St. Louis Eats and Drinks

Evita

Only two nights remain to see the New Line production of ":Evita," at the old CBC on Clayton Road, and it's worth trying to get there. Every performance for the last week has been sold out, so it may not be easy, but I highly recommend it.

With John Sparger a wonderful, sardonic, sarcastic Che and Taylor Pietz a more-than-tyrannical Evita, this is a splendid production, and Scott Miller's direction is spot-on. Miller has made a couple of minor changes, moving a few songs here and there. His ideas work well most of the time, and his casting eye and ear have put together an exciting chorus that never falters. Terrie Carolan also stands out as Juan Peron's mistress, succeeded by Eva Duarte, who pushed and prodded and poked, and eventually married the dictator. Carolan, Pietz and Sparger stand tall in "Another Suitcase in Another Hall," a song-story of a succession of mistresses, a string that ended with Evita. Pietz' voice was usually strong, but tended to get harsh in the upper register.

Robin Michelle Berger's choreography was splendid; she adapted some of the close-order march steps from the original to the sequence we see in the first act, and it works like a charm around "The Art of the Possible" and "Peron's Latest Flame."

"Evita" may be the best collaboration of Andrew Lloyd Webber (music) and Tim Rice (lyrics) , and the pair wrote splendid songs for Che, as solos or as duets with Evita where he is a brilliant counterpoint and response to Evita in songs like "Oh, What a Circus," "Goodnight and Thank You," with a strong and salacious edge, "High Flying Adored" and "The Rainbow Tour."

The chorus is rich and powerful. Pietz, in a half-dozen different gowns along the way, works hard, but I thought Sparger's lounge-lizard approach to the role of Che, a counterweight to Pietz' Evita and as a realistic response to her pie-in-the-sky political platitudes dominated.

Schaefer's set, Thom Crain's costumes and Kenneth Zinkl gave "Evita" a smooth and polished look, a strong contrast with the edgy score. The story of power, and its corruptive qualities, is as strong as it ever was.

Tonight and tomorrow at the Washington University South Campus Theatre, once known as CBC High School on Clayton Road.

-Joe

Countdown to Zero

The horrors of a nuclear Holocaust, a ticking warning in the back of almost everyone's mind, are ever-present, perhaps ever-closer whenever a terrorist, or a rogue state, or someone less fair and balanced than even Fox news, discusses the possibility of an atomioc bomb getting loose. Lucy Walker's excellent documentary, "Countdown to Zero," is just the latest.

Circling around President John F. Kennedy's 1961 speech in which he spoke of the nuclear sword of Damocles that hangs over everyone, and pointed out how the horror could be unleashed by "accident, miscalculation or madness," Walker lets many people speak, from New Year's Eve celebrants in Times Square to tourists in Trafalgar Square. We also hear from Valerie Plame Wilson, the CIA agent outed in a piece of petty revenge by Dick Cheney. Robert Oppenheimer, the key developer of the weapon, remembers the early days, and politicians, scientists and others ranging from Blair (Tony) to Brzezinski (Zbigniew) chime in with their warnings.

We are reminded of how close Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev came to total disarmament, blocked at the last minute by "Star Wars," and how close we came to World War III when a flock of geese set off alarms in Russia and Yeltsin ("Thankfully, he was sober," says a commentator) refused to act until he had more information.

The story is lightened a bit with clips from "Dr. Strangelove, or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Bomb," but views of Hiroshima, and of non-nuclear terrorist attacks in various spots throughout the world, are enough to create a climate of fear. There are some 23,000 nuclear bombs in existence, easily sufficient to create almost enough damage, and fissionable material like plutonium or uranium is extremely easy to smuggle.

"Just put it in a truck full of kitty litter," says one expert. "No one will find it."

Until it's too late.

Opens today at the Tivoli

-Joe

Great Directors

Like almost all documentaries, the success of "Great Directors" depends on how interested one is in the subject matter, and since this one involves movies, I liked it. Angela Ismailos' film includes 10 interviews with some of her favorites, people like Bernardo Bertolucci, Catherine Breillat, Liliana Cavani, Stephen Frears, Todd Haynes, Richard Linklater, Ken Loach, David Lynch, John Sayles and Agnes Varda.

Ismailos, who manages to squeeze her attractive, blonde self into every interview, is a fan, and her questions reflect it. Few are truly penetrating, but they are good enough to allow the filmmakers time to explain why they do what they're doing and to tell pleasantly illustrative stories about their careers.

Sayles, who is one of my favorites, explains that he writes many commercial, big-studio screenplays to earn the money to make the films he wants to write and to make, and he excoriates Hollywood's film, "The Patriot," while sadly coming to the conclusion that "everything is political" about Hollywood movies.

Bertolucci talks about the influence of Pier Paolo Pasolini, and discusses Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider after a clip of them in the famous buttery sex scene from "Last Tango in Paris," a moment Pasolini would have loved. Linklater discusses his admiration for Rainer Fassbinder, and Breillat tells the story of her first film, made when she was 16. French courts ruled that no one under 17 could see the movie, and Breillat laughs as she talks about not being allowed to see her own movie.

Loach and Frears talk about making films in the Margaret Thatcher days, and Frears relates tales of working with great English actresses like Helen Mirren and Judi Dench. Lynch discusses "Blue Velvet" and "Eraserhead," and there are a lot of good--if too brief--clips from each director's most memorable movies.

It's too easy to quibble about which directors Ismailos chose to interview, or which clips to use, but it's her film, so she gets to make her own decisions. Good entertainment for movie fans of all ages.

Opens today at the Tivoli

-Joe

King Doh

King Doh has been around for 31 years in its Warson Woods space, which makes it one of the longer-running Chinese restaurants in the community. It proudly displays a large handful of reviews, including a couple of very old ones from a former Post-Dispatch critic. Only a few people read them, we'd guess, but we did, curious to see how the place has aged, and we're happy to report that it seems to have aged well.

The interior, with dark wood, walls painted a pale mauve and three fish tanks whose occupants are decorative rather than functional, has been updated, and so, of course, have the prices. But the menu doesn't seem to have changed much. This is the Chinese food that most St. Louisans grew up with, and sometimes that's just exactly what one craves. But King Doh's kitchen has not settled into the sort of boring, second-rate routine that so often occurs at a certain age. In addition, King Doh has a sense of dining-out style. Over the years, we've chided restaurants,mostly Asian, for setting the table with only one fork, forcing servers to take the fork from the used plate and put it back on the tablecloth. King Doh is a two-fork restaurant.

A busy evening of carryout business meant that on one visit, we waited a looong time for our potstickers when the kitchen was suddenly slammed. Servers flew by. Ours quickly explained the delay, and we nibbled at some sesame noodles, trying to pace ourselves for the rest of the meal. They were good, a little sweeter than we're accustomed to, the sesame notes clearly from oil rather than peanut butter, since they didn't have the tendency to remain glued together, and it was hard not to make a meal of them. When the potstickers arrived, the server drizzled a little vinegar and a little soy sauce over them, and left the containers on the table in case we wanted more. The dumplings were outstanding, tender-skinned and with a meaty filling that was firm but not gelatinous. The bottoms were elegantly crisp and the whole dish was clearly fresh from the pot. A first-rate dumpling, to be sure, one we can enthusiastically recommend, and one that, in violation of our usual habit, we ordered on our next visit to enjoy again. (That's a double order in the picture; they're six to an order.)

Hot and sour soup, served in individual bowls rather than the family-size basins, was tart and pungent. And in honor of the retro feel of things, we ordered something we haven't had in years, shrimp toast. Shrimp toast involves squares or triangles of bread spread with chopped, seasoned shrimp held together with some egg and then deep fried. Yes, sure, dietarily shocking, but done right, it's so good, crunchy and shrimp-y. King Doh's version had some of the shrimp left in chunks, and that made it even more charming.

Several proteins are offered “yu shian” which shows a spicy sauce packed with ginger and carrying a little heat, along with water chestnuts, bamboo shoots and mushrooms, plus a few other vegetables. We chose scallops, which were properly cooked, if looking a little ragged, but it was generally a big-flavor dish. Beef with black mushrooms showed off tender lean meat whose beefiness bounced around with the mushrooms and was all the better for it.

