St. Louis Eats and Drinks With Joe and Ann Pollack

Rasoi

Fish and chips at an Indian restaurant? Why, yes. And why not? The English influence on Indian food, dating to the colonial years, remains a presence. In fact, in many low-end curry houses in the UK, the usual question about an accompanying starch is “Rice or chips?”

So when we saw Calcutta fish and chips on the appetizer menu at Rasoi, we were surprised, but understood – and ordered it forthwith. Two good-sized fillets of mild white fish, seemingly tilapia, were covered by a thick, seasoned batter probably made with gram, or chickpea flour, along with a generous handful of fries sprinkled with parsley and spices, and a small cup of a tartar-sauce lookalike. Definitely not tartar, however, but a creamy sauce flavored with achar, the Indian pickle, pungent with tartness and its characteristic sharp odor. The batter was so crunchy and dense that it made for difficult knife-and-forking, but it was tasty, and so were the fries and sauce, although the latter, we know, may not be for everyone. The St. Louis-sized portion would do nicely for an entree.

It wasn't until the real entrees that we began to feel slightly uncomfortable. It's understandable that Rasoi has joined the pack of local Indian restaurants that now charge for raita, chutney, even the basic breads. Nor do they put out complimentary pappadums and chutney. Well, times are difficult for restaurants, and many now charge for items that used to be complimentary. After we ordered our lamb roghan josh and prawn angarey, the waiter, a pleasant guy who checked on us relatively frequently, asked if we wanted rice. We did; he asked, “What kind?” and pointed to a section of the menu for rice and repeated, “What kind?” The least expensive pulao was $8. We chose the mushroom pulao for $10. “Some sauce for that?” We agreed that a curry sauce would do. That turned out to be another $5. Raita, the yogurt-based sauce that we think works so well with spicy food, was an additional $2.50

The lamb roghan josh was excellent, one of the best we've tasted. The tender meat had no gristle or fat, the tomato sauce wonderfully spiced. The prawns came from the tandoori oven, and while they weren't the jumbo shrimp discussed on the menu, there were nine, not tough from overcooking and with the orangey-red coloring and lightly tangy seasoning typical of tandoori. The wild mushroom pulao was properly cooked and nicely mushroom-y, an asset to both the meat and the shrimp. The terra-cotta-colored curry sauce was nothing special and could easily have been skipped. Paratha, the thin flatbread, used whole-wheat flour and had been generously brushed with ghee. We had ordered roti, but the paratha was quite tasty, fresh and warm. We saw no point in interrupting the rhythm of the meal for a different type of bread.

Dessert includes the standards like rice pudding and ras malai, the doughnut-hole-like dish, but when we heard mango crème brulee, our ears perked up. Another hit; the creamy custard was strongly flavored with mango, cool on the bottom and warm on the top where the sugar had been added and the ramekin put under the heat for browning and crisping. A nice closing to a big-flavor meal.

Service was a little unusual, too; we're used to servers at local Indian restaurants being dispassionate to cool. Our waiter was smiling and pleasant, although as the dining room filled up, service became a little more ragged. The decor deserves special attention; the red walls and mosaic panels give a feeling of sophistication. And, yes, there's a lunch buffet.

Just about everything was quite good, and we admire the visuals of Rasoi, but we really are uncomfortable with the business involving the rice and the sauce. Not cool.

 

Rasoi

25 N. Euclid Ave.

314-361-6911

www.rasoi.com

Lunch & Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $10-$24

Guys

As we approach the 10th anniversary of Sept. 11, 2001, it's only proper that "The Guys," the first play to react to the terrible day, receive a St. Louis production. It's a good one, too, with Alan Knoll and Laurie McConnell offering excellent work. The play opened last night in a Crestwood Court performance space, and will -- ironically -- run through Sept. 11.

Anne Nelson, a writer and a teacher of writing, wrote the play almost as an afterthought. A friend asked her to help a New York city fire captain, who had the untenable task of having to deliver eulogies for eight of his men who died in the World Trade Center. The eulogies morphed into the play, which opened in December, 2001, with Bill Murray and Sigourney Weaver as Nick and Joan, and since has been seen around the world with a wide variety of actors.

