St. Louis Eats and Drinks

The Double Bass

People can strike up intimate, and often strange, relationships with whatever is closest and usually warmest--a blanket, a pacifier, a puppy, a parent, a human being, a baseball glove, a musical instrument. Rarely a double bass, but it's possible. "The Double Bass," by German playwright Patrick Suskind, is a strange but entertaining play that examines the possibility. It opened last night as an Upstream Theater production at the Kranzberg Theatre, and will run through Feb. 14.

J. Samuel Davis is alone as a man who plays the standup bass in a symphony orchestra. None of this jazz, or rap, "or the anarchy of improvisation" for him. He supposedly owns the instrument, but there are times when it seems to own him. Neither of those leading players has a name. As a matter of fact, the only character with a name is an unseen, unheard mezzo-soprano named Sarah. "That's Sarah with an 'h,'" Davis tells us several times.

Suskind's play, often very funny, was first performed in 1981, and looks at the relationship between man and instrument. Davis, a fine actor who seems to thrive under the direction of Philip Boehm, is excellent in every way. As a single man, close to 36, who has not had sex in at least two years, he finds that the tall, smooth, curvy bass tends to easily--maybe too easily--interfere with the relationship he would like to have with Sarah. But as a man in the third or fourth seat among bassists, he feels as if he does not deserve her, though he loves her, just as Marlon Brando loves the similarly named Stella in Tennessee Williams' "A Streetcar Named Desire."

-photo by Peter Wochniak 

Davis discusses his life, his parents, the non-musical father, the "weak" mother. Suskind opens a door to a long and mysterious psychological road that we can follow down a long and winding primrose path, but he is funnier and more effective with the non-speaking title character and the unseen Sarah. And Davis' early discussion of the bass, and how important it can be to then orchestra, is a highlight. Generally good entertainment.

At the Kranzberg Black Box Theater through Feb. 14

-Joe

Fires In The Mirror

When Anna Deveare Smith first put "Fires in the Mirror" on a stage in New York, only a few months after the Crown Heights riots of August, 1991, she portrayed 26 characters in a 90-minute play that was staggering in its impact. The riots began when a van driven by a Lubavitcher man (an ultra-conservative Jewish sect whose world headquarters are in the neighborhood) went out of control, veered onto a sidewalk and killed a seven-year-old Caribbean-American boy. On a hot summer night, tensions--including racial ones--were high, and besides, the Jews who had lived in the neighborhood for almost a century were extremely protective of their turf, and as many resented the politics and religiosity of the Lubavitchers as were bothered by the changing racial mix of the neighborhood. (A personal note: I was born in that neighborhood and lived there the first 16 years of my life.)

A few hours later, with a background of rock-throwing, fires and breaking glass, a group of young black men stabbed to death a Jewish student visiting from Australia. For four days, fires and fights raged. Almost 200 people were injured, about half that many were arrested, property damage was in the millions.

Smith interviewed people on both sides of the divide, wrote 29 separate monologues (three people spoke twice) and went on stage. The monologues represented people on both sides, some famous or important, a few anonymous, many just residents.

Mustard Seed Theatre opened the fierce, angry drama last night on its Fontbonne University stage, with Lori Adams keeping everything very taut and passionate. The number of monologues and the running time have been reduced by about a third, and Michelle Hand and Rory Lipede divide the monologues. Both are excellent; Lipede, a Fontbonne alum now working and living in New York, delivers beautifully as Al Sharpton, and if she occasionally sounds like a caricature, well, given Al, caricatureization (a newly made-up word) is difficult to avoid. She's also strong as nasty activist Sonny Carson and the angry Norman Rosenbaum, brother to Yankel, the murdered student.

Hand, one of the organizers of the late--and mourned--Orange Girls, speaks as two Lubavitcher rabbis, Joseph Spielman and Shea Hecht, who are sorry that the little boy was killed, but that accidents happen, and an accident should not cause such rage and passionate desire for revenge. She's fine there, and in several other guises, but seemed strongest as Roz Malamud, who lives in the neighborhood and is a Lubavitcher. She points out that "they want what we want," to live quietly and peacefully in a nice house, to have a job and food on the table and school for their children. But she wonders if that is possible.

Courtney Sanazaro's set, looking a little like a post-Apocalyptic movie, is effective, and a pair of television monitors identify each person as the actress starts the monologue. Kirsten Wylder designed costumes that are easily changed, but provide sufficient information with a hat, or a sweater, to give each person an identity.

"Fires in the Mirror" is strong stuff, but Smith's writing and use of language are such that it's a play that a family can see, if only to learn how relatively small events can mushroom into tragedy.

At the Mustard Seed Theatre, Fontbonne University, through Feb. 7

-Joe

The Beaches of Agnes

Agnes Varda, 81 years old, is considered the Grandmother of the French New Wave film movement. Belgian-born and starting as a still photographer, she has been making films for more than a half-century, counseling other filmmakers and being a vital part of the seminal group that included Alan Resnais, Jean-Luc Godard and, of course, Jacques Demy, to whom she was married for 28 years. "The Beaches of Agnes," an autobiographical and philosophical statement, is often self-promoting, but she's entitled. She also has brought forth an entertaining and fascinating movie that opens today.

Originally named Arlette, she changed her name to Arles as a teenager, crediting the French town in which she says she was conceived, then settled on Agnes when she was 18. Born in Brussels, she and her family moved to France ahead of World War II, spent most of the war living on a sailboat moored on the Mediterranean.

The ocean always has had a strong influence on Varda, and the new film opens with her setting up mirrors on a beach ("old, spotty mirrors," as she describes them) and photographing people and then surf and sand through and around the mirrors.

A free spirit and a political radical, Varda recalls a lot about her life and her great love for Demy. She speaks of him with considerable emotion as she shows clips of him in his final days, when illness controlled him, and of times when their relationship was at its most intense and loving. There also is discussion of the people with whom she worked, in Europe, Hollywood, China and other places. Demy often used Catherine Deneuve in his films, her luminous beauty showing even in casual photographs, and Varda has old clips from her films as well, including a very young Gerard Depardieu.

And she tells a splendid story of wanting to use Harrison Ford, an unknown, in a movie with Anouk Aimee, but being told by a Hollywood producer that Ford had no talent and would never be successful.

Her children, Rosalie and Mathieu, still are an integral part of her life, and the people she knew cover the entire entertainment and art spectrum, and either live or in archive footage, we visit with Alexander Calder, Jane Birkin, Robert De Niro, Michel Piccoli, Philippe Noiret, Jim Morrison, even James Rado and Gerome Ragni, who wrote "Hair."

As Varda talks, we learn a lot about movie-making and the many people with whom she worked, but we learn even more about a woman whose creative light never has dimmed and whose enthusiasm for life never has waned.

Opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

The Grill at the Ritz-Carlton

This is Clayton Restaurant Week, (link is here)  with 17 Clayton restaurants offering three-course dinners for $25 plus tax and tip through Sunday. As people who appreciate both good food and good bargains, we felt obligated to participate. It seemed like a good deal, and when we participated in St. Louis version a few years ago, we were extremely pleased. Besides, when it's going on at a number of restaurants we like, it's easy to decide to take part, though difficult to choose exactly where. The menus often are slimmed down a little for the bargain-hunters, and the same holds true with the portions, but we thought the quality and presentation held up extremely well and we were mostly very happy.

We settled on last night at The Grill at The Ritz-Carlton, and dutifully made our reservations. The room was busy, quite busy for a Tuesday, with diners of all ages. Staff flew by, some repeatedly and a few who roared through and perhaps disappeared into a bottomless pit, because we never saw them again. All was indicative of lots of activity in the kitchen as well as the dining room and bar. Everyone seemed in a hurry, either to serve us or to hustle us along. Our pleasant server was so determined to get things done in a flash that she zoomed off with one drink order before the other of us could form the words. And the appetizers appeared almost immediately. But already on the table was a classy, unusual and delicious bread service, two types, freshly baked. In addition to butter and olive oil, there was an absolutely marvelous warm spread that included some cheese and some olives, blended perfectly with some magical ingredients into something with a color and texture like hummus, with taste that was phenomenal.

Of the two first courses available, the truffle raviolini was definitely superior. Fresh ravioli were sauced in a truffle-laced butter and topped with a single large oyster that sported a bolero of pancetta, grilled enough to crisp the pancetta slightly but not overcook the juicy, salty oyster. Good stuff, to be sure. On the other hand, what was a promised grilled pork belly was a one-inch cube, reasonably tasty, but sitting on macaroni that had been cooked so long it fell apart when one tried to pick it up with a fork. The bread crumbs on top it were unbrowned and soggy, but the cheese and minuscule bits of lobster that appeared here and there through the pasta were at least undamaged.

 

Only 30 seconds after the appetizer plates were removed, someone else brought our main courses--and put them down in front of the wrong person. Tandoori-spiced sea bass, perfectly cooked and lightly seasoned, sat atop beluga lentils and posed next to a swirl of cilantro puree, with a chutney-like mix of mango and pepper topside. It looked more exotic than it tasted, nothing to offend a cautious palate, but everything in harmony. A plate of sliced, grilled flatiron steak was more assertive, the steak robust and quite tender for a flatiron, and its side, a faux-risotto made of toasted barley with gorgonzola cheese stirred in, made for some serious excitement. The texture was better than a lot of risotti we've eaten, just slightly chewy, the liquid perfectly unctuous.

 
At least there was an inquiry about whether we were ready for dessert. No, we explained, we weren't in a particular hurry, give us a few minutes. And they did. An individual pineapple tart and a wee scoop of coconut sorbet were made for each other, good pastry shattering everywhere with the touch of a fork. A few strawberries in a syrup that may have had a little kir in it, and a tuile cookie completed things nicely. The Mexican chocolate bread pudding resembled a muffin, but tasted better, a texture that was perhaps slightly too fork-resistant, but flavor that charmed with chocolate and cinnamon, and a dazzling caramel sauce, thick and dark. The cinnamon ice cream side was pleasant but superfluous.

Two $7 wines by the glass from Chile are available; the by-the-glass collection on the regular wine list begins at $10 and rises rapidly from there, but a large glass of Australian Shiraz was a winner, as was a California Zin. And the Cigar Club, which is right next door, has the correct ventilation so that its distinctive aromas don't waft into the dining room and its entry hall.

The check appeared unbidden, but with a smile, and we were out in an hour and five minutes with no one was waiting for a table as we left. Good food, well worth its price, but near-manic service. And for a lovely parting gift, free valet parking, a rarity in Clayton.

The Grill at The Ritz-Carlton

100 Carondelet Plaza, Clayton

314-863-6300

Dinner Tues-Sat.

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $24-$45

Crazy Heart

We've seen it, or its very close relatives, dozens of times through the years, with Bruce Beresford's "Tender Mercies," probably the best example, but "Crazy Heart" is an entertaining, well-made movie, as comfortable as an old shirt and as familiar as an old friend, and featuring Jeff Bridges in an Oscar-contending role.

That doesn't make it a great movie. Its plot line is excruciatingly reminiscent of stories we've read, heard and seen -- talent is self-destructive (alcohol, drugs, sex, whatever) and our hero is on a direct path to Death and Damnation, but love of a Good Woman, and a Small Child, and a warning issued by a Greater Power, and help from an Old Friend, and Determination, and Gee Whiz, it's the closing credits rolling already.

And of course, what better background music than classic country from Waylon and Willie, and Townes Van Zandt and T Bone Burnett, with Burnett as music director.

In the end, like John Ford westerns and Busby Berkeley musicals, this is a classic-style, optimistic, everything-will-work-out-for-the-best American movie. Scott Cooper wrote and directed, simply and without apparent effort, but with all the details meshing together nicely to provide a feeling of real satisfaction. The film is based on a Thomas Cobb novel.

Bridges, 60, has been making good movies since he was a small boy, working with his older brother, Beau, and their father, Lloyd. His character, Bad Blake, is a generation past famous and only a step or two from being washed up, is drunk at night, hung over in the morning, now driving a battered pickup truck from one miserable gig to another across the American southwest. He eats in greasy diners, sleeps in run-down motels, usually with an aging groupie alongside. He plays in bowling alleys (a nod to "The Big Lebowski"?) with local bands, gulps medicine to keep his worn-out stomach more-or-less in line, but still skips out the back door to vomit into a trash can during too many numbers.

Enter Jean (Maggie Gyllenhaal), much younger and with much less baggage. An incipient journalist for a small-city paper, she interviews Blake, her father having interceded in her behalf. On a professional level, it really isn't a very good interview, but he's interested. In the movie's hokey spirit, he goes to her house to cook pancakes for her and her son, showing us that he still is looking for roots (for emphasis, he also has a house in Houston).

His drinking causes a major trauma with Gyllenhaal, pleasant enough in a role a hundred actresses could play, then helps cause an accident. An old friend, bartender and confidant, played with fine style by Robert Duvall, then gets involved.

And then Blake's surrogate son, super-star Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), rejoins his one-time mentor; their relationship has a fine, edgy quality. Another splendid relationship and some of the movie highlights, come between Bridges and Jame Keane, as his manager, with some lovely, profane conversations across a telephone line.

"Crazy Heart" is a movie that shows off American optimism. H. L. Mencken would have scorned it, but I found it enjoyable and relaxing, the latter because the story is so predictable that there's not a single scene in which to wonder what is coming next.

