Phillips Powderhorn

Keep your clothes on

BY CARLA WALDEMAR

The Strip Club
378 Maria Ave., St. Paul
651-793-6247
Closed Sun., Mon.

Love the Town Talk Diner, do you? Well, the same wacko team that buffed that fading landmark into a dining gem (the Marx Bros.? No, wait: It’s Aaron Johnson and Tim Niver) have pulled another fast one. It’s a miraculous rehab of another “you’ve got to be kidding” site, this time on the far side of downtown St. Paul.

They took over a tiny, hitherto unnoticed café among the aging houses of a blue-collar neighborhood, and its 40 seats (told you it was tiny!) have been packed ever since. I visited the day before Valentine’s Day (Who goes out then?) during a snowstorm (Who goes out then?) and the line formed out the door.
It’s called The Strip Club, but no need to load up on dollar-bills-as-stuffers. Just bring your credit card. The only exposed flesh is that of its signature red meat, a New York Strip. And, trust me on this: It’s flat-out the most romantic setting in the metro.

Who knew? Partners Niver and Johnson hardly had to lift a finger—they walked in, gasped and signed the papers. The Victorian storefront is charming in itself, but the view it captures, of downtown St. Paul alit at night, is stellar. Tables line the original exposed walls, sided by an elegant, old-time bar. A teeny spiral staircase leads to an overhanging mezzanine with a few view-friendly tables of its own.
Retro reigns (well, with a dose of tongue in cheek). Example: Order a bottle of the Chase Limogere California bubbly (at $23!) and it’s poured into those birdbath-like glasses straight out of a Forties movie rather than a stylish flute. Wine, too, comes in the dinky glasses you sent to the garