St. Louis Eats and Drinks With Joe and Ann Pollack

Another Starbucks Surprise

Starting today, Tuesday, September 29, Starbucks will be offering an instant coffee called VIA under the Starbucks brand. Available only in their stores and on the internet, it comes as three or 12 single-serve packets.

 

Now, we will not get involved in why people who frequent Starbucks, or any coffee house for that matter, would want instant coffee, because presumably they are consumers who want better coffee than the drek usually found in, say, newsroom or hospital coffee pots, two types we're particularly familiar with. But nevertheless, Sbux thinks this is going to be a great thing.

 

When we were in Seattle, we happened to go into a Starbucks, something we find ourselves doing less and less, but in Seattle, it's a local business, right? This was early May, and there was the VIA being piloted. Big end-of-aisle display, of course. And then we saw it:

 

A large poster with step-by-step directions for how to make instant coffee. Five steps for a cup of instant coffee. No, we don't remember them all, but...what are we coming to when it requires large posters to teach folks how to make instant coffee?

-Ann

Wonder of the World

When it comes to off-the-wall comedy, mostly of the absurd variety, David Lindsay-Abaire can provide good entertainment. He shows it well, if for too long, in "Wonder of the World," which ends the Orange Girls' 2009 season-and probably its existence-with the current production, which opened Friday at COCA's Anheuser-Busch Black Box theater and will run through Oct. 11.

The story is sheer nonsense, allowing Lindsay-Abaire the chance to run with ribald situations, absurd puns and a lot of one-liners well-delivered by the entire cast, under the fine direction of Deanna Jent.

For example, the mothers of three of the characters die very strange deaths, one in an auto accident involving a beaver, one in bed when a pillow (yes, a pillow) falls on her head and smothers her, one in a her home when an extra-extra large jar of peanut butter (no discussion of smooth or chunky) topples off a shelf and onto her head.

Plot? Not much.

Cass (Brooke Edwards) is leaving her husband, Kip (Charlie Barron) because he is doing kinky sexual things with interesting objects. On the bus to Niagara Falls, obviously for a non-honeymoon, she meets Lois (Kirsten Wylder), a constantly nipping alcoholic who has her own barrel in which to soar over the Falls to her death because of an unhappy marriage. Edwards and Barron are satisfactory, but Wylder walks off with acting honors, showing perfect timing and a perfect sense of the absurd.

There also is terrific work from Mary Schnitzler in a variety of roles, ranging from three waitresses in a theme restaurant to clown, and she's fine in all, brilliant in some. Kelly Ryan and Greg Johnston sparkle as a couple who can't find regular work but who temp as private detectives, and Christopher Hickey is properly dignified, and then confused, as the captain of a Niagara Falls tour boat.

As far as Lindsay-Abaire is concerned there is no point in looking for anything, because you won't be able to find it, and if up do find it, it makes no difference. For example, don't drop your watch into the Niagara River above the falls because it will end up on someone else's wrist.

Orange Girls will be missed because the company brought a charming edge to the local theater scene, but with a plethora of small theater companies suddenly providing difficult choices to audiences and contributors, not all will survive. "Wonder of the World" was one of four local productions to open over the weekend, three of them at the Crestwood Arts Center. Subsequent weekends are going to be just as crowded. I worry.

"Wonder of the World" by the Orange Girls at the COCA Black Box, through Oct. 11

-Joe

Portrait of My People

Erin Kelley, local actress and director and Managing Artistic Director of the Avalon Theatre Company, has white skin, blonde hair and blue eyes. She's also one-fourth Cherokee and Shawnee, and that's the part of her heritage she discusses in her one-woman show, "Portrait of My People," which opened last night as an Avalon production at its theater in Crestwood Court's art space. It runs through Oct. 4.

Designed to present at school and community groups, and available to go "on the road" starting in November, the one-hour playlet, which Kelley wrote and co-directed with John Contini, is a sincere look at a life marked by its Native American component. Kelley's mother is half-Native American, her father is Irish. Her grandmother, called "Mugga" with childhood affection and pronunciation, was Shawnee and Cherokee, and obviously had a great influence on Kelly.

With a slide show accompaniment that desperately needs adjustment, and personal jewelry, dresses and moccasins that are family heirlooms, she explains some of the problems caused by her looks, talks a little about Native American culture, reads a passage from Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes" as the perfect description of poverty.