Nelson asks a lot of the audience as we hear Nick's sometimes-awkward descriptions of his men turned immediately into luminous prose, but Knoll and McConnell, offstage husband and wife, carry it off under the kind, sympathetic direction of Tom Martin, who allows things to get close to bathos, but always keeps a strong wall in place.

Nick, who was not on duty that morning, is a fire fighter, not an author. He visits Joan, seeking help in finding the words for eight eulogies, and she carefully draws him out, asking the right questions and encouraging him to find the details that will transform these fire fighters into living, breathing, human men. He holds himself together with all his strength as he searches his memory. He loved the men who worked for him, and it was only the luck of the draw that had him at home when the disasters struck.

Knoll, who rarely delivers less than a clear, open, easy-to-understand performance, strikes the perfect balance. McConnell, who has been doing more stage acting recently (she's been best known as a radio personality), is growing more confident as an actor, less fearful of exposing herself. Her interpretation of Joan is first-rate. The character, a writer, skates along an edge and easily could dissolve into an excess of emotions, but McConnell keeps her working like a good reporter, under control, who can stand apart and dispassionately write a story.

Now, 10 years after another "day that shall live in infamy," as President Franklin D. Roosevelt described the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor 70 years earlier, and after 10 years of soul-searching, analysis, pontification and processing, it's probably time to move along, but it is not a time to forget, and "The Guys," is an excellent jog to memory. As Nelson writes, "Normal will be different," and we need to learn to find it, and to live with it.

The Guys, a River City Theatre production, opened last night at a performance space in Crestwood Court, and will continue through Sept. 11

--Joe

Our Idiot Brother

Ned is so innocent and trusting that he counts his money on the New York subway and then, when something distracts him, he hands it to a total stranger to hold while he deals with the distraction. No wonder he's the title character in "Our Idiot Brother," a charming, very funny comedy that opens here today.

Paul Rudd produces an acting gem as Ned, who has either a great conscience or totally fried synapses. He is unable to lie, which causes many problems. When we meet him, he's just out of prison for selling marijuana to a cop -- in uniform, no less -- who admires the rhubarb Ned grows for a farmer's market.

Now a free man, because after all, stupidity is not a crime, Ned goes "home," but his girl friend, Janet (Kathryn Hahn), has found a new companion. Despite the fact that the two guys seem to have a lot in common, Janet tosses Ned. Adding insult to injury, she keeps Willie Nelson, Ned's golden retriever and only thing he seems to really love, or loves him back.

Acting on the theory that relatives' homes are where you go when there is no other secure site, Ned starts with the eldest sister, Liz (Emily Mortimer), who lives with her sleaze-bag of a rich, unfaithful husband (the excellent Steve Coogan), moves on to Miranda (Elizabeth Banks), an up-tight, hard-driving journalist, where his honest ingenuousness throws a giant monkey wrench into a story, then finds Natalie (the terrific Zooey Deschanel), a foul-mouthed cutie whose every other word is unprintable. Natalie isn't sure of her sexual preferences, so she takes an anyone-goes attitude. At the moment it's Rashida Jones.

Shirley Knight is the mother of this loose-string quartet; it's a shame she does not have more screen time.

Evgenia Peretz and her husband, David Schisgall, wrote the delightful, literate, sharp screenplay and her brother, Jesse, directs with a keen eye and a fine hand. Rudd obviously helped out with perfect ad lib contributions here and there. "Our Idiot Brother" is a film with style, and it's such a pleasure to enjoy comedy that is neither a heavy-handed, alcohol-fueled guy story nor a screechy, silly gal story.

Our Idiot Brother opens today on multiple screens

--Joe

The Names of Love

Sara Forestier, a very cute, young French actress who won her country's equivalent of an Oscar for her performance in this delightfully bawdy comedy, infuses "The Names of Love" with an insouciant sexiness and a total lack of embarrassment.

