St. Louis Eats and Drinks With Joe and Ann Pollack

Revanche

With a policeman and a prostitute in prominent roles, one would anticipate that sex and violence would dominate "Revanche," an Austrian Oscar candidate for Best Foreign Language film that opens today. But before we engage in any games of conclusion-jumping, let’s look a little more deeply into the excellent film written and directed by Gotz Spielmann.

Irina Potapenko is Tamara, a Ukranian working in a Vienna brothel and carrying on a secret life with Alex, a small-time crook who dreams of major scores but remains pretty much an errand boy for more important mobsters. Johannes Krisch is excellent in the role. When the brothel owner decides he wants Tamara for specialty work, Alex decides to play savior and asks her to wait in the car while he robs a bank, seeking a stake to finance their departure. A young policeman fires a shot at Alex’s fleeing car – and kills Tamara.

Alex escapes to a nearby country town, home of his grandfather.

Guess who lives next door?

Robert, the policeman (Andres Lust), and his wife, Susanne (Ursula Strauss), a happy, couple with one problem, an inability to conceive a child

Granted this is a little convenient for a discussion of morality involving a desperate woman, a saddened small-timer who has obtained his stake but who is suddenly stricken with familial guilt as he sees his grandfather (a superb portrayal by Hannes Thanheiser) begin to fail, a policeman who exults in a continuous efforts at fitness.

Spielmann’s screenplay is taut, stripped of unnecessary verbiage, always on target, and he has brought fine performances from his entire cast. Even in a backwater of society where sex and violence are an integral part of life, Spielmann understands the importance, but shows it as only a small part of larger world. An excellent movie.

At the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

Valentino: The Last Emperor

He was born Valentino Garavani, but from the time he became a first-line fashion designer, among the most haute of the haute couture, he was known solely by his first name, as if he were a soccer star or a rapper. "Valentino: The Last Emperor," which opens today, is a fascinating look into his life and the golden circle in which he lived.

Matt Tyrnauer directed the documentary, showing Valentino’s genius and his spoiled-brat temperament, his ability to create beauty in the midst of chaos, to concentrate at the pinnacle of the fashion world, where clashing temperaments rattle around like grenades with the pins already pulled.

Valentino, along with Giancarlo Giametti, his friend, lover and co-worker for a half-century, put his stamp on fashion for about the same length of time, always a designer with great talent, whose gowns made women look beautiful, whose wedding dress for Jacqueline Kennedy’s marriage to Aristotle Onassis made him a world-wide name, whose patented color creation, Valentino Rosso, or Valentino Red, became a trademark.

The world of high fashion, always a train wreck an instant from happening, is well-captured by Tyrnauer and his crew, and the film is decorated with stars of the silver screen, the golden goblets, the platinum platitudes, the diamond diatribes and the artistic air-kisses all paying homage to the designer. Many familiar faces, all dressed to the nines, show up at parties and fashion shows. making the film like a tour through a Versailles palace filled with petit fours.

At the Hi-Pointe

-Joe

The River's Edge

As the town of Hermann has become more of a weekend destination rather than just a Sunday drive, we get more questions about where to eat dinner. For a number of years, our answer has been the River’s Edge, in residence long enough for Joe to have written about for the Post-Dispatch in 1994. A pleasant drive west from Hermann on country-but properly paved-roads, and a ride on a funny little ferry that uses a cable to keep it straight across the languid Gasconade River, the River’s Edge offers its take on Creole-Cajun food in a 19th century mill that overlooks the river and the small ferry.

Definitely very casual, there’s an outdoor deck and two rooms for dining, one of which shares space with the bar. Parking is...well, "rural" is the best way to describe it. Watch out if the ground is really wet, and get there early if you want to take the five-minute, four-dollar ferry ride because it shuts down at 7 p.m., forcing drivers to go the longer way (directions below).

It draws many diners who are quite familiar with the space, and there are frequent family groups, ranging from in-arms infants to grown up children with their young spouses. The aura is friendly and relaxed, and the owners also operate Simon’s in Hermann.

We began with a cup of gumbo, very thick and tasty, if not quite traditional, made with what seemed to be ground meat. The house salad was rather standard, but fresh and crisp. Lots of folks order the house "flower pot bread," white bread that’s indeed baked and served in flower pots, as shown by the distinctive shape. Very yeasty and light, and quite hot, it was accompanied with honey butter, something that Joe finds absolutely irresistible.

 

Shrimp Three Ways offered a dozen and a half large shrimp, prepared to prove the title. Cold boiled ones weren’t overcooked, and had a lemony cocktail sauce with a good kick of horseradish. Those from the grill also were cooked with considerable respect, slightly smoky and a little chewy from the direct heat, but nice. And the butterflied-and-fried provided the biggest surprise. Fried shrimp aren’t something we’re usually we’re very crazy about. But these were lightly breaded with what may have been panko, those crunchy Japanese bread crumbs, quickly cooked and perfectly drained. Not at all greasy, they retained a lot of shrimpy flavor, something that deep-frying tends to obliterate. A side of the house coleslaw, full of poppy and celery seeds provided contrast.

The house features a Cajun barbecue sauce that’s tomato-based, mild-to-moderately spicy, with a note of orange in it, and it went nicely on a half-slab of ribs, particularly large and meaty ones, very tender, too. Alas, the baked potato alongside seemed to have been steamed because its skin was so soft and its flavor practically non-existent.

Fried ice cream for dessert turned out to be what was essentially a sopapilla, a fried piece of dough topped with ice cream, cinnamon and caramel, a good contrast of temperatures, textures and flavors. But it was the strawberry surprise that tickled us. Two squares of puff pastry were sandwiched around a cream cheese filling, topped with whipped cream and diced fresh strawberries, yummy and all the more fun for being something new.

This is mostly a beer and iced tea house, but refills kept coming fast, and the service was as zippy and friendly as you’d expect in a popular small-town spot.

If you plan on taking the ferry, phone the restaurant and make sure it’s running. (By the way, if you’re looking for a hobby, it’s for sale.) To get to the ferry, leave Hermann on Highway 100 heading east. After six miles the highway makes an abrupt right turn and County Route J keeps going straight ahead. (There’s also a sign aiming you toward the Fredericksburg Ferry.) Follow J until it runs right into the ferry landing. The restaurant is across the river on the left. If the ferry’s not working, continue west on 100 until County Road N intersects. Left on N, follow it to J, and follow J to the little town of Fredericksburg, the ferry and the restaurant.

The River’s Edge

1720 Ferry Rd., Fredericksburg, MO, though the website says Morrison, MO

573-294-7207

www.simonswaterfrontrestaurants.com/riversedgeresta.html

Lunch Sat.-Sun, Dinner Fri.-Sun. (closes 7:30 p.m. Sun.) 

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: No

Smoking: Yes

Lettuce Wraps With Chicken

Uh-huh. You bought all that stuff for an exotic Asian dish, which was okay, but what on earth are you going to do with the rest of the bottle of oyster sauce, the dried mushrooms and the rice wine? Do I have a solution for you? Indeed I do.

I found this recipe in Saveur magazine and thought it would appeal to the emerging palate of our Apprentice Eater. Saveur, it turns out, got it from a great blog called rasamalasia.com and did a little adapting. I did a little more adapting, and this is the result. It’s light, and quick to cook once the prep is done. It’s definitely finger food–in fact, small lettuce leaves could be used to make an hors d’oeuvre. And I don’t think a quick re-heat would do major damage to the meat mixture, so it’s not impossible to cook in advance.

The Saveur version called for 20 cashew nuts. I subbed walnuts, because it’s what I had on hand, but the point of the whole thing is crunch, so it was no surprise to see that the blog used water chestnuts. Both versions called for iceberg lettuce, but thinking about rolling the filling in the lettuce, I had visions of iceberg being more like a crisp taco shell, prone to crack. I had leaf and Boston lettuce on hand, and they worked perfectly. The dried mushrooms give a great flavor, and they keep forever. They’re a staple around here. And the soaking liquid makes a great addition to risotto or soups; I have a resealable plastic bag in the freezer marked "mushroom broth" with just that.

The contrast of the cool lettuce and the warm filling is great. You can have some chili sauce on hand for those who like it a little spicier, but I think this is fine the way it is.

LETTUCE WRAPS WITH CHICKEN

1 lb. ground chicken

12 English walnuts, coarsely chopped

4 dried shiitake mushrooms, softened in hot water, stemmed and finely chopped

2 green onions, finely chopped

4 tsp. soy sauce

1 Tbs. oyster sauce

1 Tbs. rice wine (or dry sherry)

1 tsp. cornstarch

1/2 tsp. sugar

freshly-ground pepper to taste

2 Tbs. cooking oil

3 cloves garlic, finely chopped

16-20 lettuce leaves, to wrap filling

cilantro sprigs or leaves (optional)

Put chicken, nuts, mushrooms and green onions in a bowl. In another bowl, stir together the soy and oyster sauces, wine, cornstarch, sugar and pepper. Pour over chicken and mix well. (Mixture will be very sticky.) Cover and refrigerate for 15 minutes.