Opens today at the Plaza Frontenac.

-Joe

William Kunstler: Disturbing the Universe

William Kunstler, an activist attorney in the days that activists took to the streets, eventually seemed to believe that he was more important than the people he represented, an action that led him from defending those who were fighting for their rights to defending those who would help him into the headlines.

"William Kunstler: Disturbing the Universe," a documentary made by his two youngest daughters, Emily and Sarah, leans in favor of the flamboyant attorney (he is their father, after all), but often shows the difficulties caused by his actions, his clients and his ego, and they discuss some of the problems they faced because of that.

Kunstler, a New Yorker who had a quiet little law firm, became involved in civil rights work after a local housing case in New York's Westchester County in 1960, and when he discovered he really liked the news spotlight, his career changed. He represented the Catonsville 9, the Chicago 7, the inmates at Attica, the Native Americans at Wounded Knee, but as the '60s became the '80s, and his clients included dealing with such as Larry Davis, who shot six policemen; El Sayyid Nosair, who killed Meir Kahana; and John Gotti, his popularity paled.

The Kunstler girls co-directed, Sarah, 33, wrote it and Emily, 31 narrates. They admit that they told protesters outside their Greenwich Village home that they did not live there and speak of living in fear, and while they love and admire their father, who died when they were teenagers, they admit some of his shortcomings. The documentary also includes archuival footage and/or interviews with such as Jimmy Breslin, Bobby Seale, Tom Hayden, Fred Hampton, Alan Dershowitz and Julian Bond and is an interesting look at an interesting time. Opens today at the Plaza Frontenac.

-Joe

Tooth Fairy

With a wrestler known as the Rock turning hockey player, several cute kids, Julie Andrews as Spenser's Fairie Queen come to 21st-century life and a screenplay by Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel, who mine the same slag pile for more repetitive nonsense in every one of their many movies, what arrives in "Tooth Fairy" is exactly what one might expect -- a dull, turgid, totally predictable comedy of the type to give "family entertainment" a bad name.

Dwayne Johnson goes from ring to rink as a minor-league hockey enforcer named Derek who slams opponents into the boards, separating them from their teeth while a pair of ninnies in the broadcast booth scream orgasmically at the violence.

Away from the ice, he is busily courting Carly (Ashley Judd), who is a mother of two, a pre-adolescent boy (Chase Ellison) who plays guitar and hates Derek, and a younger girl (Destiny Grace Whitlock) who likes the pumped-up athlete, who looks as if he just stepped out of a tanning booth.

And then Derek makes a disparaging remark about tooth fairies, and suddenly he is one, complete with wings and tutu, taking orders from Andrews and Stephen Merchant, both of whom have English accents (they're English, but still. . . .). The comedy, both verbal and physical, and situations are tired and familiar and the movie drags on like an entire year of second-rate sit-coms.

Opens today at multiple theaters

-Joe

Haveli

If Chinese food is almost as much about texture as taste, we believe that Indian food is almost as much about aroma as taste.

That struck us as we were enjoying a meal at Haveli, a new Indian restaurant that's an offshoot of Bombay Grill in O'Fallon, MO. Owner Hema Patel has brought her chef, Piara Ram, closer to the city, and Mrs. Patel herself was on hand the nights we visited. Her presence, as she answers questions and describes dishes, is a nice change from some of the dour-faced servers we've had at other Indian restaurants, here and in other cities.

She starts diners off with papadum, the crisp lentil wafers that have a touch of cilantro here and there, and the Haveli papadum are tightly rolled into a narrow cylinder, almost like a tan napkin that spreads crumbs when squeezed. They're accompanied by two dipping sauces, called chutneys, with a sweet-tart brown tamarind and a particularly tasty cilantro, bright and citrusy, different from any we've had. And since it's been soup weather recently, a bowl of dal soup, dal being the orange lentils that turn yellow when cooked, was just the thing. Light rather than sludgy, it was steamy hot and satisfying with bits of vegetable dotted throughout, and with its tantalizing scent wafting upwards.

One of the nice things about Haveli's appetizers is that not everything is deep-fried. Plenty of pakoras and samosas, the vegetables and stuffed dumplings that are fried, of course, but also things like aloo chana chat, more or less a warm salad of chickpeas, potatoes and a few nuggets of cucumber. The chat is a mixture of seasonings often used for snack foods. Its predominant note is amchoor, dried powdered green mango, which means it's sweet-sour, with a somewhat lemony aroma. Our venture into tandoori was with some large, moist chicken wings that arrived on a sizzling platter with just-past raw onions nestled alongside, along with a fresh lime for both flavor and aroma. Cooking onions always smell good, of course. Tandoori, which refers to a very hot clay oven is always a most proper introduction to Indian food, and we'd suggest this dish to anyone, novice or otherwise. Chili paneer is described as fried Indian cheese, but it's not battered and deep-fried. It's more like a stir fry with chili, onion and tomato, different from most Indian appetizers but definitely delicious.

Chicken 65 has been around for a while but still isn't on many St. Louis menus. Despite the name, it really isn't a “tourist dish.” Marinated in spices and quickly fried, the boneless chicken is full of ginger and garlic, and comes with sweet peppers, more onion, a little zucchini and a drift of cilantro, full-flavored without being incendiary. Speaking of “tourist dishes,” most serious food lovers know that chicken tikka masala was named the national dish of England a couple of years ago. Like mulligatawny soup, masala grew out of the Anglo-Indian connection to become a world-wide constant on Indian restaurant menus, and like so many dishes, everyone does it a little differently. We tried the fish tikka masala variation, and were thrilled with the result. The tomato sauce is rich and complexly spiced with a layer that made us think that perhaps cashews had been added to the ground-up aromatics that begin such sauces. The fish was tilapia, with the sauce complementing but not overwhelming its flavor. There's a chicken version available, too, of course, and a vegetarian one. The aromas of turmeric and fenugreek also were noticeable, along with cumin.

 

Mushroom mattar(above, left) brought peas and mushrooms in a completely different tomato gravy, a little sour and with a nice hit of red pepper. We'd asked for this one to be spicy, and it turned out to be an excellent contrast to the tikka masala. Another contrast came from lamb with spinach, lamb saag (above, right), its sauce golden from turmeric, with a touch of sweetness from the vegetables that heightened the flavors of the spinach and the extremely tender lamb.

A constant at the better Indian restaurants is plethora of difference, delicious breads, leading us once again to a discussion of a future meal of nothing but the breads; there are 13 on the menu at Haveli – but we stuck to the buttery nan, warm, light and very flavorful.