She doesn't flaunt her body so much as she does not pay attention to it. If a breast pops out of her blouse, which occurs with regularity, it's of no import, and if you want to stare, just go right ahead. As Baya Benmahmoud, a French-Algerian, her body is for more important things, like seducing people whose politics are to the right of hers (which means almost everyone) and using the time in bed to convince them to change their political ways.

Director Michel Leclerc, who co-wrote the screenplay with Baya Kasmi, takes on all sorts of subjects that Hollywood would consider taboo. Benmahmoud's love interest, Arthur Martin (Jacques Gamblin), is as square as one can imagine. He's a veterinarian who specializes in birds, and he's half-Jewish. He's not observant, but she thinks he should be, and that their relationship is an omen of the way the world will heal its problems.

By the way, Arthur Martin is the brand name of French-made appliances, so there are lots of snickers and questions that American audiences will not appreciate without this advance knowledge (see -- critics are occasionally valuable).

Leclerc understands the effect of Benmahmoud's marvelous attitude, and there's a great scene where she enters the subway in nothing but a pair of boots, waits for a train, enters a car and takes a seat while double-takes flow around her and a pair of observant Muslims don't know which way to look. A dinner party, where Benmahmoud's parents meet Martin's parents shows splendid timing and fine dialogue.

It's an absolutely delightful movie, and perhaps Leclerc has found a way to bring peace (either whirled or otherwise) to our time. Maybe "Make Love, Not War" is ready for another go-round. It may not have worked the first time, but neither has anything else.

The Names of Love opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

--Joe

Magic Trip

Ah, the 60s. . . .

I guess I was too old for them. As the decade began, I was preparing children for kindergarten, and though I spent a little time in San Francisco in 1960 and 61, and enjoyed a shoe shine from a bare-breasted wench, and was a Gaslight Square regular, and was far better prepared for making love than for making war, and grew a beard, I wasn't among them.

"Magic Trip: Ken Kesey's Search for a Kool Place," a semi-documentary that opens today, beings back memories but really is not a very good movie. Alex Gibney and Alison

Ellwood wrote and directed, and Stanley Tucci provides narration, but trying to assemble many hours of film and tape -- uncoordinated film and tape -- creates a mostly hazy view, especially as the bus trip ends and the directors still are trying to build a complete entity out of so many disparate words and images.

The trip itself is fun, depending on your definition of the word. Kesey, Neal Cassady and friends decide to travel from the Bay Area to New York for the 1964 World's Fair. They buy a 1939 school bus, paint it in a medley of psychedelic colors, build a rooftop seating and waving area, dub it "Further" and take off. Cassady, later famous as Dean Moriarty in Jack Kerouac's "On the Road," does most of the driving while the others, adopting such names as Stark Naked, Gretchen Fetchin, Generally Famished, Intrepid Traveler and, of course, Zonker, sing, get stoned and almost fly alongside.

Using postcards to identify their various stops, they first disrupt Larry McMurtry's middle-class Houston neighborhood, parading with musical instruments they play badly while thinking they sound like John Coltrane. New Orleans is another stop on the way to New York, where they discover that the World's Fair is not quite what they thought it would be.

In some respects, it's another example of West Coast vs. East Coast thinking, as exemplified recently by the West laughing at the East for the reaction to an earthquake.

It's shown again when they visit the guru of LSD, Timothy Leary, in Millbrook, N.Y., and such as Allen Ginsberg and Kerouac. But the return trip, with detours, is much like Saturday morning after what you're positive was a marvelous party on Friday night.

Magic Trip opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

--Joe

London: Yauatcha

We would never visit London for longer than 48 hours without having a Chinese meal. While it probably can no longer boast it has the best Chinese food in the world, the city continues to offer interesting choices, and seemingly familiar things have different looks and flavors than they show at home. Looking for dinner fairly close to our favorite B&B, around the corner from the British Museum, we checked Time Out, a usually reliable source. It recommended Yauatcha (yow-at-cha), pointing out that dim sum was available every day and night.

