart," a police district in Los Angeles, its own, real history rabid enough to earn its own movie. Harrelson, his face a series of reddish-tan angles sticking out from behind aviator sunglasses. He refers to himself as a soldier in the people's army, and he is convinced he is the only law west of the La Brea tar pits.

He smokes constantly, drinks between puffs. He's been married twice, to sisters (Cynthia Nixon and Anne Heche) who live next door to one another on a bungalow-lined street. There are daughters (Brie Larson and Sammy Boyarsky) from the relationships, and he still drops by for occasional sex, or to harshly discipline his children. On other nights he prowls seedy bars in search of women, or visits sex clubs. Obviously, he's a real charmer.

He's smart, too, wriggling out of a variety of disciplinary hearings with a mixture of lies and bravado. Sigourney Weaver works in the district attorney's office; she's on to him, and she's waiting patiently for the inevitable mistake. Ice Cube is waiting, too. Harrelson has one ally, or so he thinks, a crooked former cop, played stylishly by Ned Beatty.

Oren Moverman directs, moving stylishly from one tense moment to the next, helped along by Bobby Bukowki's nervous camera work that ratchets everything tighter from scene to scene. Moverman and Harrelson worked together in 2009 when Harrelson and Ben Foster starred in "The Messenger," a story of two officers who bring bad news to homes where no one expects it. Foster is in "Rampart," too, as an addled, homeless man in a wheelchair who brings tips to Harrelson in exchange for whiskey, cigarettes and pain from his buddy the bully.

For a movie that created little more than a ripple when it was released in 2010 (this is its first St. Louis appearance), it has a surprisingly talented cast including Audra McDonald, Robin Wright and Steve Buscemi in addition to those mentioned above. But it is a powerful, taut, well-made movie. Perhaps people just didn't want to see another tale of a vicious, violent man, no matter which side of the law he lived on.

Rampart opens today at the Tivoli.

-- Joe

Declaration of War

The use of the word "war" may be a touch of hyperbole, but when a mother discovers there's something wrong with her child, she's quick to go into warrior mode against whatever and whoever is keeping him from being the icon of perfection she demands. So it is with Valerie Donzelli, director, co-writer and star of "Declaration of War," a French entry right from any "disease of the week" television series.

Donzelli and Jeremie Elkaim are the parents of Gabriel Elkaim, now 10. All three play themselves in a fictionalized (they say) account of their life and his illness. They were living together when Gabriel was a baby and a brain tumor was discovered. Both are actors and writers, but they made a mistake when they named their own characters Romeo and Juliette; it's too easy to reach silliness from this starting point.

Actually, Donzelli is more in panic mode than in battle regalia as she wages war on a hospital staff, treating doctors and nurses as if they were second-class citizens who should drop whatever they are doing to deal with Gabriel and his mother.

It's nice to know that Gabriel is well again, but it's difficult to understand why the French film industry could not find a better movie to submit for the foreign language Oscar, but showing the kind of wisdom it shows very rarely, the Academy eliminated this one in an early round.

Declaration of War opens today at the Tivoli

-- Joe

New York City: Nice Matin

Nice Matin, named for the largest newspaper in the South of France, sits, sidewalk tables at the ready, on a corner of Manhattan's Upper West Side. Part of a Manhattan restaurant group called Tour de France, each featuring a regional French cuisine, its menu sings of Provence and the Riviera. And so does its interior, quite Art Deco, although the terrazzo floor and aluminum chairs help raise the noise levels. Still, we've always been able to eavesdrop at the bar and hear friends speaking from across the table.

First courses alone could feed one very happily. Steamed mussels with rouille, the ruddy, spicy, aioli-type sauce often served with bouillabaisse, brought memories of Nice, Cannes and other towns along the Mediterranean Sea. Spicy merguez, the tangy lamb sausage we just don't see enough,stayed moist from its grilling and was a handsome fit with an Alsatian riesling.

And then there was the pissaladiere, the onion tart of the region. Not quite a pizza but riding a yeast dough, onions braised until sweet, black olives and cheese, plus a bit of dried tomato pesto; we always say oui to the optional anchovies. Tuna tartare, not quite as authentic, still tasted good with a lemony vinaigrette showing a bit of peppery harissa paste.

Mussels also sang under a slightly different treatment, prepared Provencal style with garlic, tomato, basil and shallot providing a more complex broth, and the complexity made the treatment superior to the appetizer. Another hit was seared scallops, sauced in a finely nuanced pesto comprising basil, garlic, and a very lightn touch of fennel. But probably the hit of the main courses was veal scallops, sauced with thyme, garlic and Marsala wine, then joined by cherry tomatoes, shiitake mushrooms and some Swiss chard, the whole adding up to a truly exciting dish that showed off flavor and texture in delicious French style.

Dinner was excellent in all respects, so much so that we decided to pass on a dessert list that showed lots of familiar dishes, but nothing to make us risk over-eating. Coffee apres was a satisfactory wrap to the meal. Service was brisk and cheerful, with servers offering complete explanations of unfamiliar offerings. The wine list is filled with interesting choices and includes prices that are high for St. Louisans but reasonable for New Yorkers. Alas, though, no Rin-Quin-Quin, the lovely peach-scented and -flavored wine that's a specialty of the area and which would have been a perfect fit.

 

Nice Matin

201 W. 79th St., New York City

212-873-6423

www.nicematinnyc.com

Breakfast daily, Lunch Mon.-Fri., Brunch Sat.-Sun, Dinner nightly

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Entrees: $17-$28

Cry-Baby

Were some of the music different, it might have been Mickey and Judy out there -- yep, Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland -- singing and dancing, she the nice girl from the right side of the tracks, he the boy who used words like "swell," and sometimes "damn." The good kids and the ruffians were all out there last night as "Cry-Baby," based on a John Waters film, opened as a New Line Theatre production at the Washington University South Campus Theatre. It will run through March 24.

Some of the songs, with music and lyrics by David Javerbaum and Adam Schlesinger, might have found a home in a 1930s M-G-M songbook. They're tuneful, with often-interesting lyrics, occasionally with word plays like rhyming "failure" with "genitalia." But then we reached the musical styles of the 1950's, when the musical is set, with lots of hard-thumping drums and lyrics that were less interesting, more repetitious.

"Cry-Baby" is based on a Waters film that starred Johnny Depp, a hot commodity because of his success in "21 Jump Street" (and look out, that movie will be here in a few weeks). Book writers Mark O'Donnell and Thomas Meehan obviously were looking at a long-running success like "Hairspray," which they also wrote, based on a Waters film. But with the exception of "Hairspray" and "Diner," movies set in Baltimore have relatively short lives.

Where O'Donnell and Meehan kept "Hairspray" relatively simple, they tossed everything but the kitchen sink into "Cry-Baby," bringing us Communists, McCarthyism, "duck and cover" atom bomb drills, Elvis, Chuck Berry, the Rosenberg spy saga and other odds and ends.

But the evening's entertainment, and it is mostly an entertaining evening, gives us the tale that never gets old -- boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl and we all leave smiling after a tuneful finale. Ryan Foizey is first-rate as Wade (Cry-Baby) Walker, our hero, complete with ducktail haircut, and New Line regular Taylor Pietz charms as the sweet, virginal Allison, queen of the country club set. Mike Dowdy is Baldwin Blandish, the ultimately square leader of the Squares, whose high point is a song called "Squeaky Clean," which also has a line involving "peachy keen." Cindy Duggan is fine as Allison's grandmother, who has a secret. All sing and act well, and they dance, too, though Duggan does less of that. She does, however, deliver a satiric ballad, "I Did Something Wrong -- Once" in absolutely delightful style. There's also superior work from Terrie Carolan as Lenora Frigid, who is anything but, as a member of the Drapes, the rivals to the Squares (think Sharks and Jets from "West Side Story").

Robin Michelle Berger, whose choreography always is a large part of New Line's success, brings something new and different to "Cry-Baby," and it's splendid. She has designed a dance number for a singing group called the Whiffles (Evan Fornachon, Devon A. A. Norris and Christopher Strawhun) who sing backup to Dowdy. They and Ari Scott do a wild and woolly dance number to "A Little Upset," that uses the stage, the backstage, the wings (or what amounts to backstage and wings in this theater), the audience and possibly part of Clayton Road. It ain't delicate, but it's terrific, and Berger and her dancers sparkle like the opening night sky, where Jupiter and Venus stood tall and bright in the west.

