St. Louis Eats and Drinks With Joe and Ann Pollack

Shirley Valentine

Dazzling. Simply dazzling.

That's Teresa Doggett in--and as--"Shirley Valentine," which opened Thursday night as a production of Stray Dog Theatre at Tower Grove Abbey, and she takes the audience on a sea-change ride of human emotion as she searches for herself. Her triumphant performance in the one-woman comedy-drama by Willy Russell, directed delightfully by Edward M. Coffield, will run through May 15.

It's 1986, and Shirley, first Valentine, then Bradshaw, then Valentine again, in both name and spirit, is a 42-year-old Liverpool housewife, emotionally battered in a bad marriage, dreaming of drinking a glass of wine in the country where the grapes were grown. She's cooking egg and chips (as they call french fries in England), awaiting her husband, Joe. It's Thursday, when steak always accompanies the chips, but Shirley, in a fit of pique-plus-generosity, has given the steak to a dog, and she's positive the dog will appreciate it more than Joe will.

She's pondering an impending and fierce chewing-out from Joe about the steak, and an invitation from a friend for a trip to Greece. She desperately wants to go but knows Joe won't hear of it. She's tired of ungrateful children and a husband who's a boor and a bore. Her sex life consists of "all that pushing and shoving, and little to show for it," and she's just plain unhappy about everything. She talks to her kitchen wall, telling it stories about her children's theatricals, her shopping adventures.

Eventually, she goes to Greece, and if her life doesn't turn around, it's pivoting in that direction. Author Willy Russell (he also wrote "Educating Rita" and "Blood Brothers") is spot-on in his depiction of middle-class English. Shirley's discussion of her clitoris and her stretch marks is hilarious, as are her adventures as she buys clothes at Marks & Spencer. Her insights into a Greek waiter are perfect.

And so is Doggett, a veteran actress and costume designer (including her own as Shirley). It's a casting gem. Doggett is a woman whose age and look are just right, and she does a brilliant job with the accent, close enough to Liverpudlian to be understandable. She's a mature woman, not a glamour girl under tons of makeup, and she totally understands and inhabits Shirley. It's a real tour de force performance, and she holds the audience with a tight grip--not of death but of life.

Coffield's understanding is equally perceptive and complete, using a light hand on the throttle. L. D. Lawson's set is a proper English kitchen in the first act, but the Grecian seashore of the second seems to be displaying abandoned World War II fortifications in Normandy.

"Shirley Valentine," by Willy Russell, presented by the Stray Dog Theatre at the Tower Grove Abbey through May 15.

-Joe

The Girl on the Train

You could call it aimlessness, or disaffection, but I prefer apathy when looking at Jeanne, the heroine--or at least the lead actress--in "The Girl on the Train," a mostly interesting French film that includes a true Paris incident of six years ago, when a young woman told police she had been attacked by a group of men who spouted anti-Semitic slogans, only to recant her charges a few days later, admitting she lied.

Jeanne, played in the grip of solitude by Emilie DeQuenne, rollerblades through Paris, no more noticeable than a traffic signal. She lives with her mother, Louise, the always gorgeous Catherine Denueve, who earns her keep taking care of a group of toddlers. Jeanne reads the help-wanted ads, answers one for a high-powered attorney who once knew (loved? had an affair with?) her mother, is totally unqualified for any job in his office. She meets and is seduced by a young wrestler, Franck (Nicolas Duvauchelle), moves in with him. Much later, when Franck is being questioned by the police in a crime investigation, he gives us a clue to Jeanne. "We never fought," he says, "She never said no to anything I asked of her."

Yes, it's Jeanne who copies the "crime," and the high-powered Jewish attorney, beautifully portrayed by Michel Blanc, gets involved. And we meet his family, his Orthodox daughter-in-law (Renit Elkabetz), her disaffected husband (Mathieu Demy) and their son, Nathan (Jeremy Quaegebeur), about to be Bar Mitzvah. There's an oh-so-brief encounter between him and Jeanne that shows evidence of a lovely love story, and we viewers can imagine all sorts of continuing scenarios, but all we have is a moment, beautifully frozen in amber, that brings at least a modicum of peace and love to a group of lonely people reaching out but never finding a hand to hold.

Opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

The Cartel

Many people think that the films of Michael Moore swing too far to the left in their political and social thinking. Bob Bowdon takes us in a diametrically opposite direction in "The Cartel," which opens here today. This film is a right-wing, libertarian diatribe against public schools and for charter schools, using New Jersey to prove the old statement, "Nothing is too abhorrent that it cannot serve some purpose, even just as a bad example."

Bowdon has worked in a variety of television jobs, including the Bloomberg network and The Onion, admittedly a satirical site, for which he made up "news and features."

Bowdon's technique is simple. He finds bad behavior among school administrators in New Jersey and uses it to blast administrators in the other 49 states. It is certain that there has been misuse of funds in school systems (and oil companies and auto manufacturers and bankers, too) but to level this sort of blanket indictment is a little much. Further, he claims that the complete solution lies in charter schools, though we know, that like public schools, there are good ones and not-so-good ones.

Using a lot of undated film clips, mostly from archival footage, Bowdon lines up many talking heads with their own axes to grind, whether from New Jersey or elsewhere, and lets them rant. And it just isn't very interesting, either.

Opens today at the Plaza Frontenac.

-Joe

Stellina Pasta Cafe

Stellina Pasta Cafe has emerged from a major remodeling with an extremely different air. With a more sophisticated dining room and a small bar in a waiting area at the door, the restaurant now seats about 60, double its former capacity. This doesn't seem to have alleviated the demand for their food, though. We visited on a rainy weeknight, arriving at six-ish, thinking it would be easier to find a table; it was early for us, but with no reservations taken for parties of fewer than six, it was necessary. We grabbed the next-to-last deuce, and within 15 minutes, there were folks waiting for tables. The edge-of-the-Hill restaurant is adjusting nicely to the increased work load, which means that while food flies out of the kitchen, it doesn't fly quite as fast as it did.

All kinds of groups, from young adults with a toddler to a quartet of businessmen, are happy visitors, and a noise level that doesn't leave us shouting across the table, make this an even more welcoming spot. The menu isn't immense, making decisions a little easier. We tried both the appetizer choices (there are salads as well), and found considerable happiness. A potato and escarole soup was a charmer, the escarole giving an earthy note, the potato thickening the broth a little but not turning it into something the consistency of gravy. And the hummus—ah, the hummus. Served with a handful of mixed olives, the kind that are so deeply flavored, it's hard to imagine they're pitted, and some roasted garlic cloves, the thicker-than-average puree had a deep taste of chickpeas, rounded and full, awaiting the generous wedges of warm, savory pita that came alongside.

The pasta is made in house, and the options change from day to day. There are always at least three choices, and we went straight for a whole wheat tagliatelle lightly sauced with olive oil, asparagus, cipollini onions and some speck, the Tyrolean bacon. Combinations like this often are found in northern Italy, where Alpine cultures cross borders and Austro-Germanic gastronomic influences are often found hand-in-hand with Italy's. It was an excellent combination, the paper-thin speck tender but not falling apart, the light cure adding to the overall oomph of the dish. And, yes, of course, the pasta, thin as it was, wasn't overcooked while the whole wheat flour added its own notes.

Barramundi is one of those words that it's even fun to say. With such an exotic-sounding name, the mild fresh-water fish is less offbeat on the plate than one might expect, despite its general healthiness. (Its personal life, however, verges on the astonishing; in the wild it changes gender when it's about five years old.) Jamey Tochtrop, chef and owner with his wife Lisa, wraps a fillet around crab and bacon and does a quick roast. Our only complaint was that the bottom of the rolled-up fillet was slightly tough where it had been in contact with the pan. But the flavor was good, the contents not cooked to death, and the spinach and risotto that rode shotgun also pleased.

The wine list is rather short, leaning to Italian varieties with a nice by-the-glass option. Italian reds are often heavy on the Sangiovese grape, a medium-weight grape with fine flavor, and several are available, but as Stellina grows, it will become time to expand the list a little.