Green beans with very slender strips of pork (or as the old critic crowed, “Pork 'n beans!”), arrived with the beans slightly blackened from the heat of the stir-fry in the wok, quite traditional, and with such a generous amount of pork that it should have been listed in the pork section of the menu rather than the one for vegetables. Peking lamb? That was a new one to us. Plenty of garlic and green onions reminded us of what Mongolian beef used to be when it was a new dish in town. (And on our next visit, we'll order Mongolian beef and garlic chicken to return to those glorious days of yesteryear,) And the “special” moo shu contained chicken, shrimp, beef and pork, along with the vegetables. Four Chinese pancakes (much like crepes, for those not familiar) and the hoisin sauce arrived on a cart with the meat and vegetables, and our server wrapped large burrito-esque packets for us. The extra filling and the hoisin sauce remained after the cart and the pancake plate returned to the kitchen. Like the rest of the meal, the freshness and the temperature of the dish, despite the time needed for the tableside preparation, impressed considerably.

Aside from the long wait for the potstickers on the earlier visit, dishes seem to emerge from the kitchen quickly. Diners, both those picking up dinner to take home and those in family groups, indicated many regulars, a good sign in the dining room. Our server had enough English to manage and a cheerful demeanor that made for a pleasant visit.

Very good American-Chinese comfort food, that's what King Doh serves, and well, too.

King Doh

10045 Manchester Rd., Warson Woods

314-821-6988

www.kingdoh.com 

Lunch Tues.-Fri., Dinner Tues.-Sun

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

Entrees: $7-$16

I-70 Eats: Richmond, IN

Returning home from a driving trip East, we stopped for lunch in Richmond, IN, just this side of the Ohio line. On the ground floor of a rehabbed factory, brick walls showing the patina of age, Ghyslain Maurais, a Quebecois chef who married an Indiana girl, is serving lunch (and dinner Friday and Saturday) and selling exquisite pastries and chocolates in a sparkling, tasteful, tasty operation under the eponymous name, Ghyslain.

While lunch was very good, especially a tender quiche lorraine with a fine crust and first-class French bread served with small cubes of sweet butter and a salt dish with fleur de sel, Hawaiian red salt and black lava salt, it was the desserts that sent us off reeling.

Sorbet and gelato, made in house, came in flavors like a creamy and powerful rum raisin, a delicate pineapple gelato, one of the richest coconut sorbets we've enjoyed, and a mango sorbet so dense it was almost chewy. All terrific.

And then there were the pastries. Gorgeous. Makes one remember why the French chef Careme considered architecture one of the fine arts, its main branch being pastry. And good? We're here to tell you, yes, indeedy. A tall, square chocolate caramel cup involved layers of very moist chocolate cake, ganache, mousse, and buttery caramel, the whole thing looking almost like inlaid stone under a striped chocolate top. It was one of the most intensely chocolate desserts we've had in a long time, a great melange of textures and flavors, and far from the oversweetness that detracts from good chocolate.

 The Soleil Levant, however, nudged past its striped cousin to take our grand prize. The glowing yellow dome rises over the edge of the tart's crust; when viewed in profile (minus the chocolate garnish), it does look like the rising sun--thus its name. The tender tart shell holds a layer of yuzu custard, yuzu being the chic and wonderfully tart citrus from Japan. The custard's texture was perfect, neither runny nor rubbery. Atop that was a dome of mango mousse, which was covered lightly with a yuzu glaze. Chocolate ornaments add a bit of contrast.The mango and yuzu worked perfectly together, a marvelous treat for those of us who love tart desserts. One of the patissiers told us they'd made a thousand of them for a party at the Kentucky Derby in May. . Lucky guests.  

Lots of folks having lunch here, but our favorites were three elderly women, their white lawn caps almost invisible over their white hair, quietly chatting away over coffee from a French press (which the house serves with a timer, so one knows when to push down the press), and admiring the goodies in the cases before they moved on, the tallest one with a long stride that made one think of a school principal patrolling the halls. Ghyslain also has two other locations, another bistro in Zionsville, IN, and their plant, with a dessert cafe, in Union City, IN. More details on the website, including possibilities for tours.

To find Ghyslain, leave I-70 at Exit 151, and go south about 2 1 /2 miles on US 27. The highway goes over an overpass; within inches of its southern end, turn left on North D Street. The building will be directly ahead, with lots of parking. The name of the restaurant is painted clearly on it, along with those of a few other tenants. As the Miuchelin Guide might say, "Worth a detour."

Ghyslain Bistro

416 N. 10^th St. at N. D St., Richmond, IN

765-966-3344

www.ghyslain.com 

Lunch Tues.-Sat, Dinner Fri.-Sat

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees (lunch): $6-$12

Fela!

There's as much drama as dance, as much pain as pleasure, in "Fela!" the strong, flashy, throbbing musical directed and choreographed brilliantly and with his usual flowing imagination and imagery by Bill T. Jones. I saw it in New York recently, and can highly recommend it to St. Louisans planning vacations.

The rhythmic, pulsating Afrobeat music of Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, whose life is celebrated here, is brought to exciting, sensual immediacy by Jones, who directed and choreographed, recently winning a Tony for the latter. The composer, who became a Nigerian legend in the 1970s, was as much a political figure as a theatrical one, and his story is set in 1978, on the last night before the government closed his club, the Shrine, and sent him into exile. He died in 1997 at the age of 59.

Anikulapo-Kuti also is paying tribute to his mother, who was thrown from a second-story window by government soldiers some six months before the play begins and died of the resulting injuries.

The music is exciting, with a heavy, throbbing bass line, and is a blend of American jazz, blues and hip-hop with the traditional African rhythms. In his choreography, Jones emphasizes both the sensual and the sexual aspects of the music, and the dancers offer tribute to old-fashioned bumps and grinds. Rolling hips and powerful pelvic thrusts are almost a constant, and the dancers are spectacular.

Kevin Mambo and Sahr Ngaujah alternate in the title role, a demanding one because the actor is onstage almost constantly, singing, dancing, playing a variety of instruments and always in an angry leadership position. We saw Mambo, who held the audience as if it were a lover, a friend, a supplicant. It's brilliant work. The great Lillias White, a classic singer who was part of the original cast of "Dreamgirls," portrays his mother, Funmilayo Anikulapo-Kuti, as a ghost and as a live person, and she pounds out her songs with passion. Elasea Douglas is brilliant as one of Fela's wives (he had a dozen or so), Ismael Kouyate is an amazing chanter and Gelan Lambert is a show-stopper as a tap-dancer who spreads electricity throughout the theater.

Given Jones' theater history, "Fela!" is as much dance concert as it is theatrical piece, maybe more, but the dance is passionate and immediate, and the performances are thrilling. The dancers often break off into what can be compared to jazz musicians' riffs. The technical work is brilliant. Marina Draghici designed the colorful scenery that covers the theater's walls with portraits, political banners and much visual evidence of a country in turmoil; she also designed the costumes, and won a Tony for them. Robert Kaplowitz' sound design also was honored with a Tony, while Robert Wierzel designed lights and Peter Nigrini the projections that heightened tension and beauty.

Exciting theater in every respect.

-Joe

I-70 Eats: Columbus, OH

Driving east from St. Louis on I-70, Columbus, Ohio, makes a mid-afternoon stop for us, or an overnight if we're running late. But we recently found a reason to violate all rules of sensible eating at Jeni's, a short, easy detour from the interstate and a place we won't pass up ever again.

Ice cream for supper isn't something for every day, of course, but Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams is far different from most. Located in the Short North Art District on North High Street, a neighborhood that feels like the Central West End, it offers about 15 seats, a mural outside and a plethora of intriguing options.

There are a couple of traditional choices for the timid, yes, but we consider ourselves extremely adventurous when it comes to ice cream flavors. Mom always told us not to stare, but the display cases of a variety of flavors are irresistible, and then we are reminded that it's rude to ask for a taste of every single one. But consider the pistachio honey, the first ice cream we've had that actually tastes like pistachio nuts. Another delight showed off local goat cheese and red cherries, dense, both tangy and tart, almost like eating cheesecake. This is why the photo shows ice cream that's obviously been dug into; we were so taken with our tastes that we forgot to shoot first.