Heat a large skillet over high heat. Add the oil, and when oil is hot, add the garlic. Cook for 10-15 seconds and add the chicken. Cook, stirring and breaking up clumps, until all the pink is gone.

Place lettuce leaves on a platter and the chicken mixture in a bowl. Garnish with cilantro. Spoon some the chicken onto a leaf, roll up and eat. The Apprentice Eater had seconds.

Serves 4.

-Ann

(500) Days of Summer

Zooey Deschanel is one of my favorite actresses. She’s pretty, in a laid-back way that presents a charming, blue-eyed sexiness. She, and her co-star, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, are enough to make a success out of a rather zany, often-confusing love story, "(500) Days of Summer."

This is not a symptom of global warming, but the tale of a year and a half in the lives and loves of a girl named Summer Finn, who doesn’t seem to believe in the emotion, and a boy named Tom Hansen, who is simply smitten by the warmth of this Summer.

Director Mark Webb, making his first big-screen movie after a successful run of music videos, takes an interesting, not-always successful, approach to the love story, with flashbacks, jumps forward and a deliberate lack of straightforward continuity. This works well at times, but at others, we’re halfway through the scene before we realize where it belongs in the overall scheme of things.

Finn and Hansen work in a greeting-card company; he writes lyrical nonsense in the Hallmark style but secretly wishes he were an architect. He also has a pair of good pals, nicely played by Geoffrey Arend and Matthew Gray Gubler, and a properly perky younger sister (Chloe Grace Moretz).

The movie takes place in Los Angeles, but Webb and Eric Steelberg, his director of photography, give the city a different, unusual and very special look in their selection of locations and camera angles. A city that usually shows only the fancy shops on Rodeo Drive looks attractive and welcoming.

"(500) Days of Summer" is a light-hearted romp with fine performance by the two leads. It’s the sort of thing we used to call a "summer movie," and it succeeds on several levels.

At several locations.

-Joe

The Bleeding Deacon

There is a deeply authentic aura to the Bleeding Deacon, beginning with a name that is almost Cromwellian in its ferocity. It’s reminiscent of an old south St. Louis bar, brought into the 21st century by the chalkboard list of many beers that didn’t exist in that bygone day and many dishes whose names or ingredients would have brought a fright to the bar kitchens of yore. Something else stood out, too: the fact that no one but us seemed on the upside of 40, including Vince Schoemehl, whose picture from a very early political campaign hangs just inside the door.

Properly dark (and, alas, smoky), there’s a well-connected jukebox, but the main entertainment seemed to be conversation at the bar or in the numerous large booths around the room. When crowded, it’s probably noisy, but on our visit, we didn’t find a problem carrying on a conversation with each other or with a pal who came to visit, then returned to the more vital duty of helping hold up the bar.

Years ago - perhaps a century now - St. Louis Germans would describe something’s location as being "down by the Gravois," and the phrase fits here like a well-made shoe. Just a few doors west of Chippewa’s intersection with Gravois, it’s an unassuming building, although there’s a patio in the back. The interior, too, is modest in its furnishing, and at first look, the menu might, too.

We kicked off with that hummus and some sweet potato salsa that particularly intrigued Joe, who has a soft spot for sweet potatoes in any disguise. The hummus, which arrived in the center of a raft of finger-sized slices of warm pita arranged like so many flower petals, was tangy, slightly spicy, quite satisfying. The very chunky salsa held black beans, corn, and chopped green onions, topped with shreds of flash-fried collards. It was cold, tart, interesting in the mouth, not a salsa the way most of St. Louis thinks of the dish. A larger portion could serve happily as a side dish to, perhaps, a piece of grilled chicken or pork loin. But we liked it a lot. Yes, tortilla chips were fresh, not soggy.

The menu calls it a "savory meatloaf supper", and for us, meatloaf can make or break a home-style kitchen. This one was remarkable, tender, juicy, full of meaty flavor, nicely spiced, the bourbon-laced ketchup on top adding a nice note. A few well-drained and crunchy onion rings provided a tasty decoration. We decided on the brussels sprout slaw instead of the green beans that normally ride shotgun for the smoked mashed potatoes. The minced slaw, quite mustardy, would have been right at home on a chopped barbecue sandwich. The mashers were indeed smoky, slightly lumpy, and seasoned well, including more bits of green onion, rather close to irresistible.