Zachary Allen Farmer is superb in a half-dozen different roles, primarily Judge Igneous Stone, and Marcy Wiegert, Chrissy Young and Sara Porter are delightfully over-made up and bring a rude and effective charm as Foizy's posse, with Carolan a vocal part. Jenifer Sabbert and Alexandra Taylor round out the cast as members of the Squares and the Drapes.

Justin Smolik leads the very good musical sextet from his keyboard. Other members are D. Mike Bauer, lead guitar; Joe Isaacs, rhythm guitar; Robert Vinson, reeds; Dave Hall, bass; and Clancy Newell, percussion.

Scott Miller directs stylishly. He knows the weaknesses of the story and the strengths of the actors, and he exploits one and shields the other in excellent fashion. "Cry-Baby" is a very ordinary piece of theater, but Miller's direction and the cast's talent make it a fine diversion, like something to see if you need a break from preparing your taxes.

Cry-Baby, a production of New Line Theatre, opened last night at the Washington University South Campus Theatre and will run through March 24

-- Joe

The Glass Menagerie

Tennessee Williams' famed "memory play" about his days at the International Shoe Company warehouse on 15th Street in downtown St. Louis, "The Glass Menagerie," is a searing look at the playwright's family. It's made even harsher by the fact that while he wrote, looking backward a decade or so, his anger seemed to grow. The powerful drama opened last night as a production of Dramatic License at the theater's space in Chesterfield Mall. It will run through March 18.

Director Bill Whitaker takes a slightly different approach in his staging, and a subdued blue palette by lighting designer Max Parilla plays into this nicely. The stage is very deep, but not wide, and scenic designer Courtney Sanazaro-Sloey gives us a downstage parlor, where the menagerie is located, a midstage dining room and a far upstage kitchen, out of sight but not sound.

Whitaker, perhaps influenced by the technique used in the Oscar-winning film, "The Artist," uses occasional subtitles projected on the upstage wall. Some of them work very well. Some fall flat. Kim Furlow offers a fine performance as Amanda Wingfield (Edwina Williams in real motherly life). It's different from others we've seen, but certainly effective. Furlow's Amanda is less genteel, and one wonders if she really was a southern belle in Mississippi or if she is in her own memory play, where she dreams of magnolia-scented verandas and the days when "17 gentlemen callers" came to bring jonquils and pay homage.

Antonio Rodriguez is brilliant and totally believable as Tom (Tennessee) and as what amounts to his inner voice, narrating, setting scenes, discussing the characters and the action, philosophizing here and there. Macia Noorman, as Laura, is so shy as to be practically invisible. She's in pain, and more important, she is terrified by life. A problem with her performance is that her limp is barely perceptible; she should not be totally characterized by it, but it's part of the problem and should show up a little more. Tom Lehmann is solid -- and stolid -- as Jim, the Gentleman Caller. He was a football hero, the star of "Pirates of Penzance," and the captain of the debate team at Soldan High School. Laura has a total crush on him and, a few years later, Tom might be able to confess his own. But for the moment, Jim recognizes that he has done a lot of harm and has no idea of how to reverse it.

Furlow's Amanda is strong, self-centered and desperately frightened over her future, and that of her daughter. But all the characters are afraid, as was Williams when he wrote the play in the early 1940s (it was first produced in 1944). And looking back over 60-plus years, we all know the power of fear and the inaccuracy of memory. Tennessee Williams knew them better than most.

The Glass Menagerie, a production of Dramatic License, opened last night at the Art Space in Chesterfield Mall, to run through March 18

-- Joe

Miss Representation

No wonder women are angry. . . .

They are barred from testifying before Congress on legislation vital to their interests, they still are seen as sex symbols and generally as second-class citizens, as pointed out strongly in "Miss Representation," a documentary that runs tonight as part of the Webster University Film Series.

Jennifer Siebel Newsom writes and directs the movie, which features many prominent women in fields like entertainment and the media, all attacking the American media establishment for giving them less credit than they are due. Women like Rachel Maddow and Katie Couric, media stars in their own right, join entertainers like Geena Davis and Margaret Cho, Mayor Cory Booker of Newark, N.J. and Paul Haggis, the director of "Crash," and activist Jane Fonda. The list is very long.

Newsom's well-written, forceful statement, reaching close to diatribe at times, does not mention, however, that she obviously has benefited from financial and political help from her husband, Gavin Newsom, multi-millionaire businessman and former mayor of San Francisco, now lieutenant governor of California. There's a lot of truth in her movie, but it could be brought out just as well with a tone that was less harsh.

Miss Representation plays today at 7:30 p.m. at the Winifred Moore Auditorium on the Webster University campus

-- Joe

Tim and Eric's Billion-Dollar Movie

There are lots of bad movies out there. Every day, in every way, people make ever-dumber, ever-more absurd, ever-less entertaining movies. The latest ridiculous example, "Tim and Eric's Billion-Dollar Movie" opens here today, as among the worst movies I've ever been privileged to see.

Tim Heidecker and Erkic Wareheim wrote, directed and starred in this rude, truly stupid waste of time and money. How they managed to involve such real actors as Jeff Goldblum, Robert Loggia, John C. Reilly, Will Forte and Will Ferrell is a mystery.

Heidecker and Wareheim convince some people dumber than they to invest in a movie, and the disaster that follows is neither funny nor clever nor worth the wasted time.

Tim and Eric's Billion-Dollar Movie opens today at the Tivoli

-- Joe

Yen Ching

Forty years ago, as a rookie Post-Dispatch writer on the restaurant beat, my first piece about Chinese food began, "Beware the peppers!" It hailed Yen Ching, a new Brentwood Boulevard establishment, as a ground-breaker, a pioneer in introducing the spicy cooking of Hunan and Peking to St. Louisans. It became a member of my Class of '72, one of five restaurants to open that year and change local dining habits forever.

The group also included Duff's, Anthony's, Balaban's and the Jefferson Avenue Boarding House. Three are gone and Duff's is up for sale. When that day arrives (sad for us; happy for Tim Kirby and Karen Duffy), Yen Ching will be able open the mythical bottle of aged brandy that goes to "Last Man Standing" competition winners.

Sadder that that, however, is the fact that Yen Ching no longer belongs in a top rank of restaurants. This is not a new decision, however. Over the years, we visited less often, did not include it in our books about St. Louis restaurants. But this year marking the 40th reunion of the Class of '72, and with the restaurant in the process of receiving a new front, we thought we'd visit for old times sake.

The menu, revolutionary to St. Louisans 40 years ago, is now stodgy. The peppers that were in such profusion were totally absent, even on dishes that were supposed to be "hot and spicy." There were a couple of fresh, hot (temperature, not spice), tasty dishes, but not nearly enough of them.

For example, hot and sour soup and pot-sticker dumplings were fine starters; the soup was rich, with excellent spicing, lots of vegetables and an ideal temperature for a wintry night. The balance between hot and sour was just right. Steamed dumplings were light and fresh with a nice hit of ginger in the ground pork filling. The attractively ridged exteriors had the perfect amount of cooking, arriving tender and pleasant, and the server splashed them with soy sauce and vinegar in proper amounts.

It was downhill from there. . . .

Moo Shu Pork was acceptable, though extremely bland. We had overheard a diner at a nearby table ask for extra spicing; we had not been offered the opportunity, as we often are in other Asian restaurants where spicing can vary. The wheat flour tortillas used as wrapping were good, topped with plum sauce and nicely assembled by a server who was a dab hand with his chopsticks. Yen Ching beef (shown) had a little heat, but not enough, and the beef was flavorful and tender; strips of carrots and celery added color, texture and flavor.

The other two entrees failed. Garlic chicken included chicken, mushrooms and water chestnuts, but there was almost no evidence or garlic or of flavor, and shrimp in black bean sauce turned out to be shrimp in a sauce that had only a handful of black beans -- not a black bean sauce. Very disappointing. Interestingly, with all these entrees, the first bites seemed pretty good but the flavors receded rapidly.

Service was competent and pleasant, but dinner at Yen Ching today is not a happy experience, and as autographed photographs of Mark McGwire and Fernando Vina looked down from the walls, we were reminded that they had peaked many years ago, too.

 

Yen Ching

1012 S. Brentwood Blvd., Richmond Heights

314-721-7507

Lunch & Dinner Daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Poor

Smoking: No

Entrees: $9-$16

The Conquest

Having watched Republican candidates through this never-ending primary campaign was the perfect preparation for looking at "The Conquest," a tale of Nicolas Sarkozy and his lengthy, vicious campaign to become president of France.

