Burger Friday has given up hamburgers for Lent, and is diving headlong into the Friday fish-fry ritual. Here are five suggestions:
Glockenspiel offers a Friday fish fry year-round, but the restaurant goes into overdrive during Lent, with all-you-can consume portion of beer-battered cod (plus a single serving of fries and coleslaw) for $12.95 (from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m.), and $14.95 (from 3 to 9 p.m.). Here’s another Lenten bonus: The restaurant accepts reservations for fish fry-eating parties of four or more at dinner.
For its year-round Friday fish fry, the Groveland Tap taps swai. “It’s similar to catfish,” said kitchen manager Steve Johnson. “Everyone has cod, or pollock, so it’s nice to do something different.” The beer batter-fried fish (Johnson relies upon Grain Belt Premium) is an all-you-can-eat situation, and the fries and coleslaw are not, “but if someone wants more of either one, I am happy to make that happen,” he said with a laugh. Cost is $11.25, and it’s served all day, from 11 a.m. to 12:30 a.m. Johnson’s tip: Show up at lunch. “People sometimes have to wait an hour, an hour and a half for dinner,” he said. “Lunch is the best bet for getting in without having to wait.” As for beer pairings, Johnson suggests going light, something along the lines of the Freehouse No. 1, a crisp, golden Kolsch produced at the Tap’s sister restaurant.
At Stella’s Fish Cafe, the formula is simple: fried Alaskan cod, golden fries, coleslaw and tartar sauce, an all-you-can-eat situation priced at $14.95.
For its all-you-can-eat Friday fish fry, the Machine Shed offers three Atlantic cod choices: rolled in bread crumbs and fried, beer-battered and fried, or broiled. Side dishes include vegetables and a choice of potato (baked, sweet, mashed, garlic mashed, French fries or sweet potato fries), served from 3 p.m. until the kitchen closes for the night. Cost: $12.99.
All day, every Friday, year round, for $11.95, fun-loving Harry’s Cafe offers up four pieces of Alaskan pollock, serving it pan-fried, deep-fried or broiled, and pairing it with a choice of mashed potatoes, baked potatoes or fries. Tartar sauce, too.
The burger: It’s hardly rocket science to believe that if you want a great veggie burger, you go to a great vegetarian (or vegetarian-friendly, anyway) restaurant. Someone recently asked where they could go and not end up with a thawed Morningstar Farms patty — that a restaurant would actually have the temerity to serve such a dreary supermarket downer is a mind-boggler, but that’s another story — and of course my first thought was the Birchwood Cafe.
I was not disappointed. The restaurant, 20 years young, has had a black bean-based burger on the menu since opening day, and although I’m a frequent diner (don’t get me started on my love for the savory waffles, or the vegetable handpies), I’ve never gone down that particular path.
Not that I feared the burger equivalent a tragic no-food-with-a-face substitute. That has never been the Birchwood's style. And it's not that I didn't know that the restaurant wouldn't approach the veggie burger with the same intent that it displays with the rest of its frequently but not exclusively vegetarian menu.
I was not surprised to learn that chef Marshall Paulsen has, during his eight-year tenure, put the black bean burger through probably two dozen refinements. It’s easy to see why the one I scarfed down earlier this week is a pinnacle experience.
First, the thick patty nails the moisture-texture conundrum that trips up so many dry and pallid veggie burgers. Paulsen’s secret lies is in the way the beans are prepared. Some are simmered for six hours in highly salted water until they’re tender but not mushy, while others are cooked longer, then pureed and seasoned with garlic-infused oil.
Binders include white quinoa, the flesh of dry-roasted russet potatoes, potato starch and locally raised cornmeal, and the mix is seasoned with plenty of cumin, coriander, salt and black pepper. When the B’wood’s kitchen was the size of an Eden Prairie McMansion’s walk-in closet, the black bean burgers were baked. But thanks to a recent renovation and expansion, Paulsen finally has a kitchen that matches his skills and ambitions, and one benefit is embodied in the way he’s now able to prepare his black bean burger. No more baked burgers, thank you very much. That bean-quinoa-potato mixture gets formed into a ball, and as each ball is seared in a hot cast-iron skillet, it gets a schmush, Smashburger-style, and cooked until the outside of the patty develops a pretty decent burger-like char, and the interior remains solid and relatively moist.