A seasonal flavor was sweet corn with black raspberries, one of those combinations that sound odd but taste great. Salty caramel--carried by Dean and DeLuca in New York--was extraordinary, its texture softer because of the salt, the caramel note strong and seductive. Queen

City Chocolate, named for Columbus' downstate rival, Cincinnati, showed dark chocolate and a slow-growing heat from cayenne pepper. Another spicy option, more complex, was Bangkok Peanut that combined peanut butter, coconut, and some complex spicing that danced on the tongue.

Jeni's has a total of five stores now, but this seems to be the easiest to find. There's a High Street exit from I-70 in downtown Columbus; just follow it north. To return, head back down High Street and look for signs. You'll be grinning happily as you go.

Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams

714 North High Street, Columbus, Ohio

614-294-5364

www.jenisicecreams.com

Lunch & Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Fair

Smoking: No

 

Promises, Promises

 For all its glitter and brightness, for all its Neil Simon one-liners and the talent exploding on the stage of the Robert G. Reim Theatre, there's an underlying bitterness and sadness to "Promises, Promises," the Stages St. Louis production that will run through Aug. 15.

Ben Nordstrom inhabits the body and mind of Chuck Baxter like a hand in a glove; Brandi Wooten simply sweeps everyone off the stage (including Nordstrom and that's not nearly as easy as she is) as the drunken floozy Marge MacDougall.

And yet. . . .

First staged in 1968, the musical celebrates men lying to, cheating on and stealing from women. It makes heroes of middle-aged married men, corporate executives, whose primary joy comes from afternoon liaisons with younger women who participate because their jobs are at stake. Without exception, the women of "Promises, Promises" are in a position which is primarily prone.

The play, which earned the late Jerry Orbach a Tony for creating the stage version of Chuck Baxter, began as a 1960 movie, "The Apartment," written by I.A.L. Diamond and Billy Wilder, directed by Wilder, starring Jack Lemmon and winning five Academy Awards. As the movie title indicates, it's about a young, ambitious, ruthless man who could have served as a model for J. Pierrepont Finch of "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying," which arrived a couple of years later. In an attempt to compile brownie points, Baxter was willing to let his co-workers use his apartment for their assignations and soon had a schedule as routinized as the New York Central commuter lines.

Meanwhile, he was mooning over Fran Kubelik (Tari Kelly) but stumbling over his own feet when it came time to make a move. They both liked basketball, but that's not much of a cornerstone for a relationship. Besides, she had plans of her own. Professionally, she was happy to be the hostess in the executive dining room. Simon, despite his genius at comedy, did not have many great, serious roles for women, or show women in positions of strength. His women were mostly Jewish mothers, subjects of many jokes, or they were the Pigeon Sisters ("The Odd Couple"), or they were dime-a-dance girls like Charity Faith Hope Valentine ("Sweet Charity").

In the Stages production, Nordstrom's Baxter is so good it's almost eerie. His youthful, ingenuous looks are perfect, his command of facial expressions amazing. He dances well, clowns beautifully, sings satisfactorily, commands complete attention when he breaks the fourth wall and talks directly to audience members. His comic scene with Wooten is simply glorious, with flawless timing and brilliant playing off one another. She's striking, brought down the house with a perfectly delivered, "It's owl!" and created a superbly funny character.

Tari Kelly, as Fran Kubelik, was good, but lacked the excitement she should bring to the role. Richard Pruitt excelled as the doctor who lived next door and started slowly, but later, he delivered the crackling Simon one-liners with the same sharpness the writer showed so well. Michael Halling, tall and dapper, was an elegant heel as J. D. Sheldrake, Baxter's boss and partner in seduction. Kari Ely sparkled as Peggy Olson, Sheldrake's secretary, and the four apartment-using executives, John Flack, Edward Juvier, David Schmittou and Darrel Blackburn were a delight as they panicked, harmonized, showed their desperation, and did a little of the old soft shoe.

The Burt Bacharach (music) and Hal David (lyrics) score, the only major show score they ever wrote, includes "I'll Never Fall in Love Again" and the title song, both long-timers on the Top 40 charts. But it isn't exceptional, even though David manages to rhyme "I'll phone ya" with "pneumonia."

Matthew McCarthy's lighting design, with movable panels, went through a range of color and brightness that brought lovely support to an okay set. Dana Lewis' choreography and Michael Hamilton's direction were imaginative and disciplined, creating one of the best productions of Stages' 20 seasons.

Promises, Promises, a Stages St. Louis production at the Robert G. Reim Theatre through Aug. 15

--Joe

No More Salad at Penn Station?

As America--and food writers--continue to wrestle with the problem of obesity, another restaurant chain has done its bit to make things worse. Penn Station, which serves an acceptable cheesesteak sandwich, along with many variations on the sub/grinder theme, has stopped offering salads (and wraps, too). Removed from their menu boards, removed from their website.

It was crazy. The chain, in case you've not visited, offered to take its sandwich fillings and put them atop a field of lettuce instead of bread. Lighter on the stomach, lighter on the calories, lighter on the carbs. It's not like they don't have lettuce on hand.

We left the outlet, muttering.

A day later, we e-mailed the company and asked what was going on. This is the reply, which, by the way, came very quickly, a nice touch in these days of unreturned phone calls and ignored e-mails:

Thanks for the email. Unfortunately, salads were not a big seller for Penn Station,

and we had no choice (we were only selling between 1-3 per day per store, system

 wide) but to remove them. We know this isn't what you wanted to hear, but it's the 'why'. 

 

MORE IMPORTANTLY, as a side note, the store(s) can still serve you a salad in a 

kid's boat (as opposed to the bowl). It is basically the same as before (and 

actually costs slightly less). We just don't promote such. Did they not offer 

this as an alternative when you ordered? The restaurant should have if you 

did indeed ask. Which location did you visit?

 

We hope this helps!

 

And, no, the substitution was not offered, but we're reluctant to disclose the location. We're not about to blow the whistle on the pleasant and apologetic server who makes a peasant's wage for telling crabby adults he can't give them what they hunger for.

So there's the answer. We hope this helps others who crave the tasty cheesesteak, a dish far easier to order with the rationale that it's far less dangerous without the bread.

Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky

I cannot recall ever seeing a movie more strikingly beautiful than "Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky," a fictionalized account of a love affair between the composer and the designer in the 1920s, when the world was recovering from "the war to end all wars." Marie-Helene Sulmoni is credited as production designer, and her work is amazing. She deserves high paise from taking this out of the ordinary, and so do all the technicians who worked with her.

Director Jan Kounen, along with screenplay collaborators Chris Greenhalgh, who wrote the novel based on this footnote (bednote?) to history, and Carlo de Boutiny, obviously knew how fragile the story was, so they provided a highly dramatic, beautifully staged opening scene. It's a warm May 29, 1913, and all of Paris society, in the most fashionable of gowns, arriving in glorious, if noisy, automobiles, is at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees for the world premiere of the ballet to Stravinsky's "Le Sacre du Printemps," ("The Rite of Spring") presented by Sergei Diaghilev, with choreography by Vaslav Nijinsky.

Chanel (Anna Mouglalis) is there, of course, though she is mourning her lover, Arthur (Boy) Capel, recently killed in an auto accident. Their eyes meet on occasion as Stravinsky (Mat Mikkelsen) conducts, but his raucous, atonal music, and the primitive style of the choreography, and maybe the heat, too, soon has the audience stirred up. After catcalls, answered by cheers, and loud arguments back and forth, a riot erupts, and it takes the police to end it.

After that glorious, remarkable scene, everything speeds up. We go through the war in a flash of old newsreel clips. Chanel (Anna Mouglalis) becomes the epitome of cool. Her simple, almost stark, black-and-white designs are the toast of Paris, her slender figure is everyone's goal. She wears a half-smile almost constantly, shows little emotion, stands back with her hands in her pockets. "Don't you like color?" asks Mrs. Stravinsky, and Chanel's answer is, "Only if it's black."