All politicians are nuts!

Watching Sarkozy destroy his rivals, ridicule his predecessors and supposed colleagues, leap from bed to bed and totally act as if power were everything, is an exercise in bad manners and worse taste. As I said, there are horrid overtones of the current primary race and the frightening assurance that these awful excesses will get worse during the run-up to the 2012 general election.

Denis Podalycles is amazing in his portrayal of Sarkozy; he looks and moves and talks exactly as I remember seeing the French politician in action, and Samuel Labarthe has the identical approach as the dapper, distinguished-looking Dominique de Villepin. Director Xavier Durringer, who collaborated on the screenplay with Patrick Rotman, has muddied the line between fiction and non-fiction, showing how political infighting in France, as in the U.S., is among the dirtiest of businesses.

Wives are involved, too, and Durringer shows the close-to-the-throne position taken by Bernadette Chirac (Michele Noretti). More peculiar, almost Gingrichy in its approach to fidelity and vows, is the relationship among the candidate and his wives (three for each). Carla Bruni, Sarkozy's current wife, does not appear, nor does his first wife, Marie-Dominique. But the second wife, Cecelia (Florence Pernel), is the brains behind his campaign, which she is running even though she's trying to leave him to run off with her lover. Somehow, Sarkozy keeps her close, though blackmail of some sort is hinted at. Finally, on election night, she's gone, in highly dramatic style.

A campaign that ends with an election in 2007 isn't highly dramatic, of course, but Durringer keeps the non-action moving rapidly. Sarkozy, his movements and expressions on the wild side, is fascinating (another comparison with today's Republicans), and Podalycles is remarkable in his resemblance. The surreal world of politics, in France as in our own nation, continues to be slightly beyond belief. And yet, we're as fixated as we would be on a massive auto crash

The Conquest opens today at the Tivoli

General Orders No. 9

"One last trip down the rabbit hole before it's paved over," is probably a description of his new film by Robert Persons, its author, producer, director and director of photography. It has a strange name, "General Orders No. 9," but it's not a military film. It's a documentary, a look at part of Georgia, and it has a recurring theme, "Deer trail becomes Indian trail becomes county road," delivered in almost a monotone by narrator William Davidson. Further development includes state highways, federal highways and interstates, which are the ultimate enemy.

The film opens today and plays through Sunday as part of the Webster University film series. Did I like it? Not really, but it was a film that engaged part of me intellectually, and at 72 minutes, it certainly did not waste a day, or an evening.

Persons has a poetic rhythm to his writing; it's sparse but not unpleasant.

On several occasions, we see a wooded area that becomes a house. A town square grows around it. The county courthouse inhabits the square, a weather vane on top like a cherry on a sundae. Four streets circumnavigate it. What begins with simplicity ends with Atlanta, with highways inserted as if they were heart valves or plastic blood vessels. Their arrival means that life continues in the city, but it also means that the city is built for automobiles, not for people .

There are no people in Persons' film. There are some charming scenes of player piano rolls in action, with other mechanical instruments as company. But to a greater extent, we see decay and abandonment, the detritus left by storms, grim warnings of steam emanating from atomic power plants. The Apocalypse is coming and there will not be enough left to provide the long-promised inheritance to the meek.

General Orders No. 9 will play tonight, tomorrow and Sunday at the Winifred Moore Auditorium on the Webster University campus as part of the university's film series

-- Joe

Roberto's Trattoria

We wrote about Roberto's Trattoria, a popular favorite, for the print edition of St. Louis Magazine. You can read about that here.

San Jose Mexican Restorante

Far better than Martha Stewart's favorite accolade, it's a great thing that kids in the Crestwood-Affton area are learning that good Mexican food doesn't have to come from chain restaurants. We had dinner recently at San Jose Mexican Restaurante, in a new strip mall across Watson Road from the soon-to-be-revived-we-hope Crestwood mall. Banana yellow, mango orange and tomato red walls hold a number of fine Diego Rivera prints, all under an industrial-chic ceiling and above what looked to be half the young families in the area. The great thing? We had a dinner far better than we expected -- it's fresh, flavorful and lively. Not fiery, but definitely zippy, and if you want even more heat, add a jolt from the table's commercial options.

Not quite the usual menu, either, a little larger and with some un-cliched choices like shrimp and scallops with sauteed onions, bell peppers and tomatoes, and enchiladas with mushrooms or spinach. In fact, vegetarian choices have their own section of the menu. After some of the house salsa, thick and providing an introducing to the heat, we went for the tapatio dip. Think chile-cheeseburger with some pico de gallo on top. Despite the pinkish winter tomato, there were good notes of cilantro, the onion was crunchy, and the texture was right to scoop up with the chips.

Shrimp soup, caldo de camaron, was a clear broth with an array of vegetables, slices of avocado, coins of carrots, pieces of onions, broccoli, cauliflower and at least a half dozen large, perfectly cooked, tasty shrimp. The soup, served piping hot, was punched up with bits of minced jalapeno, and three warm, soft flour tortillas came alongside.

It's hard to resist sampling tacos at any intriguing Mexican restaurant, and San Jose was no exception. Small corn tortillas, single ones, not doubles, and without garnishes,are wrapped around their filling. The taco al pastor (shown here) was packed with crispy bits of pork, its pineapple notes more forward than most of its brethren around town. We're not much on hamburger taco fillings; other meat and other cuts are nearly always more interesting. But in the taco ranchero, the juicy seasoning of the ground beef made us happy, and it rose to real joy with the thick corn tortilla wrapped around it. It had been pan-fried to chewy crispness and was delicious. A fish taco, however, was a let-down. Chopped up fish, probably tilapia, had been fried to brownness, losing much of its fishy savor. It was too salty, and certainly had none of the trimmings we've come to expect from fish tacos like shredded cabbage or creamy sauce. Two hits and a miss.

Chilaquiles, strips of corn tortillas and pieces of chicken cooked briefly in either red or green salsa, and topped with cheese, charmed. We opted for both red and green sauce, and were particularly taken with the green, which displayed the definite citrus flavor of tomatillos. Unlike some versions, this one didn't use eggs or beans, but it certainly tasted good, sufficiently spicy that extra hot sauce wasn't called for, and with a clear indication of cumin beyond that tomatillo and pepper. Rice wasn't overcooked, but be prepared that the guacamole often used as a side is a fairly small serving, and guacamole fiends may want an order for a first course. Not enough here for us to do a complete analysis, but the dab was pretty good.

San Jose's sopapilla, too, is different, a nicely warmed flat flour tortilla, and syrup rather than honey for a drizzle. Plenty of cinnamon sugar and a scoop of vanilla ice cream added the traditional notes. Nice crisp-warm-cool-creamy contrast, but the syrup was a shock.

Great service, and plenty of high chairs. Don't get the idea this isn't adult friendly, though, margaritas come from a slushy server and there's beer; as the evening progressed, the crowd got older. But all the children, from lap-sized to a 21st birthday, seemed to enjoy the non-mass-produced Mexican food.

 

San Jose Mexican Restaurante

9579 Watson Rd., Crestwood

314-842-9090

Lunch & Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $8-$11

A Midsummer Night's Dream

There's a huge, happy Mardi Gras party going on at the Grandel Theatre, and it won't stop on Wednesday. The Black Rep's highly enjoyable production of Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream," which opened over the weekend, will run until March 4, giving lots of people the chance to enjoy it.

One of the great joys of Shakespeare is that they take happily to all sorts of changes in time and place. Leave the language alone, and keep the basic story line intact, and "Romeo and Juliet" can be set in Prohibition-era Chicago, or "Julius Caesar" will work in 1930s Italy.

The current "Midsummer" is set, the program states, in 1970s Athens, and while the music often matches, Dunsi Dai's set of live oaks dripping moss made me think of I-55 between Memphis and Jackson, Miss. Meanwhile, costume designer Sarita Fellows obviously collected all the glitter and most of the tasteless clothes from all over town. The glitter is everywhere.

Director Chris Anthony, a hometown talent who was a Black Rep intern not so long ago and now is the associate artistic director of the Shakespeare Center of Los Angeles, gets most of the credit for the wide-open, high-flying, broadly staged and acted comedy. Physical comedy abounds, with pratfalls, fights, tumbling and other types of clowning around. At the same time, most of the actors do extremely well with Shakespeare's formal, often old-fashioned language.