 And then there was the hot dog. A foot-long dog is slashed so that it curls into a circle as it cooks, then arranged onto a cracked wheat bun that was sturdy enough to withstand the onslaught of weight and moisture it held. The onions were grilled to brown crispness, absolutely succulent, and the housemade barbecue sauce filled in any barren spots in the gustatory spectrum. All in all, it was an excellent dog, a remarkable dog, one that Joe said was the best he’s had in a long, long time, and easily could have won best of breed, if not best of show, at Westminster, or maybe at Nathan’s. French fries arrived hot, a mass-produced cut, we suspect, but with a dusting of fine salt and some spicy heat that was a creation of the Deacon’s kitchen.

Two desserts on the menu plus a daily special; we thought seriously about the acorn squash-apple pie, which apparently combines the best of pumpkin and apple fillings, but tried pineapple upside down cake. The cake was moist, and the topping showed a little crisp caramelizing along with the mandatory pineapple ring, but it suffered from microwaving, showing a lukewarm exterior and chilly heart.

Easy-going service, paced just right for a quiet night at a spot like this. A very comfortable tavern.

The Bleeding Deacon

4123 Chippewa Ave.

314-772-1813

www.thebleedingdeacon.com

Lunch & Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: No

Smoking: Yes

Entrees: $9-$10

The Hurt Locker

Politics get in the way when movies about war reflect those that are real – and unpopular. In the World War II days, and even during the Cold War, enemies were enemies and movie fans bought tickets to see them vanquished. But in Vietnam, and in the Middle East, where the wars are not very popular, there have been few financial successes.

And most of the movies have been of a documentary style, and documentaries just are not boffo at the box office.

"The Hurt Locker" may be different. Kathryn Bigelow’s beautifully directed tale of an Army squad whose task is to defuse improvised roadside bombs in Iraq is a powerful film, with fine writing by Mark Boal and some superior acting, especially by Jeremy Renner as William James, whose approach to neutralizing bombs is as casual and flamboyant as a young John Wayne facing a hanging posse.

More important, the movie is non-political.

James comes into the action as a replacement for a veteran leader who literally went to pieces after his touch betrayed him. He joins a seasoned, by-the-book, long-time non-com, J. T. Sanborn, played strongly by Anthony Mackie, and a sensitive, superb Brian Geraghty as Owen, a young enlistee who is scared to death but determined to carry on. There also is excellent work by Guy Pearce and Ralph Fiennes, among others, in small but vital roles.

James has his own approach to neutralizing ordnance; he understands the risks and the methods of successfully defusing something that can blow him to smithereens, but he does not play the Army by the book. Renner’s portrayal is awe-inspiring as a man who needs the danger and the thrill as an addict needs his white powder and who apparently cannot live in an orderly, civilian-run society. This is shown to perfection in a handful of scenes when he goes back to Kansas on leave.

Bigelow knows how to create tension, and stories of defusing bombs are easy to turn in that direction. When awards are handed out next year, look for Kathryn Bigelow and Jeremy Renner on the red carpet.

At Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

Shadowland

It’s rather dishonest, or else dumb, for Wyatt Weed, who wrote and directed, and therefore cannot blame anyone else, to name his sleazy, violent little movie, "Shadowland," when 16 years ago, the esteemed English director, Richard Attenborough, used Anthony Hopkins and Debra Winger in the almost-identically named "Shadowlands," a sort-of biography of Irish-English author C. S. Lewis and his wife, the American poet Joy Gresham.

The only connection between the two is that the actors speak English.

Shot in and around St. Charles and other familiar locations, with St. Louisan Jason Contini and Washington, Mo., native Caitlin McIntosh as the lead characters, the movie is a standard slice-and-dice, pour the blood yarn. Those who really like violence and bodies coming out of graves will undoubtedly be fixated.

At the Tivoli.

-Joe

The Drowsy Chaperone

Light-hearted, tuneful and no more substantial than a cumulus cloud, the Stages St. Louis production of "The Drowsy Chaperone" offers a delightful evening of entertainment while it provides both those who love musical theater and those who hate it with enough additional cement to harden their positions for eternity. It runs through Aug. 16 at the Robert Reim Theatre in Kirkwood.

The musical within a musical, which also serves to spoof and honor all musicals, both stage and screen, offers fine singing and dancing throughout the cast, which runs alphabetically from Baxter (Michael) as a Marx Brother-style gangster to Vonder Haar (Zoe) as an aviatrix modeled after the pilot in "Flying Down to Rio."

But the pivotal work comes from David Schmittou, one of Stages’s regular leading men, and he’s solid. He begins as a disembodied voice, coming out of the dark and telling us he hopes the show will be short. When the lights come up, he’s Man in Chair, in a Mister Rogers-style cardigan, huddled over an old-fashioned record player. Obviously and proudly a Broadway Show Queen, a position and a preference he emphasizes, he talks about the musicals of the ‘20s and ‘30s, when the plot served merely to introduce the songs and also to separate them, and slowly the stage comes to life around him, with a strong set of funny stereotypes.