After the Revolution, Stravinsky moves to Paris with his wife and a number of children. Chanel offers lodging in her fashionable, large, country home. After a little internal debate, he accepts. The eventual occurs. Catherine Stravinsky (Elena Morozova), who is not in good health, spends a lot of time in bed, but it is not long before she and the children realize what is going on. When she asks her husband if he and Chanel are being intimate, he hesitates and does not reply. When she later asks Chanel if she feels guilty about the affair the reply is an immediate "No."

Chanel's house and garden are glorious, and Mouglalis looks spectacular in the Chanel (or Chanel-style) gowns. And while there's a lot of sweating as she and Mikkelsen show off their supposed passion, it doesn't come across with much steam, not even when she interrupts his practicing and is in such haste that the piano bench serves as a passion pit.

The affair wanes, as such things do, and Stravinsky proves he has had little experience with women when, during an argument, he snaps, "You're not an artist. You're a shopkeeper."

That's when it's time to bring in the clowns.

"Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky" opens today

-Joe

Crockpot Meatloaf

Not everything in our kitchen is haute cuisine. I've given up Hamburger Helper now that the kids are raised and I'm not working 40-plus hours a week at a hospital, but that doesn't mean I'm not interested in food that's easy. And I'm frequently on the prowl for new meatloaf recipes, since the guy who sits across the table from me loves it in almost any iteration. I found the basic recipe for this at the website southernplate.com, and did a little hacking.

Doing it in a crockpot produces a meatloaf that doesn't heat up the kitchen, and is much more about meat and gravy than the usual version. No breadcrumbs or oatmeal to stretch the meat, just an egg to hold it together and the packet of seasoning. The resulting gravy, with as much fat spooned off as possible, thank you, is luscious.

Christy Jordan, who writes the blog, points out that you can use ground turkey in this; I used chuck. She also uses a can of condensed tomato soup instead of my Ro-Tel, and adds the possibility of a quarter-cup of ground flaxseed to be mixed with the meat. Not that you'd find any of that around here, I fear. If I were cooking for folks who didn't do spicy food, I'd probably haul some of my standard tomato sauce out of the freezer and substitute about a cup for the tomatoes and chiles. The Ro-Tel is the one with lime juice and cilantro, my favorite for making chili.

 

2 lbs. ground beef

1 large egg

1 packet dried onion-and-mushroom soup mix

1 can condensed mushroom soup

1 can Ro-Tel tomatoes and chiles

 

Mix together the meat, egg and soup mix. (Does anyone not use their hands for this?) Form it into a ball or a loaf, depending on the size of your slow cooker, and place it in the bottom of the cooker. Spoon the mushroom soup over the top of the meat mixture and around it. Add the Ro-Tel.

Christy asks for 4 hours on high or 8 hours on low. I did 2 hours on high and 4 on low, and it was done. (This is a good place to use a meat thermometer) I removed quite a lot of the extra fat from the gravy, and didn't thicken it any further.

Serves 4.

-Ann

 

Let It Rain

When times are bad, comedy is good. And a pair of goofy French comedies open today. "Micmacs" is reviewed above, and in the same genre is "Let It Rain," with Agnes Jaoui wearing three hats, as star, director and co-writer with Jean-Pierre Baeri, who also has a major role as a filmmaker who barely knows which end of the camera takes the picture. There's plenty of absurdity in that, and in political campaigns spiced with family and sexual escapades, just as they are in this country.

Jaoui portrays Agathe, a Parisian, successful writer and activist who is running for political office in the small French town where she grew up. Her sister, Florence (Pascal Arbillot), lives in the family home there and is quite resentful of Agathe's success. Michel (Baeri) is convinced that he can make a film for Agathe that will assure her victory, and he convinces her to hire him. Michel has a sidekick, Karim, whose mother, Mimouna (Mimouna Hadji) is an immigrant from Algeria and who has been the family housekeeper for many years. Karim also is filled with resentment because of his dark skin which, he thinks, keeps him from any job besides night clerk at a seedy hotel.

Given all this sturm und drang, it's amazing that Michel and Karim can get anywhere on time, focus a camera and acquire footage. They get lost easily, have car trouble, fail to communicate and, basically, have not the foggiest idea what they are doing. Some of the semi-slapstick is wonderful, and the work of Bacri, wandering here and there with neither a script nor most of the other necessities for movie-making, is hilariously incompetent.

There's a lot of political argument, too, including a wonderful scene where Agathe and the filmmakers, whose car has given up the ghost, get a lift from some farmers who also give them an earful of their difficulties. And in terms of sub-plots, we also have an affair between Michel and Florence, a lot of preliminary fiddling and flirtation between Karim and Aurelia (Florence Loiret-Caille), a cutie who also works at the hotel. Oh, yes, Agathe and her long-time fiance, alson are trying to sort out a relationship. Something for everyone and fine work behind the camera by Jaoui.

"Let It Rain" opens today.

Micmacs

The struggle goes back to the beginning of time, or at least the begining of motion pictures, as writers and directors have matched humor against horror, farce against fear, laughter of the living against the tears of death. Tragedy usually wins out.

But in a movie like "Micmacs," we can laugh, and giggle, and even stop to think a little. A French import, whose full title is "Micmacs a Tire-Larigot," which means "Non-Stop Madness," or so the movie-makers say, is a little thin, but writer-director Jean-Pierre Jeunet has created a cast of such loony, laughable characters, and a plot that is unabashedly impossible but a wonderful source of "What if. . . ."

Bazil (Dany Boon) is a man who hates bullets, and properly so. We see his father blown up by a land mine. Later, we see the grown-up Bazil working in a movie rental shop, watching Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in "The Big Sleep," dubbed into French, when a accidental bullet from outside pierces his forehead, and since removal surgery is considered too dangerous for practitioners of government-run medical plans, it remains in his head. But he loses his job while hospitalized, and moves to a junkyard hideout where a group of strange characters have taken up residence. Without a job, Bazil worries about ammunition and discovers that France's two largest factories are located across the street from one another.

The caricatures in charge are Nicolas Thibault de Fenouillet (Andre Dussollier) and Francois Martini (Nicolas Marie). De Fenouillet's hobby is collecting body parts from deceased celebrities from Marilyn Monroe to Benito Mussolini.

Bazil's buddies are a rare and wonderful group, like Buster the Human Cannonball (Dominique Pinon) who longs to again snuggle into a gun barrel and wait for the explosion he loves to hear. Or Tambouille (Julia Farrier), a contortionist who twists her supple body into imaginative, thought-provoking shapes and angles. Or Calculette (Marie-Julie Baup), the cute, wide-eyed human calculator, dividing and multiplying and doing square roots while we sit in silent wonder. Or Petite Pierre (Michel Cremades), known as Tiny Pete, who builds and plays with complex mechanical devices of the sort an artist named Rube Goldberg used to draw. Raindrop (A) would fall into Spoon (B) and in a series of wheels, flags, belts, gears and other devices, eventually an egg (R) would fall into frying pan (S) and so on, right to the breakfast table. Or Remington (Omar Sy), a tall African who speaks in a blend of mixed metaphors, mispronunciations and Malapropisms that gave fits to whomever created the subtitles. And then there's Yolande Moreau, as Mama Chow, who runs the residence.

The entire movie is--delightfully--a step or two off center and into a bended reality. OId Max Steiner movie scores provide a background that emphasizes the one-off quality and keeps making us think of "The Big Sleep" scenes just before Bazil is shot. Jeunet only falls short because it is impossible to create this world that all of us can only visit, and his excursions are warm, rich and totally engaging.

"Micmacs" opens today

-Joe

Kim Son

 We can't recall seeing Cornish hen on a Vietnamese menu hereabouts, but we ran into it not long ago at Kim Son. We're not sure, by the way, if it's Kim Son Seafood, Kim Son Vietnamese Bistro, or Kim Bistro–we've seen all three names around the establishment, and it was simply Kim Son the last time they answered our call, so we'll offer all of them. And the menu at the free-standing restaurant on the parking lot where Seafood City (a grocery store, not a restaurant) is about to arrive, doesn't show much seafood except on its Chinese list. We, as a matter of philosophy, generally go with the food from whatever culture the proprietors of a restaurant grew up with. So we went in other directions.