Anthony. with help from choreographer Heather Beal, also brings a great deal of movement into the action. There's some dancing, of mostly modern styles, but mostly it's in humorous, engaging bits and pieces, a couple of steps here, a single actor's joyous jump there, a giddy and happy "swing your partner" somewhere else. It's all fun.

The story is simple, and simply confusing, with two loving couples who sometimes switch allegiances, if not partners, sometimes on their own, sometimes under a magic spell by Puck (a bouncy, delightful Daniel D. Hodges). There's a king and queen of the community and of the night-in-the-forest people, with Robert Mitchell a charmer with a twinkle in his eye and Monica Parks sliding from royalty to flirtatiousness and back again.

The four younger lovers are Lysander (Chauncey Thomas) and Hermia (Courtney Brown) in one corner, Demetrius (Anthony Peeples) and Helena (Patrese D. McClain) in the other. The first three sparkled from start to finish; McClain began slowly, then turned things up a few notches to rocket through the second act. Thomas and Brown engage in some rand physical comedy, and Brown is worth the price of admission when she storms about "the bounds of a maiden's passion." Chad Morris lit up the first scene as Hermia's father, showing just a hint of Tony Soprano. When he returned later, in shining drag as one of the Fairies, he showed another facet of his skills.

And then there was the subplot of the play-within-a-play, with the "mechanicals" performing "Pyramus and Thisbe," under the direction of Amy Loui as Peter Quince, just as harried as a real-life director. She's a delight, and her actors, a round-faced, wonderful Matthew Galbreath as Bottom/Pyramus; a tall, thin, splendid physical comedian, Ryan Cunningham as Flute/Thisbe; Candice Jeanine, a poker-faced and funny as the Wall and as Snout; Philip C. Dixon as Starveling/Moonshine; and Diamond Emelda Skinner as a remarkable, winning Lion.

The play is nonsense, but so much fun. Galbreath is a stitch as the actor who wants to play all the parts and re-write the script, too. Cunningham's horizontal-striped, purple-and-green socks were a highlight, too.

A Midsummer Night's Dream, a production of the St. Louis Black Repertory Company, opened Feb. 17 and will run through March 4 at the Grandel Theatre.

-- Joe

The Maids

Jean Genet's often-satiric, sometimes-salacious fantasy-play, "The Maids," opened last night at the Kranzberg Black Box Theatre. The Upstream Theatre production is interesting and involving, like everything Upstream does, but the play itself, which runs through March 4, falls short of being completely satisfying.

Whether because of Martin Crimp's 13-year-old translation, or the direction by Wieslaw Gorski, there's a feeling of sanitizing, of eliminating some of the overt sexuality and leaving the whip in the props closet, to name a couple of moments that softened the harsh effect that Genet seemed to relish. So did a program error that listed Madame as Mother, which asks an unfamiliar audience member to expect someone very different.

Solange (Emily Baker) and Claire (Brooke Edwards) are sisters, rivals and maids in an upper-class French home. When Madame (Elizabeth Ann Townsend) is away, they meet in her bedroom, play dress-up in her clothes and torment one another, with sexual overtones that are strong, though played down in Gorski's version. For example, Claire accuses Solange of having an affair with a "delivery boy." Genet's original version describes him as a milkman, which offers a different image. The milkman, even without his long vaudeville reputation, would be a more regular visitor, older and more able to cope with carrying on with both sisters, individually but simultaneously.

Claire, the older, takes the lead most of the time, and Edwards can be very strong, though her' many tattoos are a distraction. Solange, showing off her awful self-image, grovels happily.

Whether Madame is real, or just a visible illusion, is up for grabs, but Townsend handles the role nicely. Genet, the son of a Paris prostitute abandoned by his mother when he was a year old, obviously did not like women. A homosexual, male prostitute and thief who spent a lot of time in prison, his disdain for the gender shows early and often.

The acting is good, but the play could be a lot more powerful if the passions were more overt. Jason Coale's set looks like a very expensive bordello, which is just how it should look.

The Maids, a production of Upstream Theater, opened last night at the Kranzberg Arts Center and will run through March 4.

-- Joe

Love Letters

"Love Letters," the two-person play by A. R. Gurney that opened last night as -- perhaps -- the final production of the Avalon Theater Company, is about love and letters, only tangentially about Love Letters. With Larry Mabrey and his real-life wife, Erin Kelley, as the cast, it runs through the weekend at the Crestwood Mall. A week later, the mall will close and evict the various artistic and cultural communities who have brought joy and laughter to the shrunken halls of what once was known as "Crestwood Plaza, where the Big Stores Are."

"Love Letters," which has been around since the late 1980s, is a gimmick, but also a piece of theater that connects. Two actors, portraying Andrew Makepeace Ladd III and Melissa Gardner, sit at a table and read a half-century's worth of letters, cards, invitations and the like between a pair of wealthy New England WASPs who were, for lack of a better word, friends who warily circled one another, like moths around a flame, each too cautious to get too close.

It's a charming evening, directed simply and graciously by Joneal Joplin. Like a lot of wealthy, privileged children of the 20th century, they are both pushed together and pulled apart by parents, schools and teachers. They neck in parked cars and campus clothes closets, they go to dances and drink too much. They proceed earnestly in their pre-ordained directions, fueled by trust funds and taught to have social consciences, at least in public.

Andy and Melissa meet in second grade, stay in touch with letters. He likes to write them; she hates it. He goes private prep school and plays hockey, then on to Yale, to the Navy in World War II, to Harvard Law School, to a white-shoe New York law firm, to the New York legislature and the U. S. Senate. She is expelled from a variety of schools, she loves, as the saying goes, "not wisely but too well," and she drinks.

When they do see one another, at a Harvard-Yale football game or another similar occasion when expectations and nervousness are high, the date turns out to be a disaster on one or another level.

Mabrey and Kelley are excellent. He's stuffy and preachy; she's snarky and easily angered. Long pauses follow, but their feelings are too strong, and contact is re-made. Life is not easy for either of them, and even if it were easier, they are not prepared for it. Gurney understands the people he writes about, and he is a skilled enough writer that his plays transcend the upper classes of lower New England and speak to everyone.

And, as the Avalon Theatre Company goes on hiatus, Mabrey and Kelley will be associated with the new Grand Center Arts Academy where, perhaps, the Avalon banner will fly over Midtown some day. They gave St. Louis some very good theater in a variety of locations and I look forward to their return.

Love Letters by A. R. Gurney opened last night at the Art Space in the Crestwood Mall and will play through Sunday.

-- Joe

A Separation

Iranian writer-director Asghar Farhadi is a nominee for an Academy Award, for Best Original Screenplay. His simple but heart-rending movie, "A Separation," is a candidate for the Best Foreign Language film Oscar. Winning both would be a victory for the longest long shot in Oscar history, but neither would be undeserved.

The film, which opens here today, involves an Iranian family, Nader (Payman Maadi), his wife, Simin (Leila Hatami) and their daughter, Termeh (Sarina Farhadi, the director's off-screen daughter). Given the turmoil of the Middle East, Simin wants the family to move to the U.S. so that Termeh can grow up in a more peaceful, less restrictive environment. Nader supports the idea, but refuses to leave his aging father, who lives with them and who is suffering from Alzheimer's.

Difficult decision, right? "Of course right," as Tevye would say, right from the Russian shtetl of "Fiddler on the Roof?"

That's the heart of Farhadi's film, mostly drama with a large slice of how difficult it is to live in the theocracy that is Iran, a smaller slice of comedy of manners and morals in a restrictive society.

Simin decides to move out, to start working on her emigration, but Temeh decides to stay with her father. Nader, at Simin's suggestion, hires Razieh (Sareh Bayat) to spent days with his father, played so very well by Ali-Asghar Shahbazi. Razieh, young, pregnant and unlettered, is over her head. When the old man is incontinent, she checks to find out of she can clean him without committing a sin. And, piling another straw on her slender back, she has a young daughter as well as being pregnant. Her husband, the quick-to-anger Houjat (Shahab Hosseini), is furious that she is working a menial job, but he's happy to take her money.

Given all these wandering shards of plot, we have a major soap opera in action, but Farhadi gives all these people as much dignity as they can carry, maybe more, and the excellent cast responds beautifully. Simin and Temeh are especially good. The complex goings-on always are easy to follow, and Farhadi leads the cast through a Middle Eastern court that appears to be an Arabic version of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. A splendid film.