Yauatcha is clearly a next-generation Chinese restaurant, with coolish, low-light décor, open kitchen and a lower, basement-level dining room that's even more night-clubby. We had no idea it was quite so fashionably popular, so arriving without reservations brought us a bit of the fish eye from the hostess. She whisked us off to the very busy bar in the rear where we soon found stools amidst the well-dressed crowd. Their costumes were different, of course, but the diners and drinkers could have strolled over from Rick's, just around the corner in Casablanca.

Quite a cocktail menu – not cheap, of course, but intriguing. Joe, in a playful mood,went for the Sweet Khandala, a lovely, tall glass whose ingredients began with rum and went on with kiwi, peach, rhubarb, apple and passion fruit, topped with some blue tea foam, obviously from a closeout sale at El Bullli. The foam had little flavor but indicated it might have been in the same room with some tea, and the drink proved almost worth the 10 pounds or so it cost, lots of fruit flavor with serious alcohol, only a little sweet, and generally rather lethal because one could be easily lured into knocking back three or four of them.

A large selection of sake, 15 wines by the glass, all from a huge drinks menu that carried wine selections from 16 nations representing every continent except Antarctica and must have weighed half a pound, counting the expensive cover. And speaking of liquids, there's also the longest tea list we've ever seen, although that's on the dinner menu.

Old favorites and new-to-us options on the menu, which had some entrees as well as many categories of dim sum, not from carts but ordered from a lengthy menu. Char siu bao, the steamed barbecued pork buns, were nice but not outstanding, but that was the only example of ho-hum we found. Chili squid was deep-fried with crisp brown bits strewn over it, wheat flakes, apparently, and some curry leaves, also crisply fried. Not greasy, and with more pop than we're used to finding with this dish.

The most remarkable experience at Yauatcha was the rice-flour wrappers, the translucent white pasta-like material often seen on dim sum menus in St. Louis. We had a spicy Peking chicken dumpling as our first encounter and remarked on how thin and delicate the wrapper was. Then we ordered the three-mushroom chow fun, the wide noodles wrapped around a filling, like an enchilada. The mushrooms were the attraction; neither of us is particularly taken with chow fun in general. But one bite left us staring at each other in disbelief. The noodle was incredibly tender, with none of the gummy chewiness that too often has marked our previous experience. It was so good we went for another round, this time with tofu, and it was equally great. A Szechuan wonton, steamed rather than fried, neared perfection with the same thin skin and a coating of hot-spicy oil. The round dumplings in the photo are duck and pumpkin wrapped in the same dough and fried, topped with pea tendrils, wonderfulness the size of a ping pong ball.

Dessert here jumps the hemispheres and comes in as a modernist pastry chef's riffs on traditional desserts. All are displayed behind a counter in the front of the restaurant, and some people order for munching on their way out. Others come in to buy as if they were in a retail bakery, without even a nod to the Chinese delicacies a few steps away. So our fig and chestnut clafouti was a cylinder ringed with half-moons of fresh fig walling off a dense chestnut mousse. Very rich, of course, and interesting, but not up to the rest of the evening.

Service was slightly chaotic, sort of in synchrony with a busy, loud dining room. Still, the food and drink, not to mention the people-watching, made for a worthy visit.

 

Yauatcha

15 Broadwick St., London, W1

020 7494 8888

www.yauatcha.com

Tube: Tottenham Court Rd. or Picadilly Circus

Lunch and Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Poor

Smoking: No

Dim sum: 5-14 pounds

Half & Half

Half & Half could be in San Francisco or London if its tables were closer together. The white walls, the cabinetry behind the bar, which clearly had a previous life, the busy-ness, all feel crisp and morning-esque.

Open only for breakfast and lunch, adding brunch specials on the weekend, chef-owner Mike Randolph's restaurant is clearly for larks, not owls. And the morning menu rises way above the mundane. For one thing, Half (may we call you by your first name?) is serious about coffee. The manager was formerly at Kaldi's and several bean options and methods of brewing are on the menu. We watched water just below the boiling point poured over the grounds in a Chemex, moistening them and waiting to let them bloom before continuing to add more just-right water. Do not be intimidated; the standard bottomless cup is excellent.