The restaurant is large, with plenty of televisions and good spacing between tables. On our visit, it seemed to be a slowly-gathering crowd, with more people eating at 8:30 p.m. than when we arrived a little after seven. Our server was pleasant, even downright cheerful, and the kitchen moves everything quickly enough so that dishes can arrive before you finish the previous course. Speed also is affected by how busy the kitchen is, although we acknowledge that “courses” are rarely found in Asian restaurants.

Spring rolls, of course, to kick off. Two kinds, in fact, regular ones and moo shu, containing some pork inside the cool, thin, moist wrappers of rice flour, thin as paper. A hoisin sauce and the familiar nuoc cham sauce for dipping came alongside. Both styles were heavier on the vegetables inside than many of their cousins, something we like since it adds flavor as well as texture, and subtracts a few calories. Worth a repeat order.

Crispy chicken wings were the first and second joints of the wing, not separated, and seemed to be baked, rather than fried, and therefore not as crisp. That was even more than okay; these babes are just a vehicle for carrying a fabulous sauce, one that begins with soy sauce and has lots of notes of sweet-roasted garlic in it, and when we say sweet, we're not just hinting. Definitely a big salty-sweet flavor combo, it was too rich to eat with a spoon, but perfect for wing-dipping.

Shanghai noodles, listed under the “rice or egg noodle soup” category, arrived as a good-sized bowl of the thin, wiggly egg noodles topped with several kinds of meat and seafood. The soup was alongside, ready to pour over the top or to serve as a dipping sauce. The basic broth was chicken, with a faint hit of star anise. No overcooked noodles, happily, and a wide variety of protein, everything from excellent, perfectly cooked shrimp to a slice of red meat that was clearly a cross-section of heart. Unfortunately, it included some of the fake, extruded fish that tries to pass as crab, but also chicken, a couple of pieces of tripe, nicely chewy squid all waiting for the fun, with some fish sauce on the side. Very comfort food-like.

Now about that Cornish hen. Far crisper than the wings (and obviously deep-fried), it was carefully hacked into pieces after cooking, allowing it to cool to easy handling temperature. The hen was tasty and tender, sprinkled with green onion, with still another soy-based sauce for dipping. This one had a little onion, but was far thicker than the wings' sauce, pretty close to the consistency (and easily the color) of Karo syrup. Sweet, too, with notes of dark caramel. But the really remarkable thing on the plate were the rice cakes. Two perfect discs of sticky rice cooked with coconut had been sauteed to chewiness on the outside and were a perfect counterpoint. We've never come across them before, and liked them so much we could have probably eaten them solo.

This is perfect weather for cafe sua da, the Vietnamese iced coffe that drips into condensed sweetened milk before being stirred together and poured over ice. Kim Son's is the classic version, almost chocolaty in its richness. We find the infusion of caffeine seems to be soaked up by a full-sized meal, so we have no qualms about knocking back a glass after dinner. Mileage may vary, but consider it after lunch, at least; it's a treat worth knowing about and enjoying.

Kim Son

8080 Olive Blvd, University City

314-432-8388

Lunch and Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: Yes (but we smelled none)

Entrees: $7-$16

Chicken Adobo

Another succulent recipe from Jaden Hair's The Steamy Kitchen Cookbook skipped onto our table the other day. Adobo means marinade in Spanish, and entered the culture of the Philippine Islands centuries ago via the influence of Spanish explorers. Over the years, some Far Eastern flavors were added, and today chicken adobo is considered by many to be the Filipino national dish. Chicken is the most common meat, but the marinade, or sauce, can be used with beef or pork, or even shrimp.

Years ago, I knew a physician whose calm, reserved demeanor became noticeably animated when he talked about cooking. I discovered this one day when he began describing this delicious-sounding chicken dish that he cooked pretty much by ear. No measurements. I never got around to making Dr. Jesse Arcelona's version of chicken adobo, but a tip of the hat in his memory as we enjoyed this.

The ingredients add up to a salty-tart sauce that also has some sweetness, thanks to the cooked garlic, and it's a fairly simple dish that only takes some brief last-minute finishing. Unlike Western cooking, the meat is quickly browned after simmering until tender. This means more contrast in textures than in the average stew. Jaden says she prefers dark meat with skin for this, since it stays tender better than white meat–and of course, the skin crisps up nicely.

I doubled the recipe, since I had three pounds of leg quarters in the freezer. That meant two quarters for now and two for another dinner, along with the last of the sauce.

This is meant to be served with rice, which means it's another version of that great combination, chicken and rice. I've never been able to rationalize the purchase of one of those fabulous electronic rice-cookers, but I bought a small inexpensive one a couple of years ago. We're not obsessive about home-cooked rice, and the quality it turns out is fine with us. In addition, it's really nice not to have to time my rice-cooking so that it's ready exactly at dinner time. It was worth the counter space and the money.

 

CHICKEN ADOBO

1 ½ lbs. chicken thighs and legs, skin on, lumps of excess fat removed

 

Adobo sauce:

1/3 c. cider vinegar or white vinegar

¼ c. soy sauce

3 cloves garlic, minced

2 bay leaves

1 tsp. black peppercorns (whole, not ground)

1 Tbs. sugar (I used Splenda and it worked well.)

½ c. water

 

2 Tbs. Cooking oil

 

Combine the ingredients for the adobo sauce in a bowl or plastic bag. Add the chicken, stir things around, and cover the bowl or close the bag, removing as much air as possible. Refrigerate the chicken anywhere from two hours to overnight.

In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, place the chicken and marinade. Bring to a boil, drop to a simmer, cover and let cook 20-30 minutes.

Using tongs, remove the chicken to a dish. Keep the adobo sauce in the pan. You may want to skim off some of the fat or foam at this point. Bring the sauce to a boil and let it cook five minutes or so to thicken a little.

Heat a heavy skillet over high heat. When it's hot, add the oil. Pat the chicken pieces dry so they won't spatter, and fry for two minutes a side, until the skin is a crisp golden brown. (Alternatively, Hair says, you can slip the chicken under the broiler to crisp it up.)

Serve with rice, and spoon some of the sauce over the rice. Serves 2-3, depending on the rest of the meal.

-Ann

The Girl Who Played With Fire

"The Girl Who Played With Fire" is the second book in Stieg Larsson's magnificent trilogy about Lisbeth Salander, equally talented in coaxing the secrets out of a computer or beating them out of an gangster twice her size, and Mikael Blomkvist, the kind of crusading reporter who makes every living reporter or former reporter not only envious, but also certain he could have done as well if only he had had the opportunity and the supportive editor.

Noomi Rapace and Michael Nyqvist reprise their roles from "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo," but Daniel Alfredson replaced Neils Arden Oplev as the director and Jonas Frykberg replaced Nikolaj Arcel and Rasmus Heisterberg as the writers of the screenplay. Larsson died a few years ago, just after delivering to the publishers the manuscript of what would become a world-wide blockbuster best-seller.

Firegirl, as compared with Tattoogirl, is a little shorter but less gripping. Tattoogirl kept me on the edge of my seat as the tale unfolded; Firegirl, revealing a little more of Salander's history, held me less tightly but it remains an impressive film. Alfredson's direction seems a little more casual, and tension is milder. Like the first movie, and all three books, it is filled with sex and violence, but those are two of the things that made the book such a hit. We're dealing with sexual activities, spies, blackmailers and a variety of thugs who have infiltrated upper levels of Swedish government.

While it brings about a sense of comfort and familiarity, and a little extra knowledge, it is not necessary to have seen the first movie to enjoy or understand the second. Rapace's performance as the dark, disturbed Salander, an eager, equal-opportunity participant when it comes to sex, is again outstanding, and Nyqvist is a voice of calm when she appears ready to go over the top.

"The Girl Who Played With Fire" is a fast-paced tale that is a splendid piece of summer entertainment; I look forward to the third book, "The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest," but with mixed emotions. I'm sure I'll enjoy the film, but it's the last of the trilogy and there will be no more.