Kelley relates a lovely fable about the Great Spirit's problems of finding something to oversee the Earth when she is away. She decides upon a tree, because its leaves, serving as eyes, can watch over the Earth, and she then narrows it to evergreens, because their eyes work all year long, not turning color and falling off in the autumn.

She also discusses the U. S. government and some of its treatment of her people. After centuries of pushing Native Americans into reservations that have often been little more than prisons or concentration camps, it was decided to pay reparations to the people and their descendants. Kelley got a check for $52.10. One moment in the otherwise charming production needs further explanation, however. Kelley talks about Native American religions, language and customs being taken away in reservation schools, then uses sign language as a recording of the Lord's Prayer is sung. It's a jarring note, almost as if she is showing an example of this high-handed attitude, but Larry Mabrey, Kelley's husband, told me later that her family adopted Christianity many generations ago. A comment to this effect is needed to avoid confusion.

Kelley, born in Tulsa, spent most of her early life in Nashville, Ill. She's both passionate and charming, and so sincere that being able to share in her childhood and knowledge makes the listener feel like the recipient of a gift.

An Avalon Theatre Company production at the Crestwood Art Center through Oct. 4

-Joe

The Burning Plain

 Kim Basinger and Charlize Theron are mother and daughter. In the days of Damon Runyon, they would be charitably characterized as "having round heels." Today, in "The Burning Plain," they're more than a little mixed up. And so is Guillermo Arriaga, who wrote and directed a film that bounces around in time and place and characterization to the point where it almost defies description.

Arriaga is making his first film as a director, so perhaps he deserves a little slack, but he has written far better screenplays that have been directed by others, like Tommy Lee Jones for the fascinating "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada," or Alejandro Gonzalez Innaritu for the intense "21 Grams."

Theron, as Sylvia, is running an expensive restaurant in Oregon, staring moodily at the surf and having sex frequently with men she obviously doesn't care for. Suddenly we're in New Mexico, years earlier, where Basinger is living with a husband and three children and meeting Nick (Joaquim de Almeida) in a battered trailer for sex. She isn't very careful about the affair and her adolescent daughter, played with charm, grace and adolescent confusion by Jennifer Lawrence, is suspicious. Suddenly, the trailer blows up, and Basinger and DeAlmeida become-I wish we could put this more delicately-toast.

And then Basinger's daughter (Lawrence) and DeAlmeida's son, Santiago (J. D. Pardo) whose eyes first meet over a cemetery plot, become wrapped up in one another. Pardo segues into Danny Pino as Lawrence grows up to be Theron, and many other things occur and most of the loose ends are tied up properly. Not all of them.

Basinger is mostly emotionless, and gives little reason for the affair. Theron seems to be thinking about her next movie. There's good work from Jose Maria Yazpik as Carlos, friend to Basinger's lover, but he doesn't have a lot of purpose or a lot to do, either.

At the Plaza Frontenac

-Jo

Bright Star

Watching "Bright Star," the tale of a sterile love affair, is like watching a yacht race on a windless day. So much beauty, so little movement.

The romance of John Keats and Fanny Brawne, next-door neighbors in London in the early 19th century, is filled with scenes that provide lots of sex that never happens. Writer-director Jane Campion provides imagery and wishful thinking, stares aimed at Never-Never Land, sighs of unrequited passion. It's a lovely film, a beautiful film. But nothing happens.

Abbie Cornish, reportedly even lovelier than she looks in "Bright Star," is ready for stardom after playing Fanny, and Ben Whishaw is handsome and dreamy and a model for all the English poets and romantics parodied by W. S. Gilbert and Sir Arthur Sullivan in dozens of operettas.

The supporting cast is solid, too, with Paul Schneider as Charles Brown, Keats' housemate, protector, semi-agent. He fears that Keats' poetic talent will be sapped if he gets too involved with Fanny, and he tries to break up the romance. His own light-hearted romance with an Irish housemaid is a different story, however.

Kerry Fox is a delight as Mrs. Brawne, single mother to Fanny and her two siblings. Young Edie Martin is a scene-stealer as the youngest Brawne child.