Desserts are Lisa Tochtrop's department, and her lemon brulee tart left us smiling. A shortbread-like crust was fresh and crisp, the lemon custard properly tart and creamy, and a fast blast of the sugared top caramelized things just a little. Just enough to finish things off and move us on so the folks waiting to enjoy their evening could have the table.

Stellina Pasta Cafe

3342 Watson Rd.

314-256-1600

www.stellinapasta.com 

Lunch & Dinner: Tues.-Sat.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Poor

Smoking: No

Entrees: $11-$18

Lunch & Dinner: Tues.-Sat.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Poor

Smoking: No

Entrees: $11-$18

 

Karen Akers: Akers Sings Porter

 

Cool weather outside, cool singing inside.

Karen Akers, tall and slender, with handsome cheekbones and a voice that both purred like a chorus of kittens and snapped like the jaws of a tiger, brought the clever, convoluted lyrics of Cole Porter to the Kranzberg Art Center Wednesday night and held them up to be admired like the Trova art that hangs on the walls of the room. She'll be there through Saturday, with Don Rebic a stylish accompanist.

Porter wrote "list songs," similar in style and complexity to the "patter songs" of William S. Gilbert, though he wrote his own music while Gilbert had Arthur Sullivan. Porter wrote of gold-diggers, and he wrote of infidelity, and he wrote a lot about sex, which is the goal (or the prime subject matter) of such famed list songs as "Anything Goes," "Let's Do It," "Buddy Beware," "Always True to You (in My Fashion)" and "Can-Can." The latter two are from "Kiss Me, Kate," and "Can-Can," respectively. Akers makes them all glow.

But Porter was from a different age, and he wrote with a glorious double-entendre style. He and his listeners knew exactly what he was writing about, but unlike the lyricists of today, Porter was clever, and smart, and a master of the language.
And that's exactly the way Akers works. There's an occasional twinkle in her eye, and a few slightly sexy grins, but never anything as uncool as a lascivious leer. Always just enough so that we know that she knows that we know which direction she's going, and we're all in on the joke together. But our relationship is the ultimate in cool. No touching!

She interpolated a few Noel Coward verses into "Let's Do It," and they point up the similarity between the two writers, their style and their subject matter. Coward's "Don't Put Your Daughter on the Stage, Mrs. Worthington," can be compared to Akers' version of "Thank You So Much, Mrs. Loughsborough-Goodby." She also delights in "Ridin' High" and "Don't Fence Me In," Porter's nod to the musical style from west of the Hudson River.

I've been a fan of Akers since I saw her make her Broadway debut in 1982 as the much put-upon wife of Raul Julia in "Nine," and I neither saw nor heard anything in her first local appearance (in my not-always-perfect memory) to change my opinion.

Karen Akers sings the music of Cole Porter at the Kranzberg Art Center in Grand Center, nightly through Saturday

-Joe

The Wild Party

Poems only occasionally are inspirations for musical theater, and it took a long time for this one to reach fruition, but "The Wild Party," based on a 1928 poem--and a decade of Prohibition-driven parties--arrived in St. Louis last night to run through May 15. The production by New Line Theatre will run through May 15 at what was CBC High School, now the Washington University South Campus Theatre.

While highly melodramatic, sometimes to the point of hysteria, a large number of fine performances, spot-on, rapid-fire direction by Scott Miller and plenty of sex make the show fast-moving, highly entertaining and oh, my goodness, bawdy and naughty. In other words, while there's no real sex and no nudity, there's a great deal of simulated sex that follows a large amount of foreplay, including much kissing while groping, stroking, squeezing, rubbing and other touchy-feely stuff. Not for the children and the easily embarrassed.

The play, with book, music and lyrics by Andrew Lippa, ran on Broadway for a couple of months a decade ago, and Lippa is represented in New York right now with a new musical about the Addams family.

