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112 EATERY LIVES
UP TO ITS
REPUTATION
It was your mom who taught you,
in her way, to be wary of hype.
"If everybody was going to jump
off a bridge," she'd ask, "would
you do it, too?" Back then, of course,
you would have -- but by
now you've internalized her rhetorical tricks
and turned them on yourself. So when everybody is scrambling for
a table at a certain restaurant, and critics are ladling it with praise,
you tend to want
to stay away. You're a contrarian. We can empathize.
But
sometimes it pays to take the plunge.
Photographs by
TERRY BRENNAN
Fleurs de la mer:
Becker's beautiful bud-like scallops with julienne oyster mushrooms.
Spaghetti with sautéed lobster in a
chile, mint, and garlic oil.
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The 411 on 112
When a restaurant gets raves
from practically everyone, can it possibly live up to the hype?
BY ANN M. BAUER
NO ONE LIKES to think of himself as a
follower. In fact, some of us have a tendency to avoid what is wildly
popular as a matter of principle. The Da Vinci Code? Haven't read
it. Fear Factor? Never saw it. Paris and Nicky who?
So when Isaac Becker opened 112 Eatery last
January and reviewers almost immediately hailed it as the greatest thing
since unsliced artisanal bread, I was suspicious. Perversely, my
skepticism only grew when, in May, Ruth Reichl -- the legendary über-critic
of Los Angeles Times, New York Times, and Gourmet magazine
fame -- came to town for a book signing, dined at 112, and later told
the Chicago Sun- Times that her meal in Minneapolis at "a little
restaurant that turned out to be a chefs' hangout" had been superb.
The hype, for me, was a little
off-putting. It became doubly so when I was preparing to review 112
and I could not get a reservation. "We could seat you... ah..
Friday at 8 p.m., three weeks from this weekend," said the woman who
answered the phone. Was it just me, or did she sound smug? "Or" --
my heart leapt -- "maybe next Tuesday at around 10:30?"
This would hardly do: I couldn't assemble groups
of dinner companions in the dark of night, nor could I make my deadline
if I had to wait weeks to start visiting the restaurant. I ended up
putting off my review for a month, but by this time I was just plain
curious. So I showed up with a friend at 5 o'clock one day, just as the
host was unlocking the front door, and snagged a table.
The recommended wine --a Rioja the server described as
"full and smooth" -- turned out to be weak, with an unpleasant
aluminum note. There was a crab salad, beautifully sculpted but
weirdly wet and too vinegary, topped with crunchy fried onions à la
the hotdish at a Lutheran church supper.
We shared the scottadito, a dish containing
three miniature lamb chops, pounded,
blackened, and served with a yogurt-pesto sauce. On first taste,
there was a moment of nice contrasts: Greek against Italian, fresh
dairy and herbs paired with jerk-style, gamy meat. But the chops
were chewy and dry, a little rough on the throat and the palate.
This place is no big deal, I crowed to myself.
Sure, the Chinese fried eggs -- two wide-open yellow eyes served
in a mist of buttery oyster sauce and scattered with shredded
scallions -- filled my mouth with the most supreme leftover-Kung-Pao-for-breakfast
explosion. But was this enough to warrant the restaurant's
reputation? Surely not, I thought.
I was so wrong.
WHETHER IT WAS a rare off night at
112, or simply a reflection of my own grumpy mood, I cannot say.
What I can tell you is that when I returned at the appointed three-weeks-hence
reservation time, everything was changed. My guests had arrived
early and were drinking wine -- a plummy, slightly chilled
Mark West Pinot Noir for an ultrareasonable $6 a glass -- while
grazing on olives and spiced almonds.
"I already love this place," one of
them whispered as I slid into the booth. It was a warm night, more than 85 degrees even
at 7 p.m., and we'd been warned the restaurant could be stuffy. But
the air in the dining room was fine. And unlike the many bistros
that showcase their chefs like rent-a-babes at an auto show, 112 has
its kitchen discreetly hidden away. While Becker and his staff sweat
in the heat, patrons are left in a quiet, cool peace, able to focus
on one another and on the food. A very good thing, because
everything we ordered that night was nigh perfect.