A Separation opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

-- Joe

Young Goethe in Love

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, German author and philosopher, was a young man like many other young men of the late 18th century, when he lived, or of the early 21st, when we do. So "Young Goethe in Love," which opens today, is a charming coming-of-age movie about a charming, intelligent person who didn't quite fit in.

Alexander Fehling, handsome, ingenuous and visually appealing, portrays Goethe in a film directed by Philipp Stolzl, written by the director with Christoph Muller and Alexander Dydyna. Goethe is hit a figurative one-two punch, a left hook when he is denied his doctorate, a right cross when a publisher rejects his book. His father, well-played by Henry Hubchen, sends him to a small town to work as a clerk of the court while he gets his head together and prepares a second intellectual assault on the Establishment.

But Goethe is not quite ready and a pair of intrusions sidetrack him. A newfound buddy, Wilhelm Jerusalem (Volker Broch), is happy to go drinking with him, and a charming, busy, red-haired young woman, Lotte (Miriam Stein), is eagerly available to be courted. She's a hoot, in charge of a group of siblings being reared by her and her father (a delightful Burghart Klaussna) after the death, in childbirth by Lotte's mother.

Considering Goethe's often-ponderous prose, the movie would demonstrate how Goethe grew up to become Neil Simon, but such is not the case.

The young man's boss, Albert Kestner (the terrific Moritz Bleibtrau), tries to keep him on the straight and narrow, but ends up as a competitor.

It's an often-silly movie, but Fehling carries it off with great charm and insouciance, and Stein helps a great deal. A light-hearted movie on the ways of the world.

Young Goethe in Love opens today at the Tivoli

-- Joe

West Side Story

With glorious, exciting music by Leonard Bernstein, dashing lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and rollicking, memorable choreography and direction by Jerome Robbins, "West Side Story" brought something new and different to American musical theater when it opened on Broadway in 1957.

The production that opened at the Fox Theatre last night remains big and brawling (it should be brassy, too, but even though the pit orchestra was 19 musicians strong, it seemed a little light in that area). And it's slightly different in tone. Arthur Laurents, who wrote the original book, directs the current production,which began in New York in 2009, and has made it darker. More of the dialogue is in Spanish, reflecting New York today. A couple of songs are sung in both English and Spanish, a good touch. Most important, none of the gang members are "cute." It starts with Riff (Drew Foster), who enters and stands at center stage -- and glares angrily at the audience. So do his buddies on the Jets, and the attitude remains throughout.

Of course, Bernstein and Robbins started that. No 1957 American musical ended its first act with two dead bodies on the stage.

"West Side Story" remains powerful. It's a dancers' show, with some splendid work by the entire cast. Joey McKneeley reproduced the Robbins choreography, all sudden moves and sharp edges. That leaves a few of the singers a little short, but I think that's because it was more important to cast dancers who could sing than vice versa.

Sometimes that distinction is very narrow. Michelle Aravena, as Anita, shows excellent range, soaring in her second-act duet ("A Boy Like that"/"I Have a Love") with Maria (Evy Ortiz), and she's a fiery delight in "America," where she and the Shark girls light up the house. Ortiz seemed more of a balladeer than a belter, but was charmng. Maria and Tony (Ross Lekites) are not the first theatrical couple to fall in love "across a crowded room," but I had a hard time believing Lekites' ardor and his acting as a New York gang kid. It was just all too neat and tidy. Maybe the fact that it was Valentine's Day made this cynic unable to suspend enough disbelief. And the story is based on Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet."

German Santiago was excellent as Bernardo, leader of the Sharks and brother to Anita, and three of the Jets also stood out, the aforementioned Foster as Riff, Jon Drake as Action, who wants to be a leader but who just can't reach higher than a post as a trouble-maker and agitator, and Alexandra Frohlinger, the cute little tomboy (yep, a word not heard in years, but it fits) who is desperate to become a gang member. She certainly does not play the role in a way to justify her disparaging nickname, but Action finally does something nice for someone when he tells her that as a reward for her courage, she can be a member. The Adults, including Doc, the drugstore owner (John O'Creagh), Officer Krupke (Wally Dunn) and Lt. Schrank (Mike Boland), barely reach two-dimensional but that's the way Laurent wrote them

James Youmans' set design works nicely, giving a dark feeling of being under what probably then was the West Side Highway and now has been gentrified as the Meat-Packing District and the High Line. There were a few missed cues, but that's an easily solved problem.

David C. Woolard's costumes worked nicely in character with the players and Howell Binkley's lights provided a proper emphasis.

West Side Story, a touring production, opened last night at the Fox Theatre to run through Feb. 26

--Joe

Boodles BBQ

Silly, we suppose, but we're always interested when we see the re-use of fast food spots. Boodles BBQ (CQ) is in what appears to be an old Wendy's. That means there's plenty of room to stand back, look up at the menu board and ponder the options. More room, too, for mobility assistance devices like wheelchairs.

Like an increasing number of 'que houses these days, there's turkey as well as chicken on the menu. Plenty of options, too, for combination plates and a somewhat wider range of sides. All that contributes to the pondering, but in the end, we stuck to the traditional stuff, ribs, brisket and pulled pork.

The pulled pork sandwich sat on a properly toasted bun, a touch of attentiveness we appreciate more on cold nights, when a dish meant to be served hot should be more than merely warmish. The pork was tender and moist but not piggish enough in its flavor. And it didn't seem very smoky, either. Slices of beef brisket had the desirable red edges, and their texture was just right, neither tough nor crumbly. Again, reasonably moist. and again, not smoky enough. Pork ribs certainly hit the pig notes the right way, with good flavor. We're not so keen on ribs whose meat falls off the bone; it hints at some kind of moist heat. These were moving in that direction, but stopped short, and they, too, were only mildly smoky.

Three sauces, a sweet tomato, a mildly spicy tomato and a mustardy Carolina-style. Nothing incendiary in the squeeze bottles, but there was a pleasing infusion of mustard to make the Carolina stand out.

Among the sides, we skipped the corn -- the charm of deep-fried corn has always escaped us, so we hit the baked beans, quite good, with a molasses note. Coleslaw wears a creamy dressing and was above average, although amazingly cold.

And then there were the picnic potatoes. Sometimes known as funeral potatoes, they're cubed cooked potatoes in a cheese sauce, and we certainly understand not putting "funeral potatoes" on a menu. But don't worry about the name. These are creamy, cheesy and utterly irresistible; one might describe them as pure Paula Deen, but they're hot and seductive.

Pleasant young employees in a spanking-clean setting earnestly inquired about our satisfaction and needs. If only they could have made the barbeque smokier....

 

Boodles BBQ

10024 Gravois Rd.

314-631-0000

www.boodlesbbq.com 

Lunch & Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $7-$21

 

New York City: Colicchio & Sons

 

While we normally post here about our restaurant experiences when we travel, St. Louis Magazine's food blog Relish decided they'd like them. We were really happy with Colicchio & Sons, and it's following the trend for offering less-pricey options. You can read about it here.

Valentine bubbles

Oh, so you also forgot what's going on tomorrow. . . .

Well, we have to move fast, because it's Valentine's Day, and if we don't have sparkling wine, or Bubbly, or Champagne for the holiday and for our wife-husband-boy friend-girl friend-lover-mistress-whoever, we're in big trouble.

Sparkling wine is a great drink. The bubbles add a touch of fascination as they rise through the glass. Look for small, busy ones as you prepare to drink. Bring your nose close as you inhale the aroma, feel the exploding bubbles tickle your nose. A delightful feeling. There should be fruit, or toastiness, as you sniff. The fruit aromas may vary, since sparkling wine can be made from so many different grapes. Classic French Champagne is usually a blend of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay, sometimes just Chardonnay. Champagne labeled "Blanc de Blancs" means it's all from white grapes. Moscato, the current hot grape, will sparkle. So will Sauvignon Blanc, even Catawba.

Dave Johnson, the excellent Stone Hill winemaker, has made superb sparklers from Catawba grapes, something I didn't think possible until I tasted his.

Several of the first-class French Champagne makers, like Taittinger, Moet et Chandon and Roederer, have built wineries in California, using the names Domaine Carneros, Domaine Chandon and Roederer Estates, respectively, and calling them Sparkling Wine. French law is that Champagne can be made only in the district that bears the name, with Reims and Ay the principal cities.