"The Girl Who Played With Fire" opens today.

-Joe

The Killer Inside Me

It's difficult to feel sorry for a murderous psychopath, especially when he beats up on women, but maybe the blame for the shortcomings of "The Killer Inside Me," belongs to director Michael Winterbottom, who follows almost every blow with a loving camera, then lingers on the faces of the victims as death approaches.

Casey Affleck is excellent as Lou Ford, but it's easier for an actor to play villainous, and to play pretentious as well. Ford, as a deputy sheriff in the tiny Texas town where he grew up (his father was the town's only doctor), has an in-play game on a chess set in his living room, also plays piano, listens to opera on a 33-r.p.m. hi-fi record player (remember them?), and muses about life. His thoughts advance the plot on voice-overs, and look at his boyhood in flashbacks. It isn't pretty.

James Thompson's novel, written in 1952, is classic pulp fiction. It was filmed in 1976 with Stacy Keach as Lou Ford, directed by Burt Kennedy and written by Edward Mann and Robert Chamblee.

The current version, set in the '60s with a John Curran screenplay, opens as the sheriff (Tom Bower) asks the deputy to solve a problem involving Joyce (Jessica Alba), a prostitute involved with the son of Chester Conway (Ned Beatty), who town's richest most powerful man. When the young deputy asks for advice, he's told to handle it the way he thinks best. At her house outside town, he drops one of the oldest lines in American films, "I think you should be out of town by sundown." She responds by cursing at him and punching him. They fight for a while, but eventually he pins her to the bed, rips off some of her clothes, takes off his belt, rolls her over and beats her savagely. When he's finished, she breathlessly takes off his clothes. The rest of hers fall off magically.

The two engage in a frantic affair, nicely shown in moments showing him driving back and forth on the same stretch of highway, intercut with moments showing them rolling back and forth on the same stretch of bed.

When her brutally beaten body is found, the murder investigation begins. The town's nucleus of good 'ol boys is ready to let things vanish under the rug, but Conway wants revenge and the district attorney, a fine underplayed performance by Simon Baker, doesn't believe Ford. The violence doesn't end with the murder of Alba; Ford also has a girl-friend, Amy (Kate Hudson) who is willing to put up with Ford and his escalating violence as long as she thinks he will eventually marry her.

"The Killer Inside Me" is a taut, well-constructed movie, but I cannot honestly recommend as entertainment a film that is so pathologically violent against women--or against men, either.

"The Killer Inside Me" opens today

-Joe

The Girl Who Played With Fire

"The Girl Who Played With Fire" is the second book in Stieg Larsson's magnificent trilogy about Lisbeth Salander, equally talented in coaxing the secrets out of a computer or beating them out of an gangster twice her size, and Mikael Blomkvist, the kind of crusading reporter who makes every living reporter or former reporter not only envious, but also certain he could have done as well if only he had had the opportunity and the supportive editor.

Noomi Rapace and Michael Nyqvist reprise their roles from "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo," but Daniel Alfredson replaced Neils Arden Oplev as the director and Jonas Frykberg replaced Nikolaj Arcel and Rasmus Heisterberg as the writers of the screenplay. Larsson died a few years ago, just after delivering to the publishers the manuscript of what would become a world-wide blockbuster best-seller.

Firegirl, as compared with Tattoogirl, is a little shorter but less gripping. Tattoogirl kept me on the edge of my seat as the tale unfolded; Firegirl, revealing a little more of Salander's history, held me less tightly but it remains an impressive film. Alfredson's direction seems a little more casual, and tension is milder. Like the first movie, and all three books, it is filled with sex and violence, but those are two of the things that made the book such a hit. We're dealing with sexual activities, spies, blackmailers and a variety of thugs who have infiltrated upper levels of Swedish government.

While it brings about a sense of comfort and familiarity, and a little extra knowledge, it is not necessary to have seen the first movie to enjoy or understand the second. Rapace's performance as the dark, disturbed Salander, an eager, equal-opportunity participant when it comes to sex, is again outstanding, and Nyqvist is a voice of calm when she appears ready to go over the top.

"The Girl Who Played With Fire" is a fast-paced tale that is a splendid piece of summer entertainment; I look forward to the third book, "The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest," but with mixed emotions. I'm sure I'll enjoy the film, but it's the last of the trilogy and there will be no more.

"The Girl Who Played With Fire" opens today.

-Joe

Milagro Modern Mexican

 A Mexican restaurant by the railroad tracks...but wait: This is Webster Groves and Milagro Modern Mexican is large, airy and modern. Tucked to the side of an upscale shopping precinct, slightly hard to find, it's worth the effort. The address is Allen Avenue, but rather than turning off Lockwood onto Allen, you'll do well to turn just east of Allen, an entrance that leads straight to the parking area in front of the restaurant.

There's outdoor dining in the shade cast by the building, keeping intrepid-at-this-time-of-year diners from turning into tostados, and a fair-sized bar to deal with the various and interesting-sounding tequila concoctions that are on the drinks menu. But Milagro is primarily about the food, and one good look at the menu will convince most folks of that. So does the restaurant's lineage. Chef Jason Tilford has been involved in ownership and/or cooking at the Triumph Grill and Kota Wood Fire Grill in Midtown, Barrister's in Clayton. He and his brother, Adam, opened Tortillaria in the Central West End six years ago, now have brought their take on Mexican fare to Webster Groves.

Chips are warm and fresh and so uniformly sized and shaped, so greaseless we suspect they're not done in-house. The salsa, finely chopped, had a little heat and some smokiness to it, but didn't make either of us go oooh. The margaritas, on the other hand, did. A pitcher, described as “about five glasses,” seemed a little more than that. Good-quality alcohol poured with a properly generous hand, and no flavor of the dreaded industrial margarita mix so reminiscent of kiddie lollipops.

Ceviche is a kitchen test in a couple of ways. How fresh is the fish, and how long has it been sitting in the lime juice marinade? The texture of the flesh is a sure giveaway, and this was just about perfect, neither mushy nor rubbery. So was the seasoning, a reasonable amount of spicing to allow the fish and lime to show through while still reminding a diner this is supposed to be Mexico, not the Florida Keys. Julienne of jicama added its characteristic crispness, an addition we're surprised we haven't seen before, so natural is the pairing.

Much has been made over the duck tostadas, and we couldn't resist. They are indeed handsome fellows, four miniature corn tortillas topped with a generous amount of duck, some shredded cabbage, a drizzle of a lovely sweet-hot sauce made with blood oranges and habanero pepper. The tomatillo-avocado salsa, rather than arriving on the side, was drizzled decoratively along the length of the plate. With just a little heat in the sauce, the dish was more about the textures and the duck, all swing-dancing in the mouth.

The same duck was in the enchiladas. While it tasted ducky in both dishes, the meat was so moist that it seemed as though the juices hadn't been cooked down quite enough, diluting the impact overall. But the enchiladas, made with corn tortillas, of course, were good, and the mole sauce atop them was excellent, the sort of thing that surely must have had a dozen ingredients making mystery together.

A barbacoa of lamb (originally referring to a pit roast, by the way), was chunks of tender meat braised and served with more of the fat corn tortillas, very different from the usual kind. Cumin and Mexican oregano in the gravy may remind some of chili, but this is quite different, otherwise.

On the side dish front, so to speak, we differed on the beans. Both black beans and pintos, here called charro (meaning cowboy) beans, can be had. Both were unusually good, going well beyond the snooze-inducing versions common around town. Joe preferred the black beans, his legume of choice for such things. Ann normally feels the same way, and is generally no fan at all of pintos. But these, slightly smoky and rich with meaty flavor, were remarkable to her, and her vote went to them. Another noticeable indicator of high quality and kitchen industriousness was that neither of the rice dishes showed the splayed-out-at-the-ends look of rice that's been hanging out on a steam table all evening. We preferred the cilantro rice to the Mexican (red) rice, since the seasoning was more assertive.