The starters included sea scallops -- open
like miniature roses, meaty with a golden seared crust -- atop a bed
of julienne oyster mushrooms in citrus-spiked truffle oil. The final
effect was smooth and delicate, ocean and earth. Our steak tartare
appeared prettily marbled, but the white glints amid the pearls of
juicy raw beef turned out to be fresh onion, and the two performed
some sort of alchemical trick so the taste was faintly of barbecue
-- the way the coals smell just as you begin to cook over an open
fire. And the Bibb lettuce salad was a beauty, the ruffled leaves
stacked in a soft pyramid and drizzled with vinaigrette that had
garlic at the fore and then a long finish of anise seed and oil.
Over two hours, we sampled every fish on the
menu: tender monkfish served in puffy, marshmallowy bites with a
homemade tartar sauce that was both ultracreamy and thick with
chunks of relish; seared ahi tuna arranged in silky tongues of meat
and sauced with a startlingly minty chimichurri; and the king
salmon, which can't be summed up in a single phrase.
Every good restaurant serves salmon; it's the
modern epicure's filet mignon. But at 112, I tasted a preparation
like no other. First, it was hot. I don't mean warm or simply
toasty; this fish had been infused somehow with the heat of a
planetary core. With the first cut, steam billowed out in fragrant
waves. Salmon is a robust fish to begin with, but Becker bravely
embraced, then compounded, its intrinsic nature by serving it with
farro (a hearty, chewy ancient grain), dots of chorizo, and a
liberal sprinkling of exotic spice. The result was rocket-powered flavor
that lay satisfyingly heavy on the tongue.
VISIT NUMBER ONE
was disappointing;
number two, exalted; it would be up to number three to break the
tie. This time I brought out my most daunting test: I walked in
unannounced at 5 on a weekend night, with a crowd of people that
ranged in age from 16 to 40. The host didn't bat an eye and seated
us in a prime location, despite the line beginning to form at the
door. Our server was equally polite, taking it in stride when the
youngest member of our group inquired about the sweetbreads and
describing their preparation in great detail. As she promised, they
were succulent -- tender meat on a base of stock-reduced porcini
mushrooms and clam sauce. But even better were the blue prawns she
recommended -- plump lobstery-shrimpish curls of fish, lightly
coated and fried with a jaunty dusting of red pepper and a side of
Becker's "rooster" mayo, which turned out to be a pungent aioli
laced with an Asian-style hot chile sauce.
A cheeseburger came topped with musky Brie on
a monstrous artisan bun. The French fries were sheer perfection --
thick and crisp but not greasy, served with a tarragon aioli that
sang of garlic. Then there was the nori-encrusted sirloin with ponzu,
a splurge (by 112 standards) at $24, but well worth it: a brick-size
steak of satiny, juicy, rare beef served with the tiniest spritz of
bright green wasabi alongside. You know those poisons so potent it
takes only the smallest amount to vanquish an entire city? The same
principle applies to this wasabi, only the effect is "killer" in a
completely different way.
After this extraordinary performance, the
desserts were a fitting curtain call. Winners included a banana
meringue shaped like a sultan's hat, with a crumbly crust, disks of
fruit, caramel sauce, chocolate shavings, and whipped cream; and a
chocolate pot de crème accented with a barber pole of chocolate that
twizzled from the top. But best by far was the tres leches cake:
soft sweet whiteness in several iterations -- white sponge cake,
whipped cream, sweetened condensed milk, and delicate white
chocolate shavings.
I still have no plans to watch Fear Factor,
but in this case I'll defer to the masses. Isaac Becker's 112
Eatery is, indeed, worth the wait.
Ann M. Bauer is a senior
writer for Minnesota Monthly. |