Early on, we meet Queenie (Margaux Baue Steinau) and Burrs (Jeffrey Pruett), a couple of vaudevillians on their way downhill, both professionally and in their relationship. Neither is of moral character high enough to play quarterback in the National Football League. She thinks a party would be a good way to spend an evening reveling with the riff-raff. The guest list includes Kate (Deborah Sharn), a retired hooker now an ardent amateur who has an eye for Burrs and a date with tall, handsome Mr. Black (Keith Parker), a man who appears to be an uptown swell.

The loose and lively crowd also includes a lesbian madam (a superior Nikki Glenn), a pair of incestuous brothers (terrific performances by Mike Dowdy and Joel Hackbarth), a mute dancer (Andrew VanderYacht), a slightly punchy boxer (Zachary Allan Farmer) and his curvaceous wife (Emily Berry) and Nadine (Macia Noorman), an underage hanger-on who certainly seems to like kissing.

There is some excellent singing and dancing along the way, with Glenn's "An Old-Fashioned Lesbian Love Song" delivered broadly and brilliantly enough to be practically a show-stopper. Robin Michelle Berger created some fine choreography, entertaining but not beyond the capabilities of the young cast, and Miller's well-prepared, well-executed direction brings good harmony and winning ensemble work. He also played piano and led the six-piece band.

The four leads work very hard, with great earnestness. Sharn has the most experience as a singer, and it shows in "Let Me Drown," and earlier in "The Life of the Party," a bittersweet torch song that opens the second act, and "Look at Me Now," a song of seduction. Pruett pours everything into his performance, and it's hard and bitter early, fading into pain and torment when he realizes he may lose Queenie to Black. Steinau's opening song, "Queenie Was a Blonde," is solid, but as then evening continues her voice does not seem big enough to do as much singing as the role needs, or when it comes time to really belt. She's a tough cookie who has been used and abused, but she's a fighter, and with her bright hair and her white underwear, she commands the stage. It's a fine performance. Black is tall and handsome, and two of his songs with Queenie, "Come With Me" and "Of All the Luck," are winners. So is "Let Me Drown," with Sharn.

"The Wild Party," a New Line Theatre production, at the Washington University South Campus Theatre through May 15

-Joe

Country Girl

 

"The Country Girl" is over-the-top theater. There are three great roles for actors who are willing to let it all hang out and able to retain control. It's high drama, even melodrama at times, but the Clifford Odets play gets an almost-terrific production from the Avalon Theatre Company, it should shed the "almost" by the time it concludes its run on May 2 at the Art Space in Crestwood Court (once Crestwood Plaza).

The tale of an over-the-hill actor, dragged behind the wagon for many years before he was able to pull himself onto it, is powerful, almost electric in its tension. John Contini is wonderful as Frank Elgin, alcoholic and actor, trying to make a comeback. He becomes the trophy in a fierce battle between his wife, Georgie (Erin Kelley), and Bernie Dodd (GP Hunsaker), the play's young genius of a director. Their animosity, along with Georgie's passive-aggressive manipulation of her husband, and Dodd's ambition under the pressure of a great professional gamble, are what makes the action blaze.

Dodd is willing to challenge the producer (a delightful Whit Reichert) to cast Elgin

before he discovers what an empty shell the man has become. But Odets was looking for a young directorial genius, rather like the Orson Welles of the Mercury Theater, and Hunsaker looks too old and is often too mild-mannered. Kelley is riveting as Georgie, who regards her husband as both life preserver and punching bag, but too many of her lines were lost because she swallowed some and failed to project on others. Her lesser volume was a good contrast with her husband and her enemy, but the concept didn't always work. The good news is that these problems are fixable.

In lesser roles, Austin Pierce was a charmer as the stage manager, and Casey Boland was a properly harried young playwright. Jim Anthony directed stylishly, and Larry Mabrey's set worked in the small space. The music, though sometimes written after the play was written in the late 1940s, was right for the mood and the action.

A nod to Avalon for providing a program that kept everyone on the same page in terms of time and place, and it was interesting to me to note that Odets, who wrote a lot of successful plays for nearly 20 years, found the proper English word to express each emotion and describe each action. It's strong stuff, with great power, real emotion and dialogue that snaps, crackles and pops like a bowl of Rice Krispies.