Schmittou seems to spend less time in the chair, and more in the action, than I recall from other productions, and it bothered me, but that’s a minor caveat because he makes a wonderful host, bringing us into his studio apartment, his life and times and hopes and dreams.

We open on a wedding day, with Tari Kelly as Janet Van de Graaff about to leave show business to marry Robert Martin (David Elder), with love’s course lubricated when she learns of his family’s oil wells. Her producer, Feldzeig (Ed Romanoff) needs her in his show because he owes a lot of money to some gangster who has dispatched a couple of singing and dancing thugs, posing as bakers, to collect the debt. Baxter and Ben Nordstrom are brilliant, and the script reaches its high point–some will say its low point–with their wonderful collection of bakery puns. It may not be Lent, but the Hot Cross Puns are in full flour, much like the Cole Porter lyrics in "Brush Up Your Shakespeare" from "Kiss Me, Kate." Martin and Brian Ogilvie, as George, the best man, turn out a terrific tap-dance number and help carry the action nicely.

Keeping with the authors’ aim, we also have a classic Latin lover, Aldolpho, played with show-stopping skill by Edward Juvier, dressed to the tens (he’s too far overboard for the nines). He’s superb, and somehow becomes matched with the title character, played with sensual, slithery splendor by Christianne Tisdale as a woman who obviously has explored and enjoyed all the many pleasures a bed can bring.

More?

Well, two more. Kari Ely, always charming, is Mrs. Tottendale, the hostess (don’t ask why, please) for the wedding, right out of a Beatrice Lille or Billie Burke characterization, and she has a straight-faced butler, known as Underling and played gloriously by John Alban Coughlan in the style of Arthur Treacher or Franklin Pangborn.

Watching all these references to shows, movies and performers I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing over the last half-century makes "The Drowsy Chaperone" a pleasure for me. Schmittou handles the introductions for everyone else in the audience, and does it very well.

A production of Stages St. Louis, at the Robert Reim Theatre through Aug. 16.

-Joe

Collected Stories

Watching a relationship grow can bring humor, or sadness, or passion, or indifference, and watching Ruth and Lisa run the six-year emotional marathon that is Donald Margulies’s "Collected Stories" takes us through a similar gantlet as Nancy Lewis and Megan Maguire wield a collection of verbal whips and truncheons that we can neither evade nor escape.

A production of the Orange Girls, the dramatic comedy (or comic drama) opened over the weekend to run through Aug. 2 in COCA’s Black Box Theater.

It’s a simple little story: Lisa (Maguire) is a young, fearful graduate student in a writing program taught by the experienced, prize-winning Ruth (Lewis). She obviously has talent, or Ruth would not have accepted her, first as a student, then as an assistant-housekeeper-secretary of some sort, a role that Margulies never defines. Still, Lisa, a suck-up sycophant always seeking praise, never seems to hit the right note in the relationship, and Ruth revels in the control and the fact that she can so easily rub salt into Lisa’s open wounds.

Lewis, a past master at portraying a holy terror, is in her element, especially with a target that just sits there and awaits the blows with hidden pleasure, the opposite of Anna Leonowens’s bitter cynicism as she mock-begs the King of Siam, "Give us a kick if you please, your majesty; give us a kick if you would, your majesty. . . ahhh, that was good, your majesty."

Maguire, speaking nervously and much too fast, is no match for the woman she admires. Meanwhile, Lewis, speaking slowly and sonorously, simply carves up her victim, allowing the words to come out clearly and with perfect emphasis. It’s fine work by Lewis. She also delivers well in a monologue that becomes a reverie as she remembers a long-ago love affair.

But Lisa has her revenge, and using one of the precepts that Ruth has taught her just twists the knife that we discover is almost self-inserted in a fit of suicidal pique.

Whether Ruth is correct in her anger is a topic for debate. What is the statute of limitations? Does anyone remember? Does anyone care? Are writers more important than the words they write? Are Republican gubernatorial hi-jinks more important than their accomplishments?

Ed Coffield directs smoothly, restraining his cast from going overboard. Set, costumes and lights, by Alex M. Gaines, Darren Hansen and Hans Fredrickson, respectively, are simple and effective.

"Collected Stories" works well. Margulies is not above reaching for the cheap laugh, but when it comes to writing comedy, any laugh can be a successful one.

An Orange Girls production at COCA’s Black Box, through Aug. 2

-Joe