Tres leches cake, one of the traditional Mexican homestyle desserts, here arrives as a cupcake, The yellow sponge cake was considerably more tender than the abuela-made ones we've eaten, but still gracefully maintained its posture until we attacked it. A drizzle of raspberry sauce over the milk-soaked cake and a dollop of whipped cream topped things off. But does that make it a four-leches cake? Worthwhile, for any number.

Things were really jumping on our weekend-night visit, although service was really sharp. We strongly suggest reservations, especially on the weekends, and even more so as the start of the Rep season will draw closer.

Milagro Modern Mexican

20 Allen Ave., Webster Groves

314-962-4300

www.milagromodernmexican.com

Lunch & Dinner daily

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Good

Smoking: No

Entrees: $11-$16

 

This Week's Wine, July 6, 2010

With picnics and poolsides a couple of favorite places to enjoy summer wines, we've been spending more time visiting and sipping than writing in recent weeks and we hereby apologize. But there are a lot of bargains and some good tasting out there, along with a few interesting trends in the wine business.

Jordan, founded by Tom Jordan, who grew up in Mount Vernon, Ill., and became a successful petroleum engineer, built one of the most elegant estates in northern California and makes wine to match the architecture and decor of his Alexander Valley winery. Five years ago, he persuaded his son, John, an attorney, to take over the winery. Samples of the 2006 Cabernet Sauvignon and 2008 Chardonnay arrived recently, representing the new generation of Jordans.

The Cab, at $52, may not be a bargain, but it's a splendid wine, rich and round, with bright flavor of berries and currants, a long finish, and worth a splurge. The blend is 75% Cabernet Sauvignon, 19.5% Merlot, 4.5% Petit Verdot and 1% Malbec, two-thirds aged in French oak and the remainder in American oak. A year in barrel and two years in bottle gives it sufficient age to be drinkable now, though another couple of years in the cellar will show a discernible difference in body and flavor. The Chardonnay, from Russian River Valley ($29) grapes, seems a little more classic French in style, without as much of the big, buttery quality that some California offerings still show and that is too intrusive for me. The simpler French Chablis style works better with food, especially oysters on the shell or crab legs.

* * * *

The bargain side is demonstrated by three French imports from Bordeaux, and yes, the price of $10 for the white and the rose, $12 for the red, is not a typo. Of course these are not Grand Cru, First Growth Bordeaux wines, but they are good companions to a meal, whether at home or in the back yard or a state park or just at a side-of-the-road picnic table. These are young, bright, frisky wines that can be quaffed. They are not great wines, but they're nice drinking right now.

Bordeaux, by the way, covers a lot of territory in southwestern France

The white, an '09 from Chateau de Parenchere, is a blend of mostly Sauvignon Blanc, with some Semillon and Muscadet. The citrus notes of the Sauvignon come through nicely. I'm not a fan of Semillon; it tends to bring flabbiness to usually crisp white wines, but there seems to be only a small amount, adding some flavor and a little body. A pleasant aperitif, too, but take it off the ice for a half-hour or so before drinking. Too much cold hurts the flavor.

The red, from Marquis de Chasse, is from 2007, and is a basic Bordeaux blend (60% Merlot, 30% Cabernet Sauvignon, 10% Cabernet Franc). It's a little on the light side, but has a pleasant flavor. Not sophisticated or world-class, but drinkable and a nice companion to some hamburgers on the grill.

And the rose, from Axel des Vignes, was brisk and appealing, fresh and flavorful, with a hint of strawberry. Perfect with a chicken sandwich, or even a bacon, lettuce and tomato.

* * * *

Speaking of rose wines, Angove, an Australian producer, has a Nine Vines 2008 Rose that also is a winner. Grenache (70 percent) and Syrah (30) is a traditional blend for good fruit, crisp berry flavors and a dryness that is easy on the palate.

* * * *

At the price-conscious edge of today's spectrum, a couple of ten-buck specials from Concannon Vineyard, a Central Coast standby for more than 125 years. John Concannon, a fourth-generation vintner, has a 2007 Shiraz and a 2009 Riesling in his Selected Vineyards collection. Both are excellent values and tasty drinking. The former, a delightful companion to lamb or wild game, has raspberry notes and a suprisingly long finish for a wine in this price range. The Riesling, a touch sweeter, shows off citrus and pear, with pleasing acidity that makes it work well with spicy Asian or Latin American fare.

* * * *

Judy Jordan, founder and president of J Winery, in Healdsburg, decided some 20 years ago that she wanted a career in the wine business, but not at the family winery. Her winery, not very far from the one now operated by her brother, became known for elegant, delicious sparkling wine, then spread into various still wines, led by a glorious 2007 Pinot Noir from the Russian River Valley, priced at about $35. It's an elegant wine, almost delicate, but with a strong backbone. Winemaker George Bursick leads it through malolactic fermentation, then ages it for 15 months in French oak barrels and another six months (at least) in bottles. There are violets in the aroma, traditional cherry with a hint of clove on the palate.

Pinot Noir, the great grape of Burgundy, is as happy in the Russian River Valley as it is in its French homeland, and the J version is a delight. A little tannin holds on, but another few years should smooth it out even further.

-Joe

I Am Love

Remember all the stories about the birds and the bees?

Here's a switch. The birds, the bees, a variety of other insects and all the flowers of the Italian hills are busy learning from Tilda Swinton and Edoardo Gabbriellini, quite wonderful teachers. Director Luca Guadagnino, his focus ever tighter, and composer John Adams, his music swelling ever louder, invade the lovers' privacy to carnal lengths in "I Am Love,' where sex and wealth are on such fabulous display as to test one's ideas of good taste.

The movie, a very good one for lush, romantic, hope chest hiding, summertime viewing despite obvious weaknesses, involves a Milanese family that has been in the fabric business for a long time. Every time we enter the factory, Adams' score goes up-tempo, in rhythm with the powerful chunk-chunk of the looms and the gold that they mine.

We open on a mansion, with a large, well-choreographed cast of servants and kitchen help preparing for a birthday party for Edoardo Ricci, the patriarch (Gabriele Ferzetti). We're in the home of Tancredi (Pippo del Bono), Edoardo's eldest son, head man at the mill. His wife, Emma (Swinton) runs the house. An immigrant from Russia, where she met Tancredi, she has become totally Italian, though she still speaks both languages. Her son, Edo, the familiar form of Edoardo (Flavio Parenti) is a top salesman for the family company; her daughter, Elisabetta (Alba Rohrbacher), is an art student in England.

Emma has been a good and loyal wife, an impeccable hostess, mother of well-trained children, but as the children grow into lives of their own, she feels left out. When she tries to confide in the chief housekeeper, Ida (Maria Paiato), Ida keeps the master-servant gap wide and unbridgeable. Her mother-in-law, Allegra (Marisa Berenson), whose back-combed hair is as rigid as that of dancer Ann Miller, resents the presence of the Russian in the Italian household.

Elisabetta falls in love -- with a woman. Edo finds the fabric business less interesting than a restaurant partnership he is seeking with Antonio (Edoardo Gabbriellini), a talented, ambitious chef who prepares dishes as if he were making love to a woman. Director Guadagnino and his cinematographer, Yorick Le Saux makes Antonio's preparation as sensual as any I've seen, and after Emma meets him, it has its effect on her.

What is about to happen is as obvious as the nose on your face, and the sequences become a little ludicrous with the over-tight camera closeups, the sunlight hiding the moments of closest contact, the bugs prowling on the leaves and flowers like high-school voyeurs peeping through a window at a couple of necking classmates.

There are four credited screenwriters, director Guadagnino, Barbara Alberti, Ivan Cotroneo and Walter Fasano, and while they showed proper restraint in the kitchen, they spoiled the broth in the boardroom and the drawing room, and at the swimming pool, too. The first half of "I Am Love," with a passionate, life-seeking performance from Swinton, is a fine film, but as it descends into melodrama and soap opera, it loses its way badly, and an epilogue after the credits roll does nothing to clarify anything.

By the way, "I Am Love" has a beautiful look, with astounding set decoration, but if that sort of thing is appealing, wait a couple of weeks for "Coco Chanel and Ivor Stravinsky," perhaps the most beautiful film I've ever seen.