As to dessert, it was a case of something old, something new. The former was the familiar gulab jamun, the doughnut-hole-like cakes that arrived fresh, hot and melt-in-the-mouth delicious. These babies were obviously fried to order and arrived in just a little bit of warm syrup, bringing great delight to. And new to both of us was a flavor of Indian ice cream called falooda. Indian ice cream, by the way, is not churned, but frozen undisturbed, rather like a Fudgesicle, so the texture is different. Falooda itself is a drink/dessert served in summer, and the ice cream incorporates the ingredients, like small, chewy noodles and a few black seeds, which are known as falooda seeds. Colored a pale rose pink and flavored with rosewater, the falooda ice cream is different, refreshing, something else to explore.

Mrs. Patel seems to be doing much of the serving herself, but this is a good-sized dining room, with a large buffet at lunch. Still, she lends a homey air, especially if she understands that a guest is interested in what's being offered. And there are plenty of things we'd like to explore, like the scrambled egg appetizer and the keema biryani.

Haveli

9720 Page Blvd., Overland

314-423-7300

www.havelistl.com

Lunch and Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $10-$20

Caroline's Cakes

With the approaching Super Bowl, we're about to wrap up the winter eating season. This last day-long orgy of eating is by far the most casual of the season, Thanksgiving and Christmas generally involve sit-down dinners; New Year's Eve, if it's not a dinner, usually is a time for lighter food that goes well with sparkling wine, and New Year's Day is right for some sort of brunchiness. But for Super Bowl, we're thinking pots of chili, hundreds of chicken wings and oceans of onion dip, right?

 Over the holidays, we discovered one of the most remarkable mail-order foods we've ever had. Our daughter-in-law, who lives in Virginia, found a bakery in Annapolis, MD, that does traditional Southern cakes. Caroline's Cakes offers several types, but the headliner and by far the most popular is a 7-layer caramel cake.

The cake itself is a tender yellow, astonishing to those whose idea of yellow cake is the stuff Twinkies are made of. And the frosting...well, it's dense, creamy, clearly a cooked candy-like sort of icing, reminding us of nothing so much as pralines. Some might argue that it's more like butterscotch than caramel, but that's quibbling. No fancy decorations that could be smooshed in the shipping, just a classic layer cake style.

The 9” cake serves 14-20, which seems impossible, but this is rich, rich, rich and should be sliced thinly.

The cake arrives frozen, and can be returned to the freezer if only part of it is eaten. It' keeps that way for six months. We left it at room temperature, since we knew it was going to be eaten fairly quickly; the baker doesn't recommend refrigerating it.

Yes, additional flavors, too, and a few other items including a delightful cupcake necklace. And if you're in the neighborhood, they have a retail operation, plus a breakfast and lunch menu.

Caroline's Cakes

1580 Whitehall Rd.,

Annapolis, MD

410-349-2212

toll-free 888-801-CAKE

www.carolinescakes.com

Romeo and Juliet

 

It's probably the greatest love story ever written. It's surely the play that more people know, or know a line from, than any other. It's "Romeo and Juliet," of course, and it receives a rich, charming, delightful production from the Black Rep. It opened Friday at the Grandel Theatre, where it will run through Feb. 14.

Directed by Chris Anthony, and set in 1968 in what the program describes as "Verona (A city much like St. Louis)," the Shakespeare classic adopts a few 20th-century touches like casual garb designed by Jennifer (JC) Krajicek, often a sharp and fascinating contrast to the Shakespearean language of the late 16th century. Equally striking, but more entertaining, are several dance scenes, including a glorious rendition of the Madison of the 1960s, led by Drummond Crenshaw and Linda Kennedy, with outstanding choreography by Heather Beal. And young Chauncy Thomas stopped the show with his rendition of Louis Jordan's 1945 song hit, "Cal'donia (What makes your big head so hard?)" It was even more successful because he sang it to Andrea Frye, who played the Nurse with a lusty, bawdy quality rarely seen in the part. Frye showed a humorous, dynamic quality all night, then went to the opposite end of the emotional continuum with a breaking, heart-breaking quality when she says to Juliet, "We are undone," as she discovers that the deaths are piling up too fast to count.

Jim Burwinkel's set, simple backdrops on a bare stage, adapts to the many scene changes with little effort except for that needed from the audience.

With a cast of 18, the Black Rep used actors across its many years, ranging from founder Ron Himes (Capulet), and company veterans like Erik Kilpatrick (Montague), Kennedy (Lady Montague, an anonymous party guest and a single, brilliant scene as an uncredited apothecary), Crenshaw (the Prince of Verona) and Robert A. Mitchell (the Friar). All were solid under Anthony's careful, well-paced direction.

Younger generation standouts included Sharisa Whatley (Juliet), Khnemu Menu-Ra (Benvolio), Patrese D. McClain (Lady Montague), Nic Few (a studly Romeo), Tim Norman (Tybalt), Jonathan Ellison (Balthasar) and Sean Walton (Paris). Most of them played as friends, relatives and hangers-on to the rival Capulet and Montague families, and the fight scenes were excellent, with credit to Andrew Keller as fight choreographer and Mitchell as fight captain.

It's a fine production by the company, a little slower in the second act as the action lessens and as Shakespeare showed symptoms of the well-known playwrights' malady of struggling to bring everything to a well-constructed conclusion. As always, Shakespeare has something to entertain and teach everyone, from the display of the English language as the beautiful thing it can be, to showing off that, sadly, the human condition does not change, and serving, along then way, as the inspiration for plays and movies that have entertained us for centuries.

"Romeo and Juliet," by the St. Louis Black Repertory Company; at the Grandel Theatre through Feb. 14

-Joe

[title of show]

Cute and clever, filled with inside theater references and jokes, and highly entertaining, "[title of show]" opened in the Studio Theatre of the Rep last night, showing off Ben Nordstrom in a brilliant performance. It will run through Jan. 31, and it's a fine choice for the dreary days of January.

The title is, of course, the first joke provided by authors Hunter Bell (a Webster University alumnus who wrote the book) and Jeff Bowen (music and lyrics). Their creation involves two guys who decide to write a musical and enter it in a competition. They have not found a name, and when they are filling out the registration form that will accompany the script, they just insert [title of show] on the line that says [title of show]. Yes, it's that kind of silly, and so is the fact that the leading characters, Nordstrom and Benjamin Howes, have the names of the two writers, Hunter (Bell) and Jeff (Bowen), respectively.

That sort of noisy humor, as often displayed by eight-year-olds, is highly evident in the first half as Nordstrom and Howes jump around the stage like hyperactive third-graders at recess, often talking nonsense, continuously punctuated by lots and lots of unseemly vulgarity. Also unseemly is a Nordstrom routine in dialect.

At times they appear like attractive afterthoughts, but there are women on stage, though in definitely lesser roles. Amy Justman is Heidi, a blonde with a lovely singing voice she is allowed to display only once or twice, and Stephanie D'Abruzzo is Susan, who shows superior comic timing. Nordstrom, who keeps growing in stature as an actor, is a delight, and his skill at physical comedy and his variety of facial expressions brings nice emphasis to the laugh lines.