A production of the Avalon Theatre Company, at the ArtSpace of Crestwood Court, through May 2.

-Joe

Ajami

Ajami is a neighborhood in the Israeli city of Jaffa, practically next door to Tel Aviv, though its population is mostly Arab. It's a rowdy, seedy, rough neighborhood, like those all over the world that provide a familiar setting for violent books and movies. Ajami, almost a slum, has all the usual characters. Poverty is a constant, unemployment is high, people will do anything to keep food on the table. Of course, Ajami is not unique to Jaffa, or to Israel; similar neighborhoods exist in cities throughout the world.

"Ajami," also is a movie, opening today. An Israeli production that was a finalist for the Foreign Language Academy Award a month ago, it's a gripping story of disaffection and anger, but also of kindness and love, written, directed and edited by Scandar Copti, an Israeli Arab, and Yaron Shani, an Israeli Jew.

The movie, which bounces around in time and place, involves a handful of people,. some related, some not, acting and interacting in their daily lives. Malek's (Ibrahim Frege) mother is ill, and he takes an illegal restaurant job to help out. Dando (Evan Naim) is a policeman, which is a paying job, but his brother is missing and he is distraught. Abu Elias (Youssef Sahwani) is a successful restaurateur and businessman, an unofficial "mayor" of the neighborhood who can help out with jobs and other support, though too often with a catch. At the same time, however, his parental authority is threatened because his daughter, Hadir (Ranin Karim), and a sweet young man named Omar (Shahir Kabaha) love one another, and Omar is of what Abu Elias considers a lower class.

The film wraps a little too neatly, but there is superior acting along the way and several powerful, moving, very personal stories that will affect the viewer long after the final credits roll.

Opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

Gogol Bordello Non Stop

Whether it's "gypsy punk," as founder and front man Eugene Hutz says, or any other music- and band-based movie, it boils down to an inescapable truth: If you like the group and its sound, you'll like the movie, if it's "Gogol Bordello Non Stop," at Webster University's Moore Auditorium through Sunday, or anything else. If the music is not for you, make the popcorn in the microwave at home.

There is a certain magnetism to Hutz and his group in this 2008 documentary by Margarita Jimeno, and there can be a visual appeal to this, and other, concert films. After all, the view on a screen is usually far better than that in the midst of a bunch of screaming fans, jumping up and down in one's sight lines. Jimeno's camera work is good, with plenty of closeups, backstage and bus-riding sequences and interviews with many Bordello performers, or residents, as well as Hutz himself.

The group appears to be about as well organized as a group of puppies at play, but there obviously is method to Hutz' well-thought-out madness. The costumes, the sexual messages on display, the lyrics of "Immigrant Punk," are more rehearsed than the band itself, but that, too, may occur behind the scenes. Oren Kaplan, Sergey Ryabtsev, Yuri Yunakov, Eliot Ferguson and others strut proudly and play loudly. The music, with klezmer overtones in frequent use of violin, clarinet and accordion, can be fun, and a brief description of Roma (Gypsy) history is interesting. But it's Hutz, wide-eyed and disheveled, who holds everything together, and Jimeno has assembled much footage into an almost-coherent story.

Today through Sunday at the Moore Auditorium, Webster University.

- Joe

Kota Wood Fire Grill

There's a new kid in Grand Center, right across the street from the Fox. Kota Wood Fire Grill, from the same people that operate the Triumph Grill in the neighborhood, has opened and, after giving the restaurant a little time to shake out the kinks, we decided to visit. The corner location facing the theater and Strauss Park has lots of big windows, and there are outside tables and chairs on the north side so diners can look at St. Louis' only mosaic rabbit as well as chat and chew.

No one seems to know the meaning of the name, Kota, though we heard several explanations all using the words, "I think," coming from both the working stiffs and a management type.

But its large windows make for outstanding people-watching on theater nights and afternoons (yes, there's lunch, too), especially for those who arrive early enough for a leisurely meal. The kitchen seems to have its act together in terms of timely service, and with a half-dozen performance spaces within a block or two, that's vital. Still, it's a good idea to tell servers the curtain time if you're going to a play or concert after diner. Desserts are good enough that it's no fun to rush through them, and it's awfully embarrassing to have to skulk down the aisle as the lights are dimming.