Keats' beautiful, lyric poetry has been a romantic mainstay for nearly 200 years, and when Whishaw and Cornish speak it, especially as they do while the credits roll at the end of the action, it's easy to understand why. But I repeat, nothing happens.

At the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

Fame

They're together again. All the teen-aged descendants of Mickey and Judy, and they're putting on their own show, though on a stage and not in a barn. That's the new "Fame," opening today. It's a remake of the 1980 film, though in today's version, as in real life, the school is named after Fiorello LaGuardia, the one-time mayor, and not just the New York High School for Music and Art.

It's bright and lively, with splendid song and dance, but on the debit side, we are faced with all the cliches among the youngsters-those who are untalented, or arrogant, or repressed. We all know the types, and they fill both our movie screens and our lives.

The school is the same, the pressure the same. Kids like Debbie Allen, who shone 29 years ago, has grown up to become the principal. Others from that film – Richard Belzer, Irene Cara, Boyd Gaines, Isaac Mizrahi, Sal Piro, Gene Anthony Ray and Meg Tilly, to name a few – have gone on to fill out careers of all types.

Today's faculty is extremely impressive, led by Charles S. Dutton, but also including Kelsey Grammer, Megan Mullally and Bebe Neuwirth. Grammer works diligently to show young musicians the importance of Bach and Beethoven, and Dutton, dealing with kids off the streets, even if they did survive rigorous auditions, is an awe-inspiring figure as he labors to show the teenagers how important discipline and honesty are when it comes to preparation for a career, even one that sounds as ephemeral as "entertainer."

Kevin Tancharoen directed from a screenplay by Allison Burnett, who adapted the 1980 screenplay by Christopher Gore. Marguerite Derricks did the brilliant choreography, using practically every style. To me, the dancing was the high spot.

And there's exciting young talent all over the place. Praise to all of them, but I was especially impressed by Naturi Naughton as Denise, Anna Maria Perez de Tagle as Joy, Collins Pennie as Malik, Kay Panabaker as Jenny, Paul McGill as Kevin, Kherington Payne as Alice and Paul Iacono as Neil.

Yes, a cliched screenplay, but also some fine music and dancing, bright young performers and, if it rains, the motion picture palace is a fine place to stay dry.

At multiple locations.

-Joe

Molly's In Soulard

Things ain't what they used to be at Molly's. At least not completely. The Soulard spot best known for its immense outdoor bar area has taken over the former Norton's next door and gone serious about food, without abandoning the patio and its frolic. How serious? Well, Eric Brenner, best known to most of us as the chef at Chez Leon and the creator of Moxy, both excellent Central West End bistros, was hired to create the menu and train kitchen staff, something he has done at a number of quality restaurants here and throughout the Midwest.

And the interior has been redone, honoring Soulard's French heritage with colors, light and decorating notes that range from Moulin Rouge to post-Civil War New Orleans. Two dining rooms, with another under construction for private parties; both dining rooms are non-smoking.

That French influence, more New World than Old, shows up a lot in the menu. Plenty of seafood seasoned and cooked in Creole style bounces here and there. We went all out on the appetizers, devouring four riffs on the fishy theme. Etouffe lasagna? Oh, why not? The pasta and cheese tone down any of the potential fire that may lurk in the heart of the seafood stew, and its creamy, slightly gooey mouth-feel turned it into comfort food.

It's not a particularly handsome dish, with the sauce oozing and crawfish tumbling around the plate, but extremely tasty, and a serving large enough to be a main course for light eaters. Oysters Rockefeller have been re-thought with cornmeal-battered oysters over small toasts topped with a spinach spread containing the proper note of licorice, here achieved with fennel rather than absinthe. Sauced with a dollop of Hollandaise, they charmed anyone grumpy enough to mutter about fooling with a classic.

A bowl of mussels steamed with lashings of white wine, diced fresh tomato, garlic (of course) and some fresh basil was totally satisfying, lacking only a spoon to slurp up every bit of the juice. That brought memories of an old vaudeville chestnut: A waiter serves the soup. The customer tells him to taste it. The waiter asks if there is a problem. The customer repeats. This goes on as long as the audience appears interested. Finally, the waiter says, "There's no spoon." "Aha!" says the customer.

And then came a combination that reminded us of Richard Collin, a 1970s chronicler of New Orleans food whose ultimate compliment, describing a dish that reaches the ideal, was to call it “platonic.”