We're partial to chorizo, whether in its Mexican or Spanish incarnations. Here, it's the Mexican, crumbled, fried, sprinkled with chopped onion and cilantro, becoming a base for a couple of fried eggs, the cornbread riding shotgun. Spicy and yet sort of comfort-food-like, it was excellent.

We're also suckers for chicken livers, and finding them on a breakfast menu made it a sunny morning indeed. Our optimism was repaid with five large livers, breaded and deep-fried but not overcooked, topped by thin, un-greasy, onion rings that were superb. We couldn't quite identify the seasoning in the breading, but it, while reasonably subtle, helped things along. A caper aioli offered a tangy note to go with both onions and livers, and the mellowness of the rest of the dish. Two eggs came alongside, and they, like the earlier ones, were perfectly cooked to order. The potatoes served with most of the savory entrees are chunks,briefly fried, then dusted with a bit of rosemary.

On the sweet side, Clara cakes are large, extremely fluffy and tender (cake flour, chef?), served with a raspberry compote, mascarpone cheese and a generous sprinkle of granola. Sweet-tart-creamy-crunch: A fine plate of pancakes. A side order of bacon brought thick-sliced meat, wonderfully smoky.

Oatmeal is one of the breakfast kitchen's great blank canvases. Half bakes its oatmeal in individual bowls, drizzles on maple syrup and adds berries, pecans and a little lightly whipped cream. Fruit, especially if it's a little tart, is the perfect partner for maple syrup, and the creamy oatmeal chimed in here to remind us of a first-rate cookie, minus the noisy crunch that might disturb the hungover diner.

The only discordant note we found was in the section marked "Starters." Doughnuts, citrus and sugar was the description, the serving resembling New Orleans beignets, powdered sugar crowning the amber dough. An eggy batter, the better to puff up, had been piped into the fryer in half-doughnut shapes that resembled a capital. The powdered sugar did taste of orange and things were hot and beautifully drained. But they weren't cooked through. This batter will never yield the kind of interior a cake or yeast doughnut has -- think French cruller. But still, insufficiently cooked.

The brunch menu, which on a recent weekend had four options (German pancake, prosciutto Benedict, salmon and grits, and a heirloom tomato and prosciutto salad with an egg) may not quite merit the menu's adjective of "compelling." But it certainly expands the options; on other weekends we've seen biscuits and gravy, as well as country ham.

We sat at the counter both visits and were well-taken care of. There's a liquor license and a limited bar. Very busy most weekends; come early or be prepared to wait.

 

Half & Half

8135 Maryland Ave., Clayton

314-725-0719

www.halfandhalfstl.com

Breakfast and Lunch Tues-Sun, Brunch Sat.-Sun

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Entrees:$6-$28

 

The Fox and Hounds

Civilization has returned to the corner of Clayton Road and Clayton Avenue. The Fox and Hounds bar in the Cheshire has reopened, looking amazingly like it did in the 1950s and 60s, when the late Mark Pollman held forth behind the bar. His book, "Bottled Wisdom," is for sale, and a small plaque pays tribute. We visited the other night, and as we sat at the bar, a young couple strolled in, looked around; the man's first response was, "Amazing."

We represent both extremes of guests here; Joe was practically a regular a long time ago, and Ann may have been here once many, many years ago. But the decor of an upper-crust English pub with comfortable chairs, cozy lighting and animal heads is irresistible. A piano player and a stand-up bass, providing a soundtrack of romantic mid-century jazz standards, clinched the deal.

Yes, there's food, too; wings are crisp under a light brushing of a sweet-hot glaze; the black pepper mayonnaise was superfluous. And we loved the lamb sliders, one of the few times we've found brioche buns to actually work with a burger. The one with the small scoop of cheddar spread was the top of the heap for us. Fish and chips did pretty well, although the second piece was too greasy. Nice light batter, though. Food until 10 during the week, 11 on the weekends.

We can't imagine how many seductions this place has hosted, but we think it's going to be the scene of many more, either in the warm and friendly bar, or on the dimly lighted patio around the pool.