Blanquette de Limoux, from the area around Limoux, is the oldest of the sparklers, with the wine made several centuries before Dom Perignon "invented" it, as some claim. The 2006 vintage from Sainte Hilaire is a delightful drink, light and crisp and very fruity.

Taittinger's Domaine Carneros label has a splendid 2005 La Reve, and "Nocturne," from France. The label writer for the Nocturne may have sampled a bit too freely, with the wine described as "the refined Champagne for a successful evening," which covers a multitude of situations. Both are tasty drinks. The fact that the Nocturne does not have a vintage date is typical of many French bubblies, whose winemakers blend wines from several vintages to create the final product.

Billecart-Salmon is another producer of fine Sparklers, and its Brut Rose, a lovely pink color, has a hint of its red component in the finish. Delicious.

Sparklers range in price from the low single-digits ($5 of $6 in some stores) to the several hundreds of dollars per bottle. American producers like Schramsberg bring superior sparklers from the Napa Valley and Domaine Roederer, from the Anderson Valley of Mendocino County long has been a personal favorite. Freixenet, from Spain, also has a California presence.

And while French Champagne has a certain cachet, good sparklers come from every country. Australia makes a delicious sparkling Syrah, and while the Italians call it Prosecco, the Spanish call it Cava and the Germans call it Sekt, it's all sparkles, with upwards of 40 million bubbles to a bottle.

-Joe

Race

It's David Mamet, so we expect bad language. It's David Mamet, and the cast includes a woman, which predicts that the woman is going to throw a monkey wrench into the works, as she does in "Oleanna" and "Speed-the-Plow." It's David Mamet, which means we're in for an Indianapolis-type pace, sudden moves and some very tight turns.

Mamet's "Race," which opened last night at the Rep's Main Stage to run through March 4, raises questions, as his plays always do. Some are important and thought-provoking, even necessary in today's world, some are there just to cause some mental or emotional disturbance to the audience, as his plays always do. It seems to be a point of pride for him.

Mamet is a fine playwright, but he does often acts in a rather peculiar manner. For example, he recently moved politically from the Left to the Right and announced it. Who cares what his political feelings are; you're a playwright. Write us some good plays. With an interesting, thought-provoking play like "Race," which brought more black audience members than Rep opening nights usually do, Mamet has issued an edict that there cannot be post-performance discussions about the play. No reason has been given. I think that's dumb.

And a personal note: Sometime in the mid-to-late1970s, he wrote a play called "Lone Canoe," with its world premiere scheduled as the high point of the American Theater Critics Assn. annual conference in his home town of Chicago. After reading us a lengthy diatribe at a conference session, he told us it was off the record, a demand that most of us ignored. His play, poorly plotted and poorly written, sank like a stone in Lake Michigan. He rewrote much of it, retitled it "Lakeboat." It sank even more rapidly.

"Race," deals with a wealthy, powerful white man, Charles Strickland (a solid Mark Elliot Wilson), accused of rape by a young black woman. After dropping (or being dropped) by one law firm, he shows up in the office of another, a partnership between Jack Lawson, a white lawyer (a fierce, voluble, excitable, powerful Jeff Talbott) and Henry Brown, a black one (a wonderful balance by Morocco Omari, less mercurial but equally strong). They also have a young black woman lawyer (impressive Zoey Martinson), who's utilized as sort of a secretary and clerk who gets the coffee. Mamet shows immediately her lesser importance. He does not even give her a last name. Talbott's comes across like a machine gun; Omari is not noticeably louder, but his statements echo.

Strickland claims innocence, of course. Lawson persuades Omari that they should take the case, which has the opportunity to give them a larger presence. Besides, Strickland can afford a very hefty fee. But they founder on the topic of race, which leads into even deeper discussions of human behavior. Discussing race is not easy, even when people of various types, styles, colors -- what have you -- are educated, "modern" people. Old feelings die hard, and they're not dead yet. Mamet does not have the answers either, and a couple of odd plot twists weaken it a little.

Director Timothy Near has this racing team roaring at almost a fever pitch, the hot dialogue perfectly chilled by the ice cube tray cool of John Ezell's set, all glass partitions and modern furniture, lighted brightly enough by Brian Sidney Bembridge to permit surgery on the conference table. Myrna Colley-Lee's costume design is just right for the members of a white-shoe law firm.

Race, a production of the Repertory Theatre of St. Louis, opened last night at the Loretto-Hilton Center, to run through March 4

-- Joe

Pina

Perhaps good things do happen if you wait -- I finally saw a movie in 3-D where the process belonged, and actually made the movie more enjoyable. Of course, it's a spectacularly beautiful piece of work, a documentary about the great German choreographer and dancer, Pina Bausch, written and directed by Wim Wenders, a leader in the modern German film movement of the 1970s and still a brilliant writer and director. The movie is nominated for an Academy Award for best foreign-language feature.

"Pina" is one of the rare movies that you feel was not long enough. I wanted more -- more dance, more music, more interviews with the dancers talking about her.

And that's another strange part of the story. Bausch was 68 when she died of a particularly invasive cancer, only five days after she was diagnosed, and a mere two days before Wenders and his crew started shooting. The German city of Wuppental, the home base of her company, served as the location, under the monorail that rolls above the main street, alongside the river that rumbles by.

Under the guidance of Wenders, co-directors of photography Helene Louvart and Jorg Wiidmer, and editor Teri Froschhammer show remarkable talent. Wenders' work in the documentary field includes the wonderful "The Buena Vista Social Club," about a Cuban band.

And the 3-D helps. The process is used modestly. Not every leap is toward the audience. Movements are not made to shock, but to emphasize. The dancers may raise their voices a little, but they don't go into a move yelling, "Hey, look at me!"

There are 12-15 dancers, working in a huge studio, or on a street, or in a field alongside that river. There are props, of course, but they belong. They are part of Bausch's vision, and they are of all ages, all shapes, all sizes, many colors. A number of them are interviewed, and they seem to revere Bausch, whose reputation for humiliating and abusing them during rehearsals is legendary. But she loved them, and the feelings were mutual

There is no dance "program," as such, and no dialogue, but they dance parts of many pieces that were key sections of the programs they danced all over the world. They're lithe and limber and they do things the human body should not be able to do, and it's breath-taking and gloriously entertaining and everybody should see this great film while it's here.

Pina opens today at the Chase-Park Plaza Cinema

-- Joe

Oscar-Nominated Shorts

The Academy Awards are a very big deal to moviegoers and fans, as well as to the film community. The short subjects get very short shrift. I understand that short shrift is better than no shrift at all, but the 10 candidates for Best Short Subject -- five Live Action and five Animation -- go on screen today in a single collaboration that gives fans the opportunity to see everything at one time.

And as a group, they're terrific. . . .

Individually, my favorites were the Norwegian "Tuba Atlantic," which spoofs and admires Norwegians and their attitudes at the same time in a very funny 25 minutes, in the Live Action category, and a charming, loving view of books and literature in a 17-minute American film, "The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore," among the Animation entries.

Other nominees in the Animation division are "Morning Stroll," from England; "Sunday," from Canada; "Wildlife," also from Canada; and "La Luna," another from the U.S. Additional Live Action finalists are "Pentecost," from Ireland; "Raju," a German-Indian collaboration; "The Time Freak," from the U.S. and "The Shore," from Northern Ireland.

A 70-year-old Norwegian hermit, living in a fjord-side hut, is told he has six days to live and is sent Inger, a teen-age blonde from the Jesus Club. She's in training to be an Angel of Death, to help people board the boat over the River Styx in their final days, but her last two subjects survived. She's carrying Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance) written in her school composition book, checking them off as Oskar moves along the path. But Oskar is not going quietly. He has a machine gun he uses against gulls, sticks of dynamite to blow up fish so they are better bait for the birds and the title instrument to contact his brother, who left for New Jersey 30 years earlier. Director Hallvar Witco has other tricks up his sleeve, too, all the way to a chorus of "Anchors Aweigh."

Morris Lessmore loves books, and directors William Joyce and Brandon Oldenberg have put together a beautiful little story about the other lives of books. The animation is delightful, the tale equally so.

The animated films also include the charming "La Luna," in which a small boy is exposed to a magical moon by two older men, perhaps a father and grandfather, or a father and uncle. "Morning Stroll" involves a man and a chicken whose paths cross. "Sunday" and "Wild Life," the Canadian films, are rather pessimistic in their outlook, though both are set many years in the past. The latter, set in 1909, deals with English sporting-life types in western Canada in 1909. The comparison with a comet comes from directors Amanda Forbes and Wendy Tilby, who liken the paths of the newcomers to a comet, whose erratic path narrows until it falls into the sun. "Sunday" displays how dull Sunday must have been for a small boy living in the country with only church and the passing trains to intersect with apparent excruciating boredom.

