Nightlife: Pleasures of the flesh

There are two types of Minnesotans. Those who know about meat raffles and those who don't.

Not knowing doesn't necessarily make you less Minnesotan. But you are missing out.

This grand Minnesota institution gives bargoers the chance to go home with something more than a hangover. Specifically, a big ol' sack of meat.

What's better than that? Nothing, that's what.

Still confused? Well, here's a primer: A meat raffle is a charitable gambling game like pulltabs. But instead of winning money, you win meat. Raw meat, to be exact -- ribs, steaks, pork chops, you name it. Typically, a host sells 30 tickets at $1 apiece, then spins a wheel to determine the winner. This is repeated about a dozen times a night.

From the dive bars of northeast Minneapolis to VFWs and American Legion halls throughout the state, meat raffles have "really taken off in the last three or four years," said Gary Danger of the Minnesota Gambling Control Board. Today, their novelty has made neighborhood stars out of some raffle hosts, and even spawned a comedy game show at a downtown bar.

For a taste of the original, the American Legion in Golden Valley is hard to beat. Why? Because it's home to Marge Johnson, a spry 83-year-old who has hosted the club's meat raffle for almost 20 years.

So what is it about Marge? It might be her look -- she owns several cow and pig-themed blouses that she adorns with an array of farm-animal brooches. Or maybe it's her piggy earrings.

Mostly, though, it's the way she conducts the raffle. After each round of tickets is sold and the wheel has spun, a quiet anticipation lingers in the air. Then Marge steps forward, gathering all her might like a baseball player winding up for a pitch, and unleashes a snarling howl so loud they can hear it in St. Cloud:

"COME AND GET YOUR MEAT!"

Other bars have tried to steal Marge, promising more money for her meat raffle mastery, she said. But she's always declined, happy with her kingdom in Golden Valley. She's comfortable here.

"You get used to it," Marge said. "I don't like sitting still. Everybody in my building, that's all they do -- sit around and age."

"We come to see Marge and to check out her outfits," Thomsen said, sitting next to a ribeye steak she won earlier.

As far as Bonk is concerned, "She is the meat raffle."

A storied tradition

The origin of the meat raffle is shrouded in mystery. Nobody seems to have a definitive account of when and where this peculiar phenomenon began in Minnesota. Even the meat maven herself doesn't know.

"I haven't the foggiest," Marge said.

While you'll see meat raffles in other Midwestern states and also in New England, one thing's for sure: It's as Minnesotan as Lake Wobegon.

The comedy of meat

It's good that Minnesotans like to laugh at themselves, because it seems that all of our quirks become the butt of a joke. Meat raffles are no different.

Since last summer, local writer and performer Rich Kronfeld has hosted a comedic game show called "Risk Your Meat" at Grumpy's in downtown Minneapolis.

"I always thought meat raffles were funny," Kronfeld said. He also thought bowling was funny and got a television show out of it called "Let's Bowl," which aired on Comedy Central in 2001-02. While "Risk Your Meat" is just a bar show now, he's pitching it to TV.

After a brief hiatus, their show returned to Grumpy's last Saturday, with maybe 50 people in the bar's smaller City Club room. Revving up the crowd was an organ player (actually a guy on what looked like a super-vintage Casio keyboard).

"Now, straight from the rendering plant ... " he yelled out as the two hosts jumped onstage -- Farrell in pigtails and a dress made out of Spam labels, and Kronfeld, looking sly in a cheap blazer and a game-show host smile that could slay Bob Barker.

"We like to say it's half meat raffle, half game show, half the entertainment," said Kronfeld, whose deadpan self-deprecation is part of the show's charm.

The show works like this: Everyone in the audience gets a free raffle ticket (that way they don't need to deal with gambling regulations). Seven or eight lucky winners are called up as contestants -- a la "The Price Is Right" -- to play a variety of meat-inspired games. Winners get to choose from a bevy of meat packages, just as in a real meat raffle, except the meat (from Clancy's in the Linden Hills neighborhood) can get a bit weird. Think: rabbit, liver and chicken brats.

So what about the games? There's T-bone Trivia, Wienerblast 2000, and my favorite, Vegieball, which takes a potshot at those pesky veggie-Nazis. Farrell holds up a cardboard cutout of a long-haired, tie-dye-wearing vegetarian as contestants try to shoot meatball-colored Nerf balls into its mouth. Hilarious.

Halfway through the show, Farrell gets her own arts-and-crafts segment called "Getting Frank With Faith." For past shows, she's created meat bandages, a corned-beef ashtray and a pork loin purse. Last weekend it was a hamburger dartboard made with a three-pound patty, a bologna bull's eye and Slim Jim darts.

The night ends with a variation on maybe the most beloved game show finale -- the "Showcase." But instead of pricing bedroom furniture and a Jet-Ski, the two final contestants must guess the worth of a grocery bag filled with meat. They call the finale the "Discount Meat Wonderland Bonanza." Last week's grocery bag totaled a staggering $17.63 (after coupons), causing one audience member to yell out: "That's pathetic!"

Yes, but pathetically awesome.

A young Minneapolis couple, Todd Edinger and Miranda Stefanski, were in the audience Saturday. They had never been to a real meat raffle, but thought this sounded fun. And it was. Asked if they'd give the real thing a chance now, they exclaimed:

"Absolutely."

"That's what I thought we were going to."

Spoken like a true Minnesotan.

thorgen@startribune.com • 612-673-7909