We kicked things off with a duck and mushroom quesadilla. The duck is described as barbecued, and there was a nice heat to it. It arrived with a pale green cilantro cream sauce. Gooey and ducky, crisp here and there, it was a nice start. Tuna tostadas, made with seared fresh tuna, chopped and piled on plantain chips, are served with slaw and a mango habanero sauce. That sounds a lot spicier than it was, and beyond that, it was a combination of ingredients whose flavors didn't mesh together as well as one might think. The texture was right, but not the flavors.

We were mostly pleased with the Hangtown Fry salad. A Hangtown fry is a San Francisco Gold Rush-era dish that's an omelet-fritatta filled with bacon and fried oysters. The salad offered the usual greens plus diced tomatoes and black olives, plus chopped hard cooked egg, bacon and a generous serving of tasty fried oysters, certainly an excellent combination. Despite a menu claim of green goddess dressing, it arrived under a creamy vinaigrette with a little citrus note, but way lacking the requisite anchovy and tarragon. It was okay, but the real stuff would have elevated the dish to remarkable.

A poor boy sandwich with oysters was topped with remoulade sauce, not traditional but a fine variation. It's hard for local chefs to find the truly authentic New Orleans-style bread with its shatteringly crisp crust and Wonder Bread-like interior, but the substitute baguette worked well and the result was quite satisfying. Green chile cheeseburgers are pretty much unknown in these parts, so seeing it on a menu caused a little frisson of excitement. A good, juicy hamburger, but alas, the only green chile was minced up in the pepper jack cheese sauce. Again, nicely spicy, just not what we'd expected.

We were also happy with the grilled portobello sandwich topped with roasted sweet red pepper, some caramelized onions, a little spinach and some parmesan mayonnaise, more knife-and-fork-y than double-fisted, but there's nothing wrong with that. Our favorite side was a smoked chile potato salad, more mustard than mayo and with a little pop.

From the entree list, voodoo shrimp pasta brought large, carefully-cooked grilled shrimp in a spicy cream sauce, all tossed with some pasta that delighted because it hadn't been overcooked either. A full portion (half portions of many of the entrees are available at night) was very generous indeed. We also tried the fried chicken, two boneless, skinless breasts, cuts that normally make us wince. But these surely had been brined, because they were juicy in a breading that reminded us of grandma's favorite cracker crumbs, and they arrived hot and fresh. Really nice seasonal asparagus came alongside, and so did some smoked chile gouda grits. Interestingly, the first bite of these was absolutely delicious, but when we came back after a bit of the chicken and asparagus, it had lost its yum. No good explanation for this, but it's difficult to imagine palate fatigue setting in that quickly.

In the dessert column, there really is a cup cake at Kota. An individual devils food cake is baked in a coffee cup and topped with chocolate ganache, plus a drizzle of white icing that may evoke your childhood Hostess. Served warm, it's pleasant, but we couldn't resist the visuals and the verbal word play. A caramel apple pie had a particularly notable crust, and the warm apple-caramel combo danced in the mouth.

In addition, the large specialty milk shakes caught our eye and delivered considerable happiness and good memories of childhood. The berry berry shake, blueberry studded with fresh raspberries and blackberries, was wonderful. And speaking of drinks with fruit, we knocked back a prickly pear caipirinha that was swell.

It appears, in our several visits, that the service has improved. Ours was fine, and we are almost positive we weren't identified, which happens more these days than in times of yore. All in all, a worthwhile spot, with plenty for the non-spicy-food eater. Kota is a restaurant that needs to be considered as more than just a pre-theater convenience, despite Grand Center's new shakedown of motorists with juggled parking meter rules. A few words on that policy will appear in this space soon.

 

Kota Wood Fire Grill

522 N. Grand Blvd.

314-535-5577

www.kotawoodfiregrill.com

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Yes

Smoking: Yes

Entrees: $8-$17