Howes is more of the straight man, but he adds corrections in spoken English perfectly,

pointing to a preposition at the end of a sentence in a line obviously reflecting Bell, whose mother was an English teacher.

Songs are good, and David Horstman, the musical director, handles his chores and his keyboard stylishly. If some of the songs sound derivative, it may be a deliberate moment of poking fun. Maybe I just wanted to hear it, but in a song that tossed "festival medley" around a lot, I think I heard "vegetable medley," a perfect choice of words, though Bowen left out the word "seasonal." Some of my favorites included Howes' "An Original Musical," Justman and D'Abruzzo in "What Kind of Girl Is She?" which shows an incipient rivalry between the two women that never is developed. Neither is there any sort of pairing off among the characters.

"Die, Vampire, Die," gives D'Abruzzo a chance to be the lead, and works well, and the authors' in-song philosophy of preferring nine audience members to be attending their favorite show rather than 100 people considering it their ninth-favorite, strikes a competitive chord.

Victoria Bussert directed in Rice Krispies style, with lots of snap, crackle and pop. John Wylie's lights were effective, and though neither set nor costumes demanded much, Scott C. Neale and Betsy Krausnick came through nicely in their respective tasks.

The evening is light and charming, well-paced and a nice tribute to those who work so hard to find a career in the theater, though it is not for people with sensitive ears. The show plays without an intermission, so those with other sensitive body parts are hereby warned.

"[title of show]" in the Studio Theatre of the Repertory Theatre of St. Louis, through Jan. 31

-Joe

A Single Man

A directorial debut for outstanding fashion designer Tom Ford gives us "A Single Man," a film so gorgeous, so impeccable that it sometimes looks like an ad for Gucci, where Ford spent many years as creative director. But actor Colin Firth, equally impeccable, offers a dazzling performance as George, the title character, still mourning and dreaming about his lover and partner, Jim, dead after an auto crash. The movie opens today.

Ford also wrote the screenplay, based on Christopher Isherwood's 1964 novel, a seminal work in gay literature that Isherwood later described as his favorite novel. Both book and movie cover a single day in George's life, opening with a scene that symbolizes both life and death. Set in 1962, during the Cuban missle crisis, we hear the crackly voices of news announcers from time to time, opening a window on the world.

An Englishman who lives in Los Angeles (as Isherwood did), George faces the same pressures as any person -- gay or straight -- who suddenly loses a long-time partner. Where does one look for the companionship, sex, understanding that has been an integral part of living? Firth is brilliant, teaching about Aldous Huxley to a large class of mostly uninterested students, flirting a little with one of them (Nicholas Hoult), even more with a sexy street hustler (Jon Kortajarena), but feeling comfortable with his long-time friend, Charley, played with her typical style by Julianne Moore.

Jim shows up in flashbacks from time to time, a believable portrayal by Matthew Goode, but the scenes only exacerbate George's loneliness, made more so through the superior cinematography directed by Eduard Grau.

"A Single Man" is not a happy movie, but it is a superior film, highlighted by Firth's strong, steady work; at the same time, Ford's debut as a director shows real talent, at least while looking inside a character.

Opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

The Lovely Bones

Alice Sebold's novel, "The Lovely Bones," showed skillful plotting in the fact that Susie Salmon was the narrator in a story of her own murder.

Moving it to the big screen was a foregone conclusion, and here it is, largely disappointing. Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens wrote the screenplay, and Peter Jackson directed, but it just does not hang together, held back by poorly focused writing and by acting that just does not stand out.

Saoirse Ronan is Susie ("yes, that's Salmon, like the fish," is her standard response to questioners), and she's excellent, her blue eyes calmly gazing at the supposed purgatory in which she is living. The after life, according to Jackson, is a happy, non-sectarian place where the residents seem in almost-constant contact with those they left behind.

But meanwhile, back on Earth, her father (Mark Wahlberg) and her mother (Rachel Weisz) are barely out of a post-funeral daze, and George Harvey (a really splendid Stanley Tucci) seems to be getting away with murder.

There are a couple of bright moments when Grandma, played to the nines by Susan Sarandon, shows up, but ultimately, "The Lovely Bones" proves to be anything but.

Opens today at several theaters

-Joe

The Book of Eli

Another post-Apocalyptic tale of a weary, wasted wanderer in a colorless, featureless desert housing some colorless, featureless people, reminiscent of "The Road," "Mad Max" and others. This time Denzel Washington is the heroic, extra-taciturn Eli, who carries a large, extremely sharp knife and and an equally large book, reading one to justify what he is about to do with the other.

Twin brothers Albert and Allen Hughes, who have made a number of blood-soaked movies in the last decade, are responsible for this absurdity, repeating the cliches and the violence we've all seen far too much of. Eli is going "west," he says to those who ask, but he wants no companions on his journey. The knife and the book are enough.

But post-Apocalyptic stories are never that simple. Carnegie wants the book, maybe to add to the libraries founded by his ancestor Andrew, and Gary Oldman is willing to kill for it. Eli is the preferred target but anyone else will do. Tom Waits is part of the gang, Jennifer Beals is his girl friend, Mila Kunis her daughter, set up by Carnegie to distract Eli. A young and aspiring actress, Kunis is about as out of place as a stripper at a bris, with her white teeth gleaming through the dust and her hair perfectly coiffed almost all the time.

The brightest sequence in the movie involves Michael Gambon and Frances de la Tour, as an aging farm couple named George and Martha, perhaps a nod toward Edward Albee's "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" They're lovely and charming until the machine gun fire begins.

Gary Whitta wrote the screenplay, using all the banality he's ever learned.

Of course, when Eli gets to the west coast and delivers the book, we learn, as we have known forever, it's the Bible, as obvious a revelation as learning that Mark McGwire took drugs. And since we also know that throughout history, the Bible has been a rationale for more wars, more killings, than any other single volume. Do we have to hear it again?

Opens today at several theaters

-Joe

Brasserie by Niche

Gerard Craft put himself and our city in the national spotlight with Niche, a terrific restaurant for Modern American cuisine. Now, with Brasserie by Niche, he has invaded the Central West End and challenged diners with a return to classic gastronomic roots, if France can be considered that fertile ground. Brasserie by Niche is his latest outpost, serving close-to-traditional, delicious, beautifully presented French fare in the location that was Chez Leon until a few months ago. Many of the design elements remain, like the narrow horizontal mirrors along the west wall. Somehow, however, it seems roomier, the tables farther apart, with red-checked cloths on the perimeter, white ones in the center. It's well-staffed, and on a busy night, servers flew by at a genteel lope. Chez Leon, by the way, has relocated to Clayton.