On the live action side, "Pentecost," which opens over the familiar strains of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," is a funny little tale of an Irish boy whose father insists he be an altar boy while the son wants to be a soccer (football) fan. The priests, who want the Mass to look good because a higher-ranking priest will be visiting, provide pep talks as if then boys were about to play a game rather than be involved in a church service. "Go out and have the Mass of your life!" says one to the assembled lads, and Peter McDonald's film is special.

"The Shore," from Northern Ireland's Terry George, is another tragedy, with lovers and

and families carrying on feuds because of misunderstandings, and "Raju," a co-production between India and Germany, looks at what might very well be an adoption scam. The world twists differently in "Time Freak," a U.S. film where someone invents a time machine that does not go very far. It's clever and enjoyable.

The great thing about shorts, in my opinion, is that a single movie-going experience can touch so many different styles and subject matters, all of them interesting and well-made. And if one is not to my liking, well, like streetcars, there will be another one along in a few minues.

Oscar-Nominated Shorts opens today at the Tivoli.

-- Joe

Brunch: LuLu Seafood

Time for dim sum on Saturday or Sunday? We dropped by LuLu a while back and wrote about it for Relish, the St. Louis Magazine blog. You can read about it here.

Black Thorn Pub & Pizza

 

Why is a dive bar just off South Grand one of St. Louis' pizza-insider secrets?

Because the pizza is very good, and St. Louisans may be particularly quirky about their pizza. We can't think of another city where the cheese is the subject of so much controversy, for instance. We're fond of Imo's, and we don't know of another local chain with so many outlets and fans, but there are those who become near-hysterical over their dislike for that sort of extra-thin rendition.

Black Thorn Pub & Pizza looks as if it's been there for generations. The inside is darkish, simple to the point of rusticity, its primary decoration a series of dollar bills tacked to the ceiling, a jukebox, a couple of pinball machines and a bar-style shuffleboard. Before the city's smoking ban, the air was thick, but they've done a good job of removing most of the residual odor. Beer appears to be the preferred drink. The crowd is mostly young, and some nights it's a meeting place for girl-friend get-togethers. Crowded on weekends.

Menu cards are on tables, a larger one over the bar. The bartender takes food orders, makes drinks and does about everything except cook the pizzas. A loudspeaker announces each order; sometimes the bartender brings it to the table, and sometimes it's a do-it-yourself. Be warned: the pizza oven is small, and the wait can be more than an hour during busy times. We hear stories that even the salads can arrive on a, uh, rather leisurely basis.

So what's to eat? Three kinds of pizza, a couple of salads and some garlic bread. That's it, and the toppings list is rather brief, too. No pineapple, no pesto, no barbecued chicken. Not even any anchovies, but we soldiered on, despite that shortcoming.

The Caesar salad is better than one might imagine, romaine that is crisp, with a tasty dressing and fresh croutons. The cheese, of course, isn't Parmigiano, but generous shreds of mozzarella. Two sizes, but only the large for carryout.

Deep dish, thick crust, and thin crust are the big quandary. How thin? What's the difference between thick crust and deep dish? How deep is deep? We tried all three, and were very happy with two. Thick crust, shown here, is close to an inch thick, chewy and just a little yeasty. The sauce itself has a little heat, with a cooked-tomato taste and a nice layer of oregano. Ours wore bacon, mushrooms and onion, the latter still with some body and bacon losing only part of its crunch with the moisture, but still a good combination. Black Thorn uses mozzarella cheese, in all its stretchy-stringy glory. While we generally prefer a thinner crust, this was a more-than worthwhile substitute.

The deep dish crust itself isn't a whole lot thicker mid-pie than the thick crust version. It's at the edges that we found significant difference. The crust is folded inward on itself, enclosing some of the toppings to produce a stuffed-crust effect. The same spicy sauce, seemingly a more generous hand with the cheese, this one topped with fresh mushrooms and a double hit of pepperoni, a topping we're greeting with increasing fondness. Here's a picture of the deep dish; those plastic triangles are inserted in the carry-out deep dish to keep the cheese and the pizza box top apart, and do their job:

The thin crust came as something of a shock. After the irregularity of the thicker offerings, its symmetrical roundness was striking, and the texture was completely unremarkable, neither crisp nor particularly chewy. Flipping it over, we noted the small indentations that led us to think it may have been pre-made. Same sauce, a reasonable amount of cheese, and this time jalapenos that were spicy enough to have escaped from one of the Cherokee Street Mexican markets. That's it by the address and info.

Black Thorn is successful enough to operate on its own terms; we discovered, for instance, a firm policy on ordering takeout: Don't call until the official opening time (5 o'clock), and certainly don't order today to pick up tomorrow. But it's okay to order by phone while driving through Tower Grove Park, which can reduce the waiting time. Or go on a weeknight, and you'll have a fine pizza experience.

 

Black Thorn Pub & Pizza

3735 Wyoming St. (at Spring)

314-776-0534

Pizza nightly

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Tight but passable

Smoking: No

Pizzas: $7-$18

Playland

Athol Fugard, the great South African playwright and anti-apartheid crusader, used to be seen regularly on St. Louis stages. He's been away for a while, driven by nothing more than coincidence, but is back at the Mustard Seed Theatre. A solid production of his 20-year-old "Playland," with passionate performances by Erik Kilpatrick and Charlie Barron, opened at the Fontbonne University Theatre last night. It runs through Feb. 12.

Unfortunately, it's not one of Fugard's best. It's New Year's Eve, 1989, with apartheid crumbling and Nelson Mandela about to be released from prison. A sad, tawdry amusement park has set up temporary quarters, and Courtney Sanazaro's set depicts it well. Kilpatrick, as Martinus Zoelue, black handyman and watchman, is puttering in his workshop. Barron, as Gideon Le Roux, is a white veteran of the 13-year border war between South Africa and the rebels of SWAPO, who represented radical elements in South West Africa and who succeeded in gaining independence in 1990 for the country now known as Namibia. He's a man in severe

pain, obviously suffering from war-related PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). But Barron, using an unfamiliar (to the audience) accent and often speaking too rapidly, is difficult to understand through most of the first act.

Missing much of the first act is not a great loss. Fugard fills it with exposition, some of it fascinating, more of it unnecessary. And Act II, with Barron slowing a little and the accent becoming more familiar, provides gripping entertainment as Barron battles his conscience and his racist past while Kirkpatrick struggles with his personal problems and the fact that he has committed a crime of passion. Two heavyweights go toe to toe in the most brutal battle since the Rumble in the Jungle pitted Muhammad Ali against George Foreman.

Insults fly. Manhood is challenged. Kirkpatrick does not understand why Barron is so desperate to instigate combat. Barron doesn't either, but he is expiating sins that were committed in battle. Lots of parables play out.

Under the perceptive direction of Deanna Jent, the men battle, mostly verbally, but Jent and the actors are passionate, and their heat envelops the theater. As in life, there may be a handshake at the end, but the struggle continues. Neither man completely understands either himself or his opponent. Nor does the audience. Kirkpatrick is brilliant throughout, Barron bats .500, which would lead any major league, any year. Bess Moynihan's lights and Jane Sullivan's costumes fit right in and Meg Brinkley found a couple of props that perfectly illustrate the area of a carnival that the audience doesn't see. And speaking of not seeing, Richard Lewis provides the disembodied voice of the carnival's barker and public address announcer, known as "Barking Barney."

Playland, a production of the Mustard Seed Theatre, opened last night at the Fontbonne University Theatre, to run through Feb. 12

-- Joe

Urinetown: The Musical

Political theater stands tallest, hand-in-hand with satire, which continues to laugh, take curtain calls and ignore George S. Kaufman's remark that it's what closes on Saturday night. They're the leading players in "Urinetown: the Musical," which opened at the Tower Grove Abbey last night in a wild and woolly, foolish and frantic, perfectly delightful production by the Stray Dog Theatre. It will run through Feb. 28.

Justin Been and Gary F. Bell directed at breakneck speed and with perfect control of a 16-person cast in a small space. It's dazzling. J. T. Ricroft contributed charming choreography and also drew laughter with a misbehaving hairpiece and a sycophantic portrayal of Mr. McQueen, hand-maiden and toady to the villain.