 

The Fox and Hounds

The Cheshire Inn

6300 Clayton Rd.

314-647-7300

www.cheshirestl.com

Lunch and Dinner nightly

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Food: $9-$14

Mistakes Were Made

Joe Hanrahan is a man of considerable talent, enough to carry a piece of rather lightweight fluff like "Mistakes Were Made," a long way. In what is basically a one-man show, Hanrahan finds the charm and humor, and the pain, too, in juggling 10 telephone lines while trying to produce a Broadway hit. The play, a Midnight Company production, opened last night at the Kranzberg Theatre and will run through Sept. 3.

Of course, Hanrahan is the founder and artistic director of Midnight, so he is in a position to pick his plays. And he doesn't have to audition, either. Craig Wright's comedy had its premiere in Chicago not quite two years ago, and ran in New York last fall.

With a lot of help from Emily Piro as Esther, an overworked secretary/telephone operator who has a small but vital part and shows an exquisite sense of timing, Hanrahan portrays Felix Artifex, a smarmy producer, desperate to get a break and make it into the big time. He has a script called "Mistakes Were Made," about the French revolution, by an unknown writer. He has a theater, and some money, and he thinks that if he can cast a Hollywood star named Johnny Bledsoe in the lead, his worries will be over. He has 10 phone lines and a lot of people trying to talk to him.

Bledsoe, for example, wants to change his role of King Louis (Artifex cannot remember his number) to be sort of a sidekick to Robespierre. The playwright resists. So does the playwright's agent. Artifex also has invested in some sheep, somewhere in the Middle East, and has a Belgian woman running that part of the operation, but not very well. He's trying to contract for some security forces, and he's being bothered by a lot of people. And he's trying to contact his ex-wife, with some sort of absurd hope that they can get back together.

We all know people who eat when they are nervous or under stress. Artifex, when nervous, feeds a goldfish named Denise, hiding this fact from Esther as if he were a little boy trying to snare an extra cookie.

Sarah Whitney's direction is first-rate, and there are a lot of good gags along the way. Three of the best are waiting on stage -- a poster of William Shatner as King Lear, another of Nicolas Cage and Meg Ryan in "My Fair Lady," and a third announcing "A Long Day's Journey Into Night-- on Ice." They put the audience in a good mood even before Hanrahan takes us into a funny fantasy land, which is exactly what the theater is.

"Mistakes Were Made," by the Midnight Company, opened last night at the Kranzberg Theater, to run through Sept. 3

Point Blank

Although the individual chase sequences don't match "Bullitt" or "The French Connection" for thrilling action, the overall effect of "Point Blank" leaves a viewer staggering from the sheer impact. The French movie, which opens today, is practically a single, 84-minute chase, and the cumulative effect is simply amazing.

Director and co-writer Fred Cavaye shows a scintillating grasp of timing and camera angles, and a backdrop of Paris makes the multiplicity of chases, in subways, in cars, on foot that much more exciting.

It's a simple little story. Samuel (Gilles Lellouche) is a nursing student in a Paris hospital. His wife, Nadia (Elena Anaya) is pregnant.

He's working one night when a bad guy named Hugo (a terrific job by Roschdy Zem) is admitted and lands under Gilles' care. Another bad guy -- there are so many in this movie it's sometimes difficult to keep track of them -- pulls the plug on Hugo but Samuel reacts in time and saves him. Still another kidnaps Samuel's wife and threatens to kill her if he doesn't cooperate. Cooperation, of course, means allowing them to kill Hugo. Samuel grabs Hugo by the gurney and flees. Two rival policemen each lead a squad after Gilles, as do several other rival gangs. Everyone is chasing someone else, but most of the chasers are after Samuel and Hugo.

Cavaye has a splendid touch with tension and speed; the chase scenes include the hospital, of course, and also the streets and the subways of Paris. It doesn't always make perfect sense, of course, but that's all right. Cavaye will keep you on the edge of your seat. Fast-paced and exciting, "Point Blank" is a very good movie.

Point Blak opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

--Joe