From one visit's observation, it seems a general practice to give each table an orientation to the menu, much as might be done with a more exotic cuisine. It's an interesting touch, but we're not convinced it's necessary. The crowd seems slightly older than the one at Niche, although that western wall seemed to be the place where the maitre'd put all the good-looking younger diners.

The menu is marked by many classics, plus a few unusual touches. Yes, short ribs, which seem to have become the winter dish of choice at many local restaurants, not that there's anything wrong with that. Also onion soup, steak frites and moules (mussels) frites, and charcuterie. But the menu doesn't feel cliched, just a nice spot between familiar and hard to choose. We began with salade Lyonnaise, one of our favorite French salads, basically curly endive with bacon and a poached egg. Pale, tender endive, the green of April tree buds, wore a marvelously bacony dressing, the poached egg tidily trimmed and cuddled into the squiggles of endive as though it were a wren's nest studded with cubes of excellent bacon.

And then there was brandade, a traditional dish found along the Mediterranean coast; it's a puree of salt cod with olive oil, milk, and sometimes potato. Spread on rounds of toasted bread, the version served here is more distinctively coddish than some we've had, which is to say more flavorful. We liked it a lot.

One of the most challenging entrees for a restaurant in the United States is roast chicken. While the roasting isn't a major difficulty, finding a reliable supply of truly tasty birds can be a major problem, especially if the chef is trying to keep his costs lower and cuts back a notch or two with his favorite farmer. Consequently, we're often hesitant to order it in a restaurant. Still, given Gerard Craft's success as chef and creator of Niche, and his generally high standards, this seemed like a good test for the kitchen. Two trimmed quarters of Farrar Out Farm chicken is served with black trumpet mushrooms over a piece of grilled country bread, the whole thing moistened by pan juices from the chicken and mushrooms. The skin was crisp, the flesh rich, moist and full of extraordinary flavor, and it was hard to say which was tastier, the chicken itself or the bread and juice. Definitely the best roast chicken we've had since one in France.

Specials are listed a week at a time on the menu, but that night's special had been replaced by something quite unexpected. Venison liver was being offered, served with more of those mushrooms and some mashed potatoes, along with a red wine reduction of the pan juices. The liver was simply and quickly sauteed, still rare inside. While it was firm, it was quite tender to the chew, with a flavor as mild as veal, a giveaway to the fact that this was farmed deer. (We've eaten liver from wild deer, and, like the rest of the meat, the flavor is stronger. )The sauce was tinged with rosemary, the potatoes creamy and smooth. Very simple, very good. On impulse, we ordered the brussels sprouts as a side dish, just to see what the kitchen did with them. Joe adores sprouts, Ann is just okay with them, but we fought over the last bites of the shiny green ribbons of vegetable that had been quickly sauteed with lashings of butter.

The wine list offers good prices, beginning with glasses and carafe wine and all the wines but one topping out in the low 70s. Several Alsatian and Loire Valley whites provide an alternative to the white Burgundy choices and there's even a white Cote du Rhone by glass ($8) or bottle ($20). Along the reds, a couple of Californians are available in addition to the tradition tastes from Bordeaux, Burgundy and the Rhone. Bethlehem Valley is the Missouri representative, with an '07 Chardonel ($24) and an '05 Norton ($32). We sampled from the by-the-glass list, a Cote du Rhone from Domaine de la Solitude and a Bordeaux from Abbaye de St. Ferme; both were tasty, rich on the palate with a good finish, and good values at $7.

When it comes to tarte Tatin, the classic French apple tart, the pleasure comes from two things. One is the burst of tart-sweet flavor from the apples and the caramelized sugary juices. The other is the crust, which, done correctly, should remind the eater that in France pastry-making is considered a fine art like sculpture or dance. While the individual tarts are not necessarily pastry-case perfect at Brasserie, the flavor is spot on, and the pastry is delicate and clearly house-made, the whole thing irresistible.

Clafoutis (pronounced kla-fou-TEE) is a traditional and very homey French dessert, somewhere between a custard and a pancake, baked with fruit inside. The most common version has cherries, but the Niche version held prunes (dried plums, according to California marketers) that were a slightly chewy contrast to the batter. Alongside a scoop of swoon-worthy Cognac ice cream.

About our only quibble was a server's too-frequent descriptions of menu items that were “to die for.” No, no. This is food to live for.

Brasserie by Niche

4580 Laclede Ave.

314-454-0600

Dinner Tues.-Sun.

www.brasseriebyniche.com

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $16-$24

Grease

 Very few, if any, of the singers and dancers who cavorted on the Fox Theatre stage last night had even been born when "Grease" opened in New York 38 years ago come Valentine's Day, and none of them experienced a place like the mythical Rydell, itself loosely based on a Chicago high school in the late 1950s.

But they provided an enjoyable evening of a show that continues to be good entertainment through many tweaks and many years.

A yarn of adolescent dreams, anxiety, lust and a variety of other emotions, the current production has been trimmed a little here and there; the set has been simplified; "Greased Lightning," the car, is spiffier; Sandy Dumbrowski is thick as a brick, like all her predecessors; the boys are as lumpish, crude and unattractive as they ever were; and the idea of ever attending classes is unmentionable. Among the additions is the casting of one-time American Idol Taylor Hicks as Teen Angel, who gets more squeals than anyone with grey hair usually gets and who arrives on stage inside an ice cream cone -- cake, not waffle.

Ace Young is strong as Danny Zuko, our less-than-reliable hero. He shows fine command of the role, a pain in the you-know-what, as we expect, and a solid singer, especially in the friendly "Summer Nights." Laura Ashley Zakrin, as Sandy, tended to screech when she should have been mellow in some songs, and Laura D'Andre was a very good Betty Rizzo, especially in the torch song, "There Are Worse Things I Could Do," and the aptly nasty, "Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee," sung by Adrienne Barbeau and Rosie O'Donnell in earlier productions.

Poor Sandra. I'm sure she never knew where her career would put her.

Elizabeth Marshall directed and choreographed, and the dancing was splendid. And

Dominic Fortuna, as Vince Fontaine, was excellent in the hand jive number, and when he did a little pre-show warmup, he found an audience member from Sauget, which may become a laugh-drawing part of his routine, at least for the local run.

"Grease," at the Fox Theatre through Jan. 24

-Joe

Brad Graham: More

Lory Graham tells us that the number at the Rep for information should be (314) 968-4288. She also says that visitation is January 12 from 4:00 until 8:00 p.m. The funeral January 13 at 11:00 a.m. There will also be a public memorial and celebration of Brad’s life at The Repertory Theatre of St. Louis on Sunday, January 24th at 6:00pm. The memorial will take place in the Loretto-Hilton Center with a reception immediately following at: Llywelyn's Pub 17 Moody Webster Groves, MO 63119 314-962-1515,

UPDATE: Funeral to be held at First Christian Church, 112 4th St., New London, MO, at 11 a.m. Wednesday, January 13.