"I Am Love" opens today at the Plaza Frontenac

-Joe

Stonewall Uprising

If only cameras then were as ubiquitous as cameras now, "Stonewall Uprising" would have been a much better film, and the Greenwich Village riots would have had more impact. The documentary, co-directed by Kate Davis and David Heilbroner, with a writing credit for him and an editing credit for her, provides some splendid interviews with aging members who were among the rioters a half-century (plus one) ago, but the visuals are lacking.

Unfortunately, there seems to be almost no video or film of the three-day riot that one veteran referred to as "the Rosa Parks moment" for gay activists and organizers. Strangely, there was practically no coverage by any New York TV station, and since the battle went on in the midnight hours, photos were rare. Therefore, a number of shots are repeated, leading to "oh, no, not again" moments, and the overall impact is lessened.

Listening to the speakers, however, is gripping and moving. We hear from people who had been marginalized most of their lives, beaten regularly in semi-organized mayhem, often led by the police. Many in the New York community tended to hang out in "gay bars," like the Stonewall Inn, many controlled by the Mafia and most of serving as the same sort of refuge/gathering place African-Americans found in small-town churches in the South.

William Eskridge, a law professor at Yale, is the main speaker, while Lucian Truscott IV and Howard Smith, whose Village Voice office was within a block of the Inn, recalled the days and nights, with Truscott recalling triumphantly that he broke new ground in American newspapering by referring to the rioters as "the forces of faggotry." Seymour Pine, a retired policeman who was head of the public morals unit of the precinct, speaks with a different attitude now. Others, like poet-activist Martha Shelley; Raymond Castro, a baker in the Village; drag queen Martin Boyce; John O'Brien, a founder of the Gay Liberation Front; and Dick Leitsch, executive director of the Mattachine Society, speak movingly of the three days when they saw the police running from the homosexuals, rather than the other way around.

Most moving of all is playwright Doric Wilson, one of the many who marched a year later to celebrate the riots and to prove that they had become a real force. Wilson said that he began to weep as the march, or parade, moved up Sixth Avenue from Greenwich Village, and he saw that a large and supportive group of people was marching or watching. And he wept again as he remembered that triumphant time.

Davis and Heilbroner have put together an excellent film. Despite the shortcomings, the interviews are crisp and to the point, and the filmmakers chose excellent speakers with good stories to tell. Like so many studies of the expansion of any form civil rights, "Stonewall Uprising" celebrates how much has been accomplished, but its very existence demonstrates how much is yet to be achieved.

"Stonewall Uprising" opens today at the Plaza Frontenac.

-Joe

Cyrus

As a pickup line, it's among the best ever.

John is at a party. He meets Molly. Shortly thereafter, he's in the back yard when he feels a call of nature and ducks into the bushes. Apparently not deeply enough.

Molly walks by. "Nice penis," she says, and keeps on walking. And that's how John (John C. Reilly) and Molly (Marisa Tomei) begin a relationship.

But a comedy with sex swiftly adds another dimension when Jonah Hill, the title character of "Cyrus," enters the action. He's Molly's son, in his early 20s, acts a little slow but knows he's riding a gravy train and is not about to give up his compartment for a space in the baggage car. Hill, who has done some sloppy teen-age movies, is terrific in a serious role. His smooth, round, somewhat puffy face takes on frightening angles as he challenges John.

Jay and Mark Duplass doubled as writers and directors, and much of the direction holds interest strongly, if only because the flat, bright California sunshine hides evil so well. As writers, however, they don't give us much to work with. We get no back story, except that both John and Molly have been married; his former wife is played by Catherine Keener, who seems in every movie these days where a wise, mature woman is needed. Tomei is very good, too, liking for John, loving her son but a little confused by his conduct. Reilly, a fine actor, plays hapless better than most, and when he is confronted by Cyrus, he's at a loss, smart enough to know he'll lose to son in a struggle over Mom, not smart enough to handle it well. The situation is made clear when Cyrus walks into the bathroom, knowing Molly is in the shower, ignoring John's protestation and immediately displaying his power.

Cyrus is an fascinating character, well-written by the Duplasses, well-acted by Hill. A shadow hangs over him, and he uses it like a bullfighter's cape, disturbing and confusing his enemy, protecting himself.

"Cyrus" opens today at the Tivoli

-Joe

Winslow's Home

 

No question about it, Winslow's Home is unlike any other restaurant in town. Surely dining alongside uncommon toys and eco-friendly door mats is a singular experience. Deeply casual, the patrons make the Home feel like a diner, or a dining room, albeit a rather upscale one, with both simple and complex flavors from a talented, imaginative chef. Lots of visiting children, although nary a high chair in sight, and no kiddie menu, either, proof that kids can do lots more at the table than some folks realize.

Order in the rear, before a tempting counter laden with pies and such. See the kitchen working behind. Beverages are in the cooler cases, or choose wine from a small room nearby. Servers deliver the food to the tables; many of them outside under freestanding awnings. A real plus for iced-coffee drinkers, too, with the beverage in a refrigerator, avoiding the pour of hot coffee onto ice cubes, which dilutes it in a tragic manner.

Breakfast Tuesday through Friday, with a menu shorter than some, but more than just coffee and pastries, and a weekend brunch we tried recently. Creamy, long-cooked oatmeal pleased our healthy eater, and so did the June strawberries. A fritatta with smoked Missouri trout, one of our favorite ingredients, was handsomely topped with a very lightly dressed salad and some golden beets, a good combination that dovetailed with the savory fish. And a thick round of golden brioche French toast was topped with bananas and, in a combination beloved of Nigella Lawson, the British food writer, a generous shower of shards of crisp-cooked and very high-quality bacon.

Much has been made over Winslow's Home's beef brisket sandwich, and it seems to merit acclaim. We're not talking barbecue here, but a careful braise producing tender slices that are laid out on a seeded rye bun, topped with brie cheese and, allegedly, horseradish mayo, If there was horseradish, it was indistinguishable, but frankly, my dear, we didn't give a darn. Even the one who doesn't like seeds in her rye was swooning over this fat boy. A turkey bacon club, whose ciabatta was grilled, had a little sweetness from some tomato jam, saltiness from a tapenade, and some yellow cheese just described as “farmhouse.” What it didn't have was bacon. The turkey was thick slices of real white meat, not carved from some extruded roll, but we missed the bacon. Nevertheless, it was a very good sandwich, in terms of texture and of taste contrasts. Both were accompanied by an excellent green salad, very basic, just good greens, oil and vinegar.

Most nights, there are three entrees on the menu board. By the time we arrived one evening, only one was left, a trout en papillote, although that wasn't the phrase on the menu. Baked in parchment, thanks, the perfectly boned fish was under a row of thinly sliced potatoes so tender they practically melted in the mouth. Fennel added a nudge of flavor and the whole thing was topped with slices of good tomato, drizzled lightly with some pesto. Tearing back the parchment, a cloud of steam, and then, voila, the beautiful results, cooked just right. An excellent combination of tastes, too.

Cary McDowell leads the kitchen. He's a guy whose palate is well-tuned at combining harmonious flavors, so well-tuned he could be described as having perfect kitchen pitch. However, the pastry isn't his. Our breakfast scones, one lemon-ginger and another blueberry, were very different from each other, not just in flavor, but also in texture. Both were good, but clearly from different recipes—or different hands. Pies, however, suffer the inevitable indignity refrigeration heaps upon pastry, and while the fillings are often excellent, like a sour cream raspberry we tried, the resulting crust is leaden, damp and disappointing. Go instead for some of the cookies at hand, and remember, there's cold milk in the cooler, as well as plenty of coffee options.

Service seems to be a mixed bag. We've had crackerjack work one time, amiable but dazed at other visits. Be patient. It's worth it.

Winslow's Home

7213 Delmar Blvd., University City

314-725-7589

www.winslowshome.com

Breakfast, Tues.-Fri., Brunch Sat.-Sun, Lunch & Dinner Tues.-Sun

Credit cards: Yes

Wheelchair access: Yes, but snug

Smoking: No

Entrees: $12-$17