For those who think that “veggie burger” is synonymous with “boring,” prepare to have your expectations shattered, Birchwood-style. First of all, there’s an astonishing level of detail that goes into the (all-organic, naturally) bun, which is baked on the premises each morning. Paulsen calls it a “birdseed” bun, because it’s sprinkled with ingredients typically associated with birdseed: flax, millet sunflowers. \
But the bread itself is a far cry from the vacuous, one-note white-bread burger buns that seem to norm, its wheat flour base fortified with barley and molasses. It’s no wonder that Paulsen is justifiably proud of it (and if you’re a fan of the B’wood’s turkey salad sandwich — and if you’re not, you should be — it’s served on a loaf version of “birdseed” bun). And if you didn’t think there was room for improvement, Paulsen finds it, buttering the inside surfaces of each bun giving them a light toast on the kitchen’s flap top grill.
From there, Paulsen piles on the flavors, and doesn’t hestiate to step outside the burger garnish comfort zone. The combinations change about eight times a year, depending upon what’s seasonally available. Right now, it’s a cool, crunchy cumin-kissed apple-cabbage slaw, a thin slice of sharp Cheddar, a healthy swipe of honey-jalapeno-mustard mayonnaise and a crown of flavorful microgreens, some sweet, some bitter.
Did I miss my weekly beef burger? Not for a second. The same cannot be said for the vast majority of veggie burgers I encounter.
Fries: Oh, the fries. One of the many benefits of the Birchwood’s recent remake is that the kitchen has the room for a deep fryer. In the old days, Paulsen would occasionally offer fries, but it was a huge hassle. “We would fill a stock pot with oil and use a candy thermometer,” he said. “We only had a six-burner stove, and so that would take a burner, and it was so messy.”
No longer. The B’wood’s much roomier facility also makes space for the time-consuming pre-frying process. Potatoes are sliced, skin-on, then soaked in water overnight (“To get rid of some of the starches, so they’re not so sticky,” said Paulsen). They’re pulled from the water and refrigerated for a day, then blanched in 325 degree rice bran oil (a non-allergen, non-GMO product), then chilled again and then fried to order, this time with the rice bran oil at 400 degrees.
They’re pulled from the fryer just as they reach a deep golden brown, then dusted with a fine-grain sea salt, and the results are fantastic. Of course, it helps that Paulsen starts with organic russets sourced from Heartbeet Farm in Zumbro Falls, Minn., and they boast a pronounced root vegetable flavor, a quality often lost on Planet French Fry.
“If you start with good ingredients, you’ll have a good outcome, as long you don’t screw it up,” said Paulsen.
Each order comes with a terrific house-made ketchup, noteworthy for its bright, slightly sweet tomato punch and thick, fries-clinging consistency. It’s the result of a lot of experimentation on the part of the B’wood’s kitchen crew.
“A lot of people are anti-house ketchup, because the general feeling is that Heinz does it best already,” said Paulsen. “So we modeled ours on Heinz, what goes into it, and how it’s made, only we use organic tomato paste and organic corn syrup. It’s still traditional ketchup, but it is made with better ingredients, and it doesn’t have those generic added flavorings.”
Along with ketchup, the fries are also served with a second dipping sauce, and the formula changes frequently. Right now it’s a delightfully garlicky mayonnaise seasoned with roasted fennel.
Here’s a tip that will keep fries-seekers’ devastation to a minimum: They’re available at dinner only. Right now, lunch is a fries-free zone, and it’s strictly a logistical puzzle: How to serve the restaurant’s popular breakfast while also going through the prep necessary prep details.
“I’ll make sure that it’s on my next creative team meeting agenda,” said Paulsen. “We’ll figure it out.”