Love Story

Harry and Joan are married, and their relationship reflects many others. It's a solid marriage, but they snipe at one another, or correct one another, and sometimes act as though they're in a constant argument. When Joan criticizes Harry for his comments, his answer is that he's just making conversation. That's part of "Love Story," by John Kolvenbach, which opened Friday as a production of the St. Louis Actors Theatre at the Gaslight Theater.

Lavonne Byers and John Pierson are delightful, their arguments showing a good ear for dialogue by Kolvenbach and fine direction by Jason Cannon on Patrick Huber's two-level set that allows for two apartments.

The other, on the upper level and small as a New York studio, belongs to Beane, a strong portrayal by Aaron Orion Baker. He's Joan's younger brother, definitely disturbed (schizophrenic, one would think) and with a condition exacerbated by the arrival of Molly, richly developed and presented by Sarah Cannon. She's sometimes a villain threatening violence and listing a string of heinous acts, a feat one doubts that a person of her size could accomplish, even with a gun. But that's not important, we're dealing with a play, and with feats of the imagination, and the physical contrast between Cannon and Baker makes for fun.

She also provokes Beane into behaving in ways he does not behave when with his sister and brother-in-law, who worry about making him fit into so-called normal patterns of behavior, and an early confrontation of the two men in terms of what used to be called an "intelligence test" makes for outstanding entertainment.

The play is short (88 minutes) and goes without an intermission, which I think is a mistake; there's a lot going on, and a break in the action would allow an audience time to think about the characters and where they belong, or just to have a drink that might make things a bit easier to comprehend.

Byers and Pierson represent reality, Cannon and Baker are fantasy, and the latter pair's conversations sometimes don't work in the later going. Still, "Love Song" is an interesting play that is quite thought-provoking, with solid direction and acting.

A production of the St. Louis Actors Theatre at the Gaslight Theater through January 24.

-Joe

Brad Graham

Brad Graham, the public relations manager for the Repertory Theatre of St. Louis, died a week ago. He was a native of New London, MO, and visitation will be at the Smith Funeral Home and Chapel, 2619 St. Mary's Ave., Hannibal, MO, on Tuesday, January 12. The funeral is scheduled for the following day.  Times are not yet available, but the Rep will post information at 314-968-4225 and the funeral home can be reached at 573-221-8148.

The 39 Steps

 

Paul DeBoy may be the hero of "The 39 Steps," which opened last night on the Rep Main Stage, and his performance is deft, properly nuanced and excellent, but it's the other three cast members -- Tyrone Mitchell Henderson, Michael Keyloun and Marina Squerciati -- that collaborate to make the splendid Hitchcock spoof into a totally charming production.

More than a half century ago, Alfred Hitchcock directed a movie based on the novel of the same name by John Buchan. Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll were the stars.

Patrick Barlow's adaptation, which will be at the Rep through Jan. 31, actually follows the movie plot, but isolates many moments that may have been serious on screen but which are hilarious in a different context and when performed by this splendid cast.

For example, Donat is saved when a bullet aimed at him is stopped by a hymn book in his breast pocket. That is described by Keyloun on stage, who pauses and adds, "Some of those hymns are really hard to get through." It's that sort of humor, and the many references to other Hitchcock movies, that keep the play rolling, riding a wave of often bad jokes. The political speech by DeBoy, some of the handcuff business between DeBoy and Squerciati, and other delightful nonsense also found homes on both screen and stage.

Keyloun and Henderson are some of the best quick-change artists to bless the Rep stage, and they work beautifully together, especially in a lengthy, absolutely beautiful routine with hats and accents defining their characters. They change sets with the speed of light, the silent humor of Marcel Marceau, and bring lots of humor to the activities. Meanwhile, Squerciati shows herself as a superb physical comedian with a body as supple as a gymnast, as finely tuned as a Stradivarius. The quartet of actors are a tribute to director Martha Banta.

Barlow brings in many references to Hitchcock's work, beginning with the opening music, lifted from the "Psycho" score. I saw references to "North by Northwest," "Rear Window" and a number of others, and of course there was the mandatory cameo appearance by the great director.

James Wolk designed the very adaptable set, with some splendid doors and windows, and Lou Bird's costumes certainly went off and on in admirable style.

At the Rep through Jan. 31

-Joe

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus

 

There's more than one way to make a movie, especially if you have the imagination and talent of Terry Gilliam. During the production of his "The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus," his star, Heath Ledger, died. Many directors would have abandoned the project. Gilliam found a way to complete it, convincing three of Ledger's friends and fellow-actors, to divide the part and to, more or less, make it work.

The result is an interesting movie and a glorious visual entertainment, not always successful, but worth seeing to become involved with Gilliam's imagination, at least equal to that of Dr. Parnassus, a beautifully developed character thanks to a splendid performance by Christopher Plummer. Verne Troyer, one of the little people, is a delight as one of his actors. Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farrell stepped in to replace Ledger as slightly different versions of Tony, our almost-hero. In what may be a tribute that also seems a little too pointed and perhaps too graphic, we see Ledger in a hangman's noose in his first scene. Nicole Pecorini, the director of photography, deserves many plaudits for the impressive look of the film.

The good doctor, by the way, runs a strange circus and has made a deal for immortality with the Devil, here called Nick and played with evil passion by Tom Waits. Waits' fee, possession of the doctor's beautiful daughter (the lovely Lily Cole) on her 16th birthday is due to be collected soon.

Gilliam, who directs with style and wrote the screenplay in collaboration with Charles McKeown, is a veteran with Monty Pythonesque skill and the ability to balance many balls in his juggling act, lets some of them hit the ground along the way, but the final tribute to Ledger and the interesting, imaginative use of four actors to create one character, certainly holds interest.

Opening today at the Tivoli.

-Joe

Embraces

 

Pedro Almodovar is one of the great movie directors, Penelope Cruz holds equal status as an actress. Put them together, as in "Broken Embraces," which opens here today, and an above-average movie, with a strong story and superior production and entertainment values, is assured.

This is the fifth time Almodovar and Cruz have worked together, and the first collaboration since "Volver," in 2006, when she was nominated for a Best Actress Oscar, losing to Helen Mirren in "The Queen." Cruz won in the Best Supporting Actress category last year for her work in Woody Allen's "Vicky Christina Barcelona."

As usual, Almodovar's story (he wrote the screenplay, too) deals with love and its pain, the giddy taste and the bitter aftertaste of revenge. Our hero is a former film director named Mateo Blanco (an excellent Lluis Homar) who, 14 years earlier, directed a movie called "Girls and Suitcases," which pays homage to, and shows overtones of Almodar's 1988 "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown." Subsequent to that, he was blinded in an auto accident, changed his name to Harry Caine, writes and lives quietly under the care of Judit (the wonderful Blanca Portillo), once his key production assistant, and her son.