Brenner, who was in the house but not cooking the night of our visit, has created a great combination. He fries slices of green tomatoes in a spicy cornmeal batter and tops them with New Orleans-style barbecued shrimp, broiled in lashings of butter and plenty of herbs. Platonic, indeed.

The duck entree sported slices of rare grilled breast and a leg that had been cooked as a confit, all sauced with a sweet-tangy peach bourbon sauce that was tasty enough to eat with a spoon. The green beans were not as long-simmered as Grandmere might have done them, but all the better for contemporary tastes. And the spicy new potatoes, roasted and slightly crunchy, worked well. Steak frites, on the other hand, didn't reach the standards previously set. Slices of hanger steak were topped with a little bearnaise sauce, but it was difficult to appreciate because the steak had a strong flavor of petroleum from the grill. One of us seems particularly sensitive to that influence, and it seemed strong that night. The frites, or French fries, were mundane and the promised drizzle of truffle oil seemed to have been forgotten.

The wine list is splendid, with a fine selection of reds and whites from many countries available by glass and bottle, most of them at reasonable prices.

No menu like this would be complete without bread pudding, and even in New Orleans, there are as many variations as there are households. At Molly's, it's flavored with maple syrup and a blueberry compote, nicely fluffy and with the berries bringing a good tartness to offset the maple. We also had a molten chocolate cake, which turned out to benefit from the blueberries, too. We know there are folks who love the little cakes with the gooey inside, but for frequent diners-out, it's become a little too familiar. We understand why it stays on menus, and this is a reasonable rendition, but a little above-and-beyond is nice.

Service? You'll see several familiar faces around here, and some new ones as well, particularly eager to prove themselves knowledgeable about the menu and wine. Parking is in the restaurant's lot, farther west on the same block.

Molly's in Soulard

804-816 Geyer Ave.

314-241-6200

www.mollysinsoulard.com

Lunch Mon.-Sat., Dinner nightly, Brunch Sunday

 

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Entrees: $16-$26

 

Into The Woods

Stephen Sondheim is one of the great names of American musical theater, and he has provided countless glorious evenings for millions of people. But a few of his creations, like "Into the Woods," which opened last night as a sprightly, enjoyable production by the Stray Dog Theatre at the Tower Grove Abbey, leave me disappointed and frustrated. The musical, with music and lyrics by Sondheim, book adapted from some Grimm fairy tales by James Lapine, opened last night to run through Oct. 10.

Gary Bell's direction is little short of miraculous as he maneuvers a cast of 17 up and down stairs on several levels of the stage, through tunnels, even into the audience. Tyler Duenow designed the intricate set and also did the lighting design; Sheila Lenkman is responsible for the impressive costumes.

But as in "Sunday in the Park With George," another by Sondheim, I felt let down. After a brilliant, tuneful, pun-strewn first act, Sondheim gives us a heavy-handed, morose, often-cruel second act. Perhaps he thinks, as film director Robert Altman once told me, that the audience must pay for a bright, light-hearted, optimistic first part by sitting through a bleak second one, almost as if it had come from an enjoyable party to listen to a Puritan minister promising everlasting damnation.

Several cruel, almost-sadistic fairy tales-"Cinderella," "Little Red Riding Hood" and "Jack and the Beanstalk" to name a few-are linked together by Lapine, and the Sondheim score is a rollicking one, including the title song by the entire company; "I Know Things Now," a song to growing up by Red Riding Hood (a perky, flip, totally delightful Alex Miller); "It Takes Two," a love song by the Baker (the strong JT Ricroft, who also did the excellent musical staging) and his Wife (the vocally outstanding Laura Kyro); "Moments in the Woods," a much darker song by Kyro; "Agony," by the two princes, Justin Ivan Brown, who wins Cinderella, and Jeffrey M. Wright, who conquers Rapunzel; the show's anthem, "No One Is Alone," by the charming Christina Rios as Cinderella, Miller, Ricroft and Zack Huels as the wistful, delightful Jack, who epitomizes someone as dumb as a box of rocks; and its co-anthem, "Children Will Listen," with Deborah Sharn, as the Witch who brings everything to an ending that may not be happy but which has some optimistic road signs ahead. Sharn also lights up the stage with "Last Midnight," and "Stay With Me."