The price is right. Buy a black bean burger at dinner, and a handful of fries is just an additional buck. Better yet, splurge ($5) on a highly sharable appetizer-size order (again, dinner only). You won’t regret it.
Where the chefs eat: When Paulsen craves a (non-Birchwood) burger, he goes to the Nook (formal name: Casper's & Runyon's Shamrocks Irish Nook). “That’ll always be my place, I’ve been going there since I was 12, so that might have something to do with it,” he said. “It’s the perfect example of the perfect burger. If I go out once a week for a burger, it’s going to be at the Nook.”
Address book: 3311 E. 25th St., Mpls., 612-722-4474. Open 7 am. to 9 p.m. weedays, 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. weekends.
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The burger: For owner Greg Beckey, the appeal of the burger at his Steve O’s Bar & Grill springs from the kitchen’s 25-year-old char-broil grill.
Think about that for a moment: A quarter century of burger flavor, burnished, day after day after day, into the surface of that hard-working grill. Let’s do the numbers: That's more than 9,000 days of firing up that burger-maker, which translates into hundreds of thousands of burgers. So, yeah, it’s easy to see what he's talking about.
“That’s really what gives the burgers their great flavor,” Beckey said. “Any restaurant owner would tell you that that’s why the burgers come out as good as they do.”
He asked if I remembered the old Charlie’s Cafe Exceptionale. Who doesn't? The downtown Minneapolis restaurant has been gone for more than 30 years, but scratch a native Twin Citian of a certain age, and you’ll find a Charlie’s story. Here’s Beckey’s:
“Well, when the restaurant closed, they sold their grill to someone,” he said. “Someone bought that grill specifically because they wanted that same famous Charlie’s flavor.”
I love that. (Oh, and does anyone know where the Charlie’s char-broiler ended up?)
Back to the burger. It’s a bar burger, so it’s nothing fancy. But that simplicity is a major draw. The centerpiece is of course the patty, eight heaving ounces of tightly packed, lightly seasoned and obviously fresh ground beef that takes on the tease of smoke as it gets seared on that grill.
Six minutes after I ordered, I heard the creak of the kitchen door, and lunch was served. My burger arrived medium rare, and it was glorious, the center of the patty deeply pink, the patty’s surfaces lightly, tantalizingly charred. That half pound of beef goes a long way: It’s a thick-ish patty, yet it still stretches wide across the entire bun, embracing an ideal beef/bread ratio.
Based on the patty alone, Steve O’s serves a mouth-watering tavern burger for the ages. The rest? Eh. I know it’s February, I know that Steve O’s is a roadhouse in Crystal and not some James Beard award-winning temple of gastronomy, but there’s no excuse for serving such lame tomatoes. Can we all agree to ignore such pale, juiceless, ice-cold and mealy excuses for one of nature’s most extraordinary gifts, and pledge to enjoy them only when they are meant to be enjoyed? These sad imitations contribute exactly nothing to the burger experience, so why bother?
Other add-ons left a far more favorable impression, and certainly do nothing to upstage the beef’s stellar performance. There’s a perfectly fine lettuce leaf, all color and crunch. Raw white onions contributed a much-needed punch (and helped cover — slightly — the tomato’s glaring inadequacies), and as for the cheese, I followed my server’s advice and went with American (other options include pepperjack, Cheddar and Swiss), and its salty, melty, bubbled attributes performed just as expected. The soft white bun (from Denny’s 5th Avenue Bakery) didn’t exactly stand out, but it wasn’t bad, and was improved by a light toasting and a thick swipe of fatty mayonnaise.
Shortcomings aside, I’ll repeat myself: This is a bar burger for the ages.
Price: Visit at lunch (11 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily), when nearly every burger on the Steve O’s menu is $5.50 (cheese, a single -- and I might add, stingy -- slice was an extra 50 cents). Otherwise, expect to pay $8.99 for this California-style burger. For the menu’s eight or so other burgers, you'll pay anywhere from $7.99 for a straight-up version to $9.99 for a half-pounder buried under chili, cheese and sour cream.