Almodovar's character names are a conundrum. Harry Caine? A violent storm, or a tribute to Harry Lime of "The Third Man," or to the ill-fated Navy destroyer of "The Caine Mutiny," with Captain Queeg in charge? Mateo Blanco? A clean, blank slate?

Cruz, maybe the most beautiful woman in the world, is her usual glorious self and a constant reminder of when Caine was Blanco. She was in the movie, and she was a play-for-pay person, and she was the mistress of a local power broker until Blanco moved in.

Almodovar moves smoothly across time and space, and "Broken Embraces," blending the humorous and the serious in fine style, is a superior film.

At the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

Mango

Mango is not what we think of when someone says Peru. Mountains, llamas, Machu Pichu, even interesting textiles come to mind. Nevertheless, in St. Louis, Mango has come to stand for (among other things) Peruvian food. After their Shrewsbury location was firmly grounded, Jorge Calvo and his family have added a second, showier location downtown in the space that formerly held Mosaic, now a block away on Washington.

Peruvian food is not Mexican, although a few familiar words pop up on the menu, thanks to their common language. Two kinds of ceviche are on the appetizer list, for instance and a tamal, here spelled without the final "e," favored in Mexico. This is a distinctly different cuisine. We've had a little experience with it; our visit to Chile revealed that many people there, including restaurant folks, believe the best cooks in their country come from Peru.

The meal began with a dish of plantain chips. We've eaten the commercial chips, as thin and crisps as potato chips but looking like very ripe banana. Not these. They were warm, a little thicker than we've had before, and very tasty, almost addictive. Alongside was a cilantro pesto, with more tartness and garlic than cilantro, but a good go-along with the chips. Turns out they were house-made, an explanation delivered with a note of understandable pride.

In weather like we've been having, soup as a starter is always endearing. Mango's chicken soup is abuela or grandmother style, full of vegetables, with a nice tang, full-flavored but not anywhere near fiery, with some rice at the bottom that was cooked almost to anonymity. The size on the menu turns out to be a large bowl, the server told us, and offered a small cup serving as an alternative, which was just fine. (And the temperature of the soup was just right, thanks.)

That tamal is remarkable. It didn't look to be wrapped in a banana leaf, as the menu had promised, but nevertheless, it was a particularly tasty version, with the masa mixed with ground pork, some peanuts and raisins, the whole thing very lightly sweet and garnished with some pickled red onion that had plenty of zing, plus lemon juice, we'd guess, and pepper. An excellent combination.

The entree seco de carne could be translated as “dry beef” but don't be misled; it's a rich beef stew, the meat cooked to fork-tenderness but lean and tasty, the gravy thick and dark, everything laced with the almost-mysterious taste of cooked cilantro, some very mild pepper and probably some red wine. It comes with refried pinto beans, smoky from their seasoning, and some rice, which is unnecessary but traditional.

The rice also came alongside the aji de gallina, shredded white meat of chicken in a walnut sauce seasoned with the mild golden chile that's found all over that part of South America and is rapidly becoming fashionable in American chef circles. Very comfort-food-y, a creamy, faintly sweet sauce with shreds of parmesan cheese atop it, and the sort of thing that paired up very well with the rice.

Turns out there's a bakery in the family tree, too, so it's no wonder that the sponge cake in the most unusual of the desserts, called pio nono, was incredibly tender. Rolled up like a jelly roll with dulce de leche, or caramel, garnished with raspberry coulis and a strawberry, it's amazingly light. And it reminds us just how good strawberry is with caramel, one of those combinations that everyone seems to overlook.

Plenty of wine, South American and otherwise, but tropical cocktails are called for, somehow. We'd suggest beginning with the pisco sour, pisco being a sort of brandy that's shaken with simple syrup, lemon or lime juice, and egg white and topped with just a tiny drop of Angostura bitters. It's another of those drinks that goes down easily and sneaks up on the unsuspecting, but this visit the bartender approached us with a woeful look. “We're out of eggs. I'm really sorry,” she sighed. So it was a mango mojito instead, cool and unsweet and satisfying, even in this cold weather.

Amiable service, although the kitchen did fire out our entrees with a little too much speed so the entrees arrived while we still were working on appetizer plates. Shouldn't happen, especially when the restaurant is only about a third full.

Mango

1101 Lucas Ave.

314-621-9993

www.mangoperu.com  

Lunch and Dinner daily (open Sunday at 1 p.m.)

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Yes

Smoking: No

Entrees: $6-$22

This Week's Wine, January 2, 2010

 The light grey (maybe silver) bottle with the black capsule and screw-cap stands out on a shelf. The big surprise arrives when it is lifted. It weighs so little that it's difficult to realize that it is filled with wine. It weighs more than a 10-dollar bill, which will buy it on line, but a roll of quarters from the last poker game will both buy it and outweigh it.

"Sassie," says the artistic black script on the bottle, which holds a standard 750 milliliters of California-grown Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon or Chardonnay. The Chardonnay is a 2007 vintage, the reds from 2006; all are vinted and bottled in the Sonoma County town of Geyserville. The project is by a Toronto-based group, the Sassie International Vintners and Distillers Group, Inc., (www.sassie.com) and are distributed in the U.S. by Stateside Cellars of Mill Valley, Calif. (www.statesidecellars.com), which has a huge mail-order business, representing more than 30 producers from 10 different nations.

The wines have been on the market less than a year, but the plastic bottle is just the latest of many new packaging techniques, including boxed wine and screw caps, whose presence has been growing rapidly. Sassie wines come in a traditional-looking wine bottle made of PET, or polyethylene terephthalate, used as a packaging material and in carpets, as fill in ski jackets and in T-shirts. It's recyclable, unbreakable under normal handling, is less expensive and only one-eighth the weight of glass, and is recyclable. According to South African-born Denis Sasman, his wine can be kept in its plastic bottle for up to two weeks after opening without any problems.

Sassie began with California wines, obviously because they are more familiar to American drinkers, and because the $10 price point would encourage experimentation with the new bottle. But Sasman has expansion on his mind. Plans are for Italian wines in plastic bottles with the Sassie label in 2010, and for South African wines in 2011.

And the wines? Well, at $10, they are a good value and a pleasant drink, and they are food-friendly, as Sasman says they are and will be. The Chardonnay has a nice crispness, and good acidity, and will complement fish. The reds are slightly rough, with good tannins and sufficient body in the reds to make the Cab a nice match with pot roast or goulash, and the Merlot a good companion to pasta. They do not have pretensions of being great wines, they will age and improve for a year or two, but probably should be drunk in the next few months.

-Joe