After our quests to find the best cheeseburger in Wayzata and the top pizza throughout the Twin Cities, I knew I'd have to think creatively to convince my brother Teddy to join me on a third culinary adventure.
I threw out chicken wings, which he loves. The answer was no. I suggested French fries, another favorite. The answer was no. Chocolate ice cream, a family staple. The answer was, once again, no.
Running out of ideas, and patience, I finally turned to Teddy (something I should have done weeks earlier) and asked him the question I continually failed to answer — what should we sample next? His response was a dish that never would have crossed my mind — pancakes.
So, I made a list and we soon found ourselves at our first establishment, two fluffy flapjacks sitting before us. With ample syrup poured, we dug in, the pancakes disappearing faster than I could formulate my first question, which, once asked, Teddy refused to answer. Despite having chosen the food himself, he was done. He'd had enough meals with his sister and had already been asked to consume way too much in way too short of a time. Now, all he wanted was to eat his pancakes, not discuss them. And there was no persuading him otherwise.
Embracing the reality that I now had zero shot at a trilogy, I retreated to re-evaluate and analyze, in the hopes of uncovering my underlying motivations. What had compelled me to set off on these adventures with Teddy? Why had I so enjoyed the process, even when my brother often joined begrudgingly?
In time and after much thought, I'd boiled it down to three main factors: the quality time, the entertaining conversation, and the surprising fact that I found my horizons continually expanding.
Cue the metaphorical light bulb: I knew exactly where to turn. In fact, I'd already established a tradition that provided me with what I loved most about my time with Teddy (other than the sibling bonding, of course). I just hadn't connected the dots between these brother-sister quests and a food crew in which I participated.
Started alongside my friends Celia (lifelong) and Julia (adulthood), the three of us decided to, as time and budget allowed, explore the Twin Cities' newest, oldest and favorite restaurants. Whether they were chosen from listicles, social media posts or word of mouth, fast casual, pop-up or food trucks, didn't matter. We were excited to try anything and everything, to be out in the world, to get to know more about our hometown and, along the way, each other. What I hadn't expected, nor realized until this very moment, was how much I'd come to learn about myself.
This past August, we splurged and secured a patio table at Porzana, chef Daniel del Prado's newest hot spot in the North Loop. Settling into our seats, it felt like a true full circle moment for this little food crew — our inaugural meal having taken place at Martina, del Prado's first restaurant, and our last dinner out before the pandemic. And now, here we sat, over three years and 20 dinners later, at his eighth.
We perused the menu, consulted with our waiter, and proceeded to order the entire meal to share. A steak, tartare (a favorite), glazed carrots, and a smattering of other dishes. As each arrived, we divided and devoured it all, an act that, while trivial to most, proved monumental for me. A lifelong food miser, I'd lived for decades by my grandfather's mantra: You order it, you eat it. Because of that, sharing food while out to eat was never something I did willingly, let alone subconsciously.
And yet here I was, happily sliding a third of the cavatelli onto my plate — no longer holding the "that's mine" mentality. I was now totally and completely a "if it's ours, we can sample and appreciate more!" person. Who'd have thought? Certainly not me, or my grandpa.
From Union Hmong Kitchen to Malcolm Yards, Sidebar at Surdyk's to Pura Lima Cantina, the conversation always flowed easily; every topic we covered was thoroughly detailed and dissected. Early on, I recall asking a lot of questions. I'd always been good at inquiring, a curious person by nature. What did Celia think about the latest political situation? How was Julia feeling about her upcoming birthday? I'd chime in with my thoughts on what was happening in their worlds and in our collective, offering advice and support; but rarely did I examine or reveal anything about my own life.
But slowly, as the three of us ate bacalao (cod and potato fritters) at Estelle's, Korean fried chicken at the Asia Mall, or a slice of Fall Pizza from Red Barn, I found myself sharing more than just food.
Barely a month ago, we sat tucked in a corner at Myriel in St. Paul, an assortment of pâté and cheeses before us. I'd been out of town for a while, and Celia and Julia didn't waste any time asking for my full life update. Without hesitation, I expressed excitement about a new job and disappointment over a relationship that I believed had run its course. I admitted to sadness and confusion, to joy and consternation. Spreading a liver paste I may never have eaten on a cracker I probably shouldn't have (gluten doesn't sit well), I disclosed sentiments I'm confident I'd never have verbalized before the creation of this food crew.
Such vulnerability proved, and continues to feel, scary. And I still keep that which makes me most flawed to myself. However, with each tidbit shared — be it food or a personal detail — I feel nourished. I am learning to really listen and to lead with empathy. I am showing up for friends and allowing them to support me in return. I am becoming a different, and better, person because of the dishes we've shared, the restaurants we've frequented, the camaraderie we've established.
I'll never not be amazed at the profound effect of this little food crew. It has taught me to share — even publicly. It has taught me to be brave, both in what I eat and what I reveal. It has taught me about friendship.
But it still hasn't taught me to like olives.
Alison Spencer is a Twin Cities freelance writer.