Fries: Extra, and worth the $1.25 surcharge. They’re cut wide and fried to a light golden crispiness and for a frozen, commercially-packaged product, they boast plenty of tender potato-ey flavor. Lots of black pepper seasoning, too.
Steeped in history: It was basically love at first sight between Steve O’s Bar & Grill and yours truly. Here’s why: When I walked in, there were exactly four people populating the nearly empty bar and dining room (I wasn’t surprised; roads were in C-minus condition – it was snowing – and there weren’t a lot of drivers out and about; plus, it was well after the noon hour, and early afternoon doesn’t exactly feel like prime time for a roadhouse in the Steve O’s mode).
Two were customers, both nursing beers at the end of the bar. The other two were working: One was the beyond-friendly woman who took my order, the other was seated behind the — wait for it — pulltabs counter.
Now, I don’t encounter a lot of charitable gambling scenarios while I’m on the job, but that's looking like a grievous error on my part. I’m thinking that I need to hit the pulltab circuit with more frequency, in hopes that I’ll encounter more Steve O’s-level burgers.
The restaurant has been around forever, in various forms. Beckey says the building dates to the late 1920s. He’s been on the premises for more than 30 years, working for previous owner Steve Weisman until Beckey bought the place 15 years ago.
When I pulled into the parking lot, my brain was sparked by a vague memory of visiting the place with my father and my uncle Hub in the mid-1970s, when it was called the Cabin Bar. That foggy reminiscence (literally: given that date, the place was probably shrouded in secondhand smoke) sent me to the Strib’s creepy basement morgue and its bookshelf of battle-scarred city directories.
The oldest volume dates to 1956, and after much searching (it wasn't under "B" for "Broadway" but "W" for "West Broadway," go figure) I found the address listed with the name Louie’s Log Cabin. By 1967, the restaurant was going by the Log Cabin Restaurant and Cabin Bar. Thirteen years later, it was operating as the Crystal Lounge. Weisman bought it shortly thereafter and changed the name to Steve O’s, and when Beckey took possession, he maintained the status quo. “I was not going to call it Greg O’s,” he said with a laugh.
The exterior has seen better days, but go inside and you’ll find yourself embraced in the vintage warmth of honey-tinted knotty pine paneling. “It’s got that ‘Up North’ feel,’” said Beckey. It does indeed.
Recently, Beckey has been sprucing the place up, and his efforts show, including the addition of 14 taps, widely and wisely expanded the bar’s craft IPA offerings. Unfortunately, the room’s most remarkable feature, a handsome river rock fireplace, wasn’t crackling with a rowdy fire — which is just what the doctor would have ordered on that particularly wintry afternoon. No, its beauty was obscured by a pinball machine. Huh?
Parting shot: Just as I don’t encounter a lot of pulltabs in my line of work, I was also delighted by a (rare, for me, anyway) gift from the kitchen: A moist towelette. After destroying two gigantic paper napkins during my lunch-hour burger-and-fries-a-thon, all I could think was, “How thoughtful.”
Address book: 4900 W. Broadway Av., Crystal, 763-537-5970. Open 8 a.m. to 2 a.m. Monday through Saturday, 9 a.m. to 2 a.m. Sunday.
Talk to me: Do you have a favorite burger? (A tip clued me into Steve O’s, and I’m grateful). Share the details at firstname.lastname@example.org.
The burger: The proliferation of burger chains continues. This time, it’s Freddy’s, a cheery and spotless Wichita, Kan.-based outlet that recently established a fast-food beachhead in the Twin Cities.
Freddy’s slaps the “steakburger” label on its output, and that might stretch credulity. If there’s a steak flavor, I couldn’t detect it, although what was there, beef-wise, was crying out, at the very least, for salt and pepper.
But the good news is that the patties are prepared fresh, starting out as a free-form lump of ground beef that gets pressed with a spatula, fairly thin (the thickness of a crispy oatmeal cookie; sorry, I have cookies on the brain), against a hot flattop and grilled until the results are uniformly medium-well.