The story? Well, Caldwell B. Cladwell, a nifty interpretation by Christopher R. Brenner, owns Urine Good Company, which controls the city's water supply. Greg Kotis, who wrote the book and collaborated with Mark Hollmann on the lyrics (Hollmann wrote the music, passable and a good vehicle to carry the words), uses many pronunciation techniques for "urine," making it sound like "you're in," in the title song that opens the show with Officer Lockstock (a powerful Keith Thompson) leading the way. He also serves as narrator, and explains about musicals and what they mean.

Kotis' book, like all theater of this type, is broad and bawdy, with word lplays, puns, double-entendres, even a verbiage lesson from Little Sally (a sparkling Berklea Going). Someone notes that something was "an unexpected surprise," and Sally, not usually the sharpest knife in the drawer, responds, "Is there another kind?" with perfect timing.

Cladwell installs pay toilets for everyone, and puts Penelope Pennywise (the charming Deborah Sharn, playing tough as nails) in charge.

Honors of the evening, however, go to Jennifer M. Theby as Hope Cladwell, daughter of Caldwell and heiress apparent to UGC. She's a brilliant comic in the role, displaying perfect timing, an ability to adapt and to perform under duress, including tap-dancing while bound to a chair and, after a brief blackout, returning to the stage in the same chair, still bound but wearing a different costume. Ah, the magic of the theater.

Antonio Rodriguez is strong. Of course he is, he's playing Bobby Strong, though the adjective would be "strongly." He's the leader of the revolt, he loves Hope and he sings a splendid duet with her, "Follow Your Heart." He's also in outstanding form as the revival-style, spiritual-style, folk song-style "Run, Freedom, Run," which blazes across the stage.

A real vocal show-stopper is "Don't Be the Bunny," in which Brenner, as Cladwell, sings of the virtues of strength and spells out then difference between those who eat and those who are eaten. Michael Brightman, as a politician who is a bought-and-paid-for friend, joins in happily. Officer Lockstock and his sidekick, Officer Barrel (Josh Douglas) -- I love the "lock, stock and barrel" use by the authors -- are a hoot in "The Cop Song," Sharn gets things off to a fine start with "It's a Privilege to Pee," and Theby and the cast roll up the evening with "I See a River," which salutes, and mocks, more musical-comedy conclusions than one can count.

The evening calls up so many memories. A waving flag is direct from "Les Miz," today's headlines are called to mind when a revolutionary waves a sign saying, "We are the 99 Percent." Everything is old and new at the same time; all references are topical

Anything goes in a musical, which Thompson reminds us early and often, and the theatrical action honors "Awake and Sing," "West Side Story," "Oliver," "The Cradle Will Rock" and many others. Justin Barisonek's multi-level set is just right, as are Alexandra Scibetta Quigley's costumes and Tyler Duenow's lights.

Urinetown, the Musical, a production of Stray Dog Theatre, opened last night at the Tower Grove Abbey, to run through Feb. 28

-- Joe

El Bulli

You can imagine we were particularly interested in El Bulli, the film about the now-closed restaurant in Spain that was a pioneer in the so-called molecular gastronomy. Joe wrote about it here for St. Louis Magazine's blog Relish.

An Unfortunate Episode

Watch those credit cards. While most errors are innocent, they can still lead you into a trail of confusion and irritation. This is from the St. Louis Magazine blog Relish.

Frontenac Grill

And so a restaurant that began as a Coco's, that mid-price, polite version of Denny's, has gone through a few name changes, like a Las Vegas grass widow, and now it's come full circle to be the Frontenac Grill. The project was mostly completed by the late Mike Faille, whose more-or-less full story appeared in St. Louis Magazine last year; he was the man who brought us Talayna's Pizza, stained glass and overwrought statuary. Lawyers for the Sinatra estate, and the very aura of Frontenac eliminated much of that heritage, showing its ancestry in many, emphasis many, large photographs of Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack pals. We're great admirers of Francis Albert Sinatra's singing, but this is not (yet) a spot for the cabaret tunes of the swingin' life he exemplified.

Lights are romantically low, and there are two bar areas, with tables between. Prices are on the high side, but note the location and the name, which define high rent district.

However, primarily -- and happily -- the Frontenac Grill is about the food. Restaurants that are an excuse for something else are, well, poor excuses for restaurants. “Steaks Pasta Pizza” says the sign on Lindbergh Boulevard, and that mostly covers things. And yet there are plenty of details that make sure this isn't taken for just another old-fashioned St. Louis Italian restaurant. And in the kitchen is the executive chef David Timney, who has been successfully feeding St. Louisans more than 20 years

At the top of the appetizer list, for instance, is calamari, and right next to it are crab beignets. The calamari's breading is crunchy and extremely well drained. Alongside are a warm tomato sauce, a little chunky and garlicky, not surprising but pleasant, and aioli, garlic mayonnaise that had been spiked with sriracha, the Southeast Asian hot sauce. Good stuff. In the dimly lit dining room, we thought perhaps it was a remoulade, but whatever the name, it was terrific.

Crab beignets? Ping pong-ball-sized orbs, crumbed on the outside before a trip through the fryer, and inside a gooey center, probably the fontina cheese the menu mentions, with the crab meat and a dab of crab seasoning ala Old Bay. A real winner, making the accompanying sauce superfluous.

Given the restaurant's heritage, pizza was a must as an appetizer to share. Four kinds, St. Louis thin crust, Chicago deep-dish, New York, described as thick bread dough, and Boston, a new one to us. Ann ate a fair amount of pizza in western Massachusetts many years ago, but there was little to distinguish from its counterparts elsewhere. Today's Frontenac version is partially baked and finished on a grill. We found it extremely tasty. Thick by St. Louis standards, it wore a chunky tomato sauce, a light hand with mozzarella and “other cheeses,” and our addition, some salami. Salami is under-appreciated as a pizza topping; it adds the same saltiness as anchovies, plus a little more chew. Cut into julienne, it almost disappeared into the chunky sauce, but showed in the flavor. This was a first-rate pie, one we'd happily order again and again. Just don't let us hear anyone moaning because it's different. Grandma's apple pie and the one made by the cousin who lived in Virginia apple country were different from each other, too.

Most enjoyable among our entrees was the pork chop. Brining is the best thing to happen to pork since the barbecue pit, virtually guaranteeing a juicy, tender piece of pig. This guy was perfectly cooked – the kitchen prefers to do it medium, which is quite acceptable – and topped with a salad of shredded arugula, tart and slightly bitter. The other ingredient was slivers of something slightly crisp, a little sweet, and a faded red color. Too dark for us to distinguish with accuracy, the light of day on the leftovers proved Joe right; it was tomatoes. The sweetness was a good contrast to the greens, which wilted slightly from the chop's heat, and worked well with the meat. We chose an alfredo sauce to go with the pasta side, and it was mild, benefiting from salt and black pepper.

Veal piccata, one of those St. Louis classics by which Italian restaurants should be judged, brought tender slices of veal, hammered thin and sprinkled with the traditional capers. The pan sauce, thickened with flour from the meat's preparation, could have shown a little more lemon, but that's a matter of personal preference. Tutto mare pasta can be sauced with a cream sauce or olive oil. Mussels and clams, plus good shrimp but a minimal amount of crab topped the pasta, but the olive oil option was just not flavorful enough. The ribbons of pasta were reasonably close to al dente, but overall this dish was a miss. Given Timney's prowess. we think that the unassertive seasoning will eventually shape up.

On the dessert front, an apple tart with streusel topping worked well, displaying an excellent crust and nicely tart apples with a little nutmeg to offset the sweet streusel, all topped with cinnamon ice cream. A light, tender bread pudding was scooped into three small balls and drizzled with raspberry and chocolate. Both tasty.

Weekend nights, the Grill offers live music, and as the tables in front of the musicians empty, the tables are removed to make way for dancers. During our visit, a trio began with Al Jarreau and Al Green, and morphed into nostalgic music of the '60's and '70's. Plenty of dancing from a crowd whose dress varied from sparkly tops to pressed jeans and cowboy boots. Our server was pleasant to deal with but slightly disorganized; we guess he was pretty new to the game.

 

Frontenac Grill

731 S. Lindbergh Blvd., Frontenac314-569-4115

www.frontenacgrill.com

Lunch Mon.-Sat., Dinner nightly

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $13-$37