Phillips Powderhorn

815 W. 50th St., Minneapolis
612-823-4790
blackbirdmpls.com

At the Blackbird’s roost

You know what they say about keeping them down on the farm after they’ve seen Par-ee? Well, seems like you can’t go back to cooking solo after you’ve worked in a restaurant, either. And thank goodness, or Blackbird would never have taken flight.

The cozy little Southwest Minneapolis café—once a Caribou station—was hatched in spring by the husband and wife team of Chris Stevens and Gail Mollner, who’d worked together in Mac-Groveland’s fabled Table of Contents before it closed.

For the past seven years, they’ve trod the straight-and-narrow—he, working in mosquito control and she for Ramsey County. But their Garden of Eden-like existence changed when Satan, in the form of a cocktail party acquaintance, introduced the fatal apple: “There’s this great location looking for a new tenant …” End of story. Also, end of a benefit-rich, vacation-enhanced, free-weekend life to call their own.

Instead, they’re serving not only a swell dinner menu of what Chris terms “global comfort food,” but breakfast, lunch and weekend brunch as well. Not only is the menu vastly comforting, as promised, but it’s also ever so affordable, and I’d offer, romantic, decorated with the couple’s quirky collection of antiques with an Old World feel—wrought-iron chandeliers, a bevy of accent mirrors and dozens of tiny antlers, fronted by a tiny counter to which solo diners can pull up.

Make a meal of the apps alone, if you wish ($4-10), which range all over the map from rich and juicy duck rillettes dotted with creamy blue cheese—adding even more richness—and fig chutney, whose concentrated sweetness plays well against the fats. Or the mushroom pâté, moist and earthy, served with an exceedingly piquant relish of pickled red onions along with cloves of roasted garlic (I dare you to stop at just one).

Hot starters include a quartet of lamb meatballs in a compelling yellow curry sauce. “Spicy!!” recoiled my Scando friends. “Darn right!” I grinned, wolfing down their share. We all relished the pizza starter, a medley of apples, brie, roasted garlic, mustard and rosemary (well-balanced companions, all playing to each other’s strengths) on a slim crust (or choose the cheese-basil-Roma number). Next visit, I’ll go more global with the spring rolls, or maybe the crawfish hotdish—an over-the-top blend of those tasty little tails with lots of melted Gruyere cheese, along with croutons, as the menu directs, “for slathering.”
From the trio of salads (small $6; large $9), we chose the Butterhead, composed of those satiny lettuce leaves massaged with an understated tarragon vinaigrette and dotted with a dice of roasted beets, sundried tomatoes, spicy pecans and more of that sumptuous Maytag blue. Or choose the toss of sautéed chicken livers in mustard vinaigrette, mingled with apples atop frisky greens (portobellos substituted for the faint of palate). Then come sandwiches, ranging from banh mi, that savory Asian blend of barbecued pork liverwurst, pickled veg and jalapenos, to Mister Crunchy: ham, Gruyere and mustard.

Instead, we sped on to the enticing entrée list ($12-16; London broil $19). The pork confit proved comfort food supreme: a heap of long-braised pork shoulder, served with sweet, oven-roasted grapes, a hearty root vegetable hash and a savory red wine sauce. Our second choice, recommended by diners at adjoining tables, was the griddled trout—but the generous fillet arrived a little dry, thus disappointing, as were its accompaniments: a way-too-bland blend of preserved lemon, bacon and lentils in an also-slight pesto verde. Other choices segue from panko crumb-crusted salmon to porcini lasagna to—what’s this? A throwback to lunch at the tea room?—chicken a la king. Here it’s dolled up with an Asian-inspired wild mushroom sauce on its nest of mashed potatoes.

Add sides if you wish ($5): fries and béarnaise to sautéed green beans to sweet-and-sour fennel and carrots, for instance. The summer menu also flaunted a side of splendid ratatouille, which I’m lobbying to reappear.
Desserts are limited (and that’s fine): a carrot cake which, on each visit, our astute waiter has recommended, but somehow we diverted our vision to the jasmine-scented crème brulee, a wimp of a choice, turned out. Which gives me a good reason to return in a hurry, right?