Where the Freddy’s patty stands out primarily for its hanging-over-the-edge-of-the-bun stature, which gives it an aura of plenty. And that skinny profile becomes much less noticeable when the patties are doubled up.
Add-ons don’t stray from the expected: a slice of American cheese, a few traces of raw onion, a swipe of drab mustard and a pair of cut-lengthwise dill pickles. The cottony, standard-issue bun is greatly improved by a light toasting.
Not bad, but not terribly remarkable, either, particularly in this age of next-generation burger chains.
Is Freddy's an improvement over McDonald’s, Burger King, Hardee’s and Wendy’s? I’d say so. But would I rather turn to the burgers at Five Guys? Probably. Smashburger? Yes.
Price: $4.39 (or $7.19 with fries and a soda).
Fries: Extra ($1.79 and $1.99) and a reason to visit. They’re fantastic, really. The skinny cuts aren’t so thin that they come off as those harshly crispy canned Durkee shoestring potatoes that my mother used as a hot dish garnish back in the 1970s. Instead, they materialize hot out of the fryer, a gorgeous golden brown, with traces of still-tender, baked potato-like insides enveloped in tantalizing crispiness. The heaping helping that landed next to my burger was seasoned exactly right, with hints of the chain’s “famous” seasoning (a basic mix of garlic, salt and paprika), just enough to tickle the taste buds but not so much as to overpower. After a few fries I had to push them out of reach, otherwise I would have scarfed every last one of them. That almost never happens at a fast-food joint.
“And since you’ve never been here, you should try our fry sauce,” said the outgoing employee behind the counter (everyone on the staff has their Friendly-O-Meter set to a uniform high). “It’s a mix of mayonnaise, ketchup and pickle juice.” Who could resist that? It tasted exactly as promised, and I kind of loved it; the pickle juice adds a welcome tanginess to the standard, too-sweet Heinz.
Cool down: As for my custard malt ($3.79), I wasn’t impressed. It was runny and the chocolate had a fake, low-quality flavor. Go to Culver’s instead.
Yes, there is a Freddy: Company co-founders Scott Redler and brothers Bill Simon and Randy Simon cloak the restaurant in a vague 1950s nostalgia – picture a burger chain on the set of “Happy Days” – naming their fast-growing, 13-year-old company after the Simons’ father Fred. The place is papered with images and tales of lore connected to the patriotic, hard-working Fred, and it’s a sweetly sepia-toned if formulaic tribute, one that gives an otherwise anonymous chain a stab at a personality. To quote Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics in “Gypsy,” “You gotta have a gimmick,” right?
Noses up: I’m not sure if it’s a design flaw (the kitchen is open to the dining room) or a lack of venting firepower, but I discovered that, following my 20-minute lunch in the Freddy’s dining room, my jacket, scarf, stocking cap, sweater, shirt, jeans and what little hair I have left on my head were all reeking of Eau de Freddy’s. And it wasn't just scent-sensitive me, overreacting. Once back to the office, a colleague walked by, stopped and noted, “You smell like a restaurant.” Lovely.
Address book: 14165 Hwy. 13, Savage, 952-440-2222 (and opening Feb. 10 at 11600 Fountains Dr., Maple Grove, 763-600-6713). Open 10:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, 10:30 a.m. to 11 p.m. Friday and Saturday.
Talk to me: Do you have a favorite burger? Share the details at email@example.com.
The burger: After decades of seeing development continually transform the Uptown side of Lake Street, it’s encouraging to see steady signs of life spring up at the far eastern end of one of Minneapolis’ principal thoroughfares. Naturally, food and drink are major driving forces behind this happy revival.
The latest example, Peppers & Fries, opened earlier this week, and it's doing double urban duty. Not only have the father-daughter ownership team of Steve Frias and Maria Frias started to draw a steady stream of customers to another E. Lake St. corner, but they’ve managed to yank the blight out of a boarded-up former SuperAmerica outlet, one of those stubbornly blight-inducing properties that can vex a neighborhood for years (witness the long-abandoned former Taco Bell outlet just down the street, which is now also starting to show promising activity; does anyone know what’s going on?).
The Frias duo have a lifetime of restaurant management swirling in their DNA. Correction: several lifetimes. Steve’s parents, Guillermo and Gloria Frias, founded St. Paul’s landmark Boca Chica Restaurante Mexicano y Cantina in 1964. Steve also operated his own restaurant, Burnsville's Coronado’s Mexican Restaurante, and along with working in the family business, Marie has been a front-of-house presence in area restaurants for more than a decade.
A father-daughter partnership was inevitable. “We’ve always talked about opening our own place,” said Marie. They decided to emphasize two favorite foods: burgers and burritos. “Obviously, when it comes to the burrito side, we have that down,” said Marie with a laugh. But burgers? “They have always been a passion of my dad’s,” she said. “I used to tag along with him while he looked for the best burgers.”
All of that quasi-research has obviously paid off. Their menu features nine burger varieties, and a few leap off the page. One piles grilled jalapeños, chipotle-seasoned mayo and zesty pepper Jack cheese, a fiery combo that’s appropriately named the Firehouse 21. Another lays on the bacon, peanut butter and pepper jelly, a totally on-trend combo.
But Burger Friday tends to stick to the classics, and in this regard, P & F's COLT burger (American Cheese, Onion, Lettuce and Tomato) doesn’t disappoint.
The obviously freshly formed 6-oz. beef patty (the meat hails from Husnik Meat Co., a family-owned South St. Paul processor that has been in business since the late 1920s) was billed as being cooked to medium, but it arrived as a far more palatable medium rare. The thinnish patty reached out to the bun’s outer edges, and its flavorful outer char — evenly seared on the kitchen’s busy flat top — gave way to a lightly pinkish interior with a slightly juicy (if somewhat underseasoned) bite.
There’s no skimping on the California-style embellishments. Tucked under the patty is a veritable side salad of crisply leafy lettuce, a few so-so slices of tomato and several rounds of tangy raw red onion, while the top is blanked in salty, melted-to-perfection American cheese. There’s mayo, too, and it’s described on the menu as a garlic aioli, not that my taste buds detected anything that came close to fitting that description. But the generous swipe managed to fulfull all creamy-fatty requirements.
Full marks for the no-nonsense bun -- soft, puffed-up, golden, with a gentle toast -- that the Friases wisely order from P.J. Murphy’s Bakery, another long-standing 651 supplier. Add it all up, and it’s a fine example of a burger-joint gutbomb (in the most admiring and affectionate sense of that word) done right. If this were my neighborhood, I’d be calling up the Welcome Wagon.
Price: $8.95, a deal.
Fries: Included. Meh. Mine arrived looking great: Slim, skin-on cuts that were golden-verging-on-brown and liberally salted. Alas, they turned out to be greasy and limp. I probably should have splurged and gone with the Tater Tots instead; they’re an extra buck.
Extras: Although months away, spring can’t come fast enough for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is the way the Friases have replaced the building’s front wall with a series of glass garage doors, which, when weather permits, will open up to a patio. In the meantime, the super-casual 80-seat room is peppered (no pun intended, honest) with baseball memorabilia, a nod to Steve Frias’ favorite summertime pastime (which probably also explains the all-beef hot dog selection). The appetizer list keeps the kitchen's deep fryer going full-tilt, the bar carries a full liquor license and the Friases have made an effort to pull in local craft beers. Oh, and dessert is ice cream, from nearby Izzy’s. As for the restaurant’s name, it makes total sense.
“My dad’s nickname growing up was ‘Fries,’ because his last name is Frias, so that obviously makes sense,” said Marie. “And it’s ‘Peppers’ because Dad always called me ‘My little pepper’ when I was younger.” Sweet, right?
Address book: 3900 E. Lake St., Mpls., 612-353-6730. Kitchen open 11 a.m. to 11 p.m. daily, bar open to midnight Sunday through Thursday and to 1 a.m. Friday and Saturday.
Talk to me: Do you have a favorite burger? Share the details at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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