Huels is part of a real life/stage life multi-generational team. His real grandmother, long-time, always steady actress Donna Weinsting, portrays his mother, berating him for exchanging the cow, Milky White, for a few beans, even if they do have magical qualities.

Two excellent, non-singing performances come from Steve Callahan and Vincent Wieck. Callahan is a delight as the narrator, his wit as dry as a James Bond martini, and he also shows up as a Mysterious Man who helps advance the plot and straighten things out here and there, though his difficulties getting out of his cloak on one occasion almost caused a problem. Wieck, as the steward, wanders around with a spear, but his understated presence and wry expression, and comments to match, made me laugh every time he appeared. He was a major delight.

So is the show, at least most of the time. A line like "the end justifies the beans" is just right. The cow has one of the great non-speaking parts, and when a Prince reports that he's supposed to be charming but not sincere, well, the evening is almost complete.

If we only didn't have to do our penance with the second act.

A Stray Dog Theatre Production at the Tower Grove Abbey through Oct. 10

-Joe

The Baader-Meinhof Complex

When young people turn to criminality, whether for personal gain or political statement, they're often far more violent than their older compatriots, even if the elders served as mentors or role models. "The Baader-Meinhof Complex," which opens today, looks at one of the most violent of the guerrilla groups in an exciting but often-depressing movie about a movement that was not always sure of its direction.

Andreas Baader (Moritz Bleibtreu) and Ulrike Meinhof (Martina Gedeck) gave their names and ultimately, their lives for their gang of rebels and killers, determined not to let Germany turn toward Fascism again. Baader, who equated killing with sex in terms of receiving pleasure. , certainly seems unbalanced, but it's more difficult to understand Meinhof. A successful columnist on a newspaper run by her husband, giving her more job security than the average ink-stained wretch, she helped Baader escape from jail and seemed as caught up in the romance of violence and political/class warfare as Caril Ann Fugate was when she hooked up with Charlie Starkweather. But perhaps it was a real belief; after all, she was willing to give up her children for adoption to a Middle Eastern group that would train them to be guerrillas in their mother's footsteps.

Both Bleibtreu and Gedeck are excellent, as is Johanna Wokalek as Gudrun Ensslin, who was Baader's girl friend and not very happy with Meinhof's presence. Bruno Ganz, as always, brings balance and a superior performance as Horst Herold, a German police official who thinks that killing is not the best way to solve problems. But given Baader's predilection for violence, there are lots of shoot-'em-up scenes and killing situations that look like remakes of "Bonnie and Clyde." Uli Edel directed from a screenplay by Bernd Eichinger, who adapted Stefan Ault's book.

"The Baader-Meinhof Complex" is a strong movie, with some fine acting and an interesting look at violence, something already far too present in our world.

At multiple locations

-Joe

Tetro

 Francis Ford Coppola, who always has woven his own life into his films, looks again at family rivalries involving a dominating father and sons who don't always get along, but with less passion than has gone before. The new film is "Tetro," opening today, and it is strengthened by a remarkable performance by Alden Ehrenreich, making his big screen debut as Bennie, the younger brother.

As always in Coppola's films, his stamp is present, but much of the heat is absent. The film is his first from his own screenplay since "The Conversation" of 1974, which I still consider a movie as fine as he's ever made, in a filmmaker's pantheon with the first two "Godfather" films and the stunning "Apocalypse Now." If "Tetro" is not quite as good as those four, it does not smudge Coppola's reputation, and it has the marvelous look and sound that Coppola and his long-time editor, Walter Murch, always bring to the screen.

Vincent Gallo disappoints as the title character, disaffected and unwilling to challenge his own father, Carlo Tetrocini, is a famous conductor played by the always splendid Klaus Maria Brandauer. Is his dominant presence meant to resonate as Coppola's own father, also a well-known musician and conductor?

Tetro has run to Argentina with his lover, the sensuous lovely Maribel Verdu, a proper lover, and Bennie comes to visit, to find out what is going on. Tetro is part of the culture scene, and he goes to parties, and he comes into contact with a well-known critic called Alone, played with cynical, nicely reserved style by Carmen Maura. All the parts are there, but Coppola fails to give the story enough tension, enough meaning, enough power to reach the heights he has reached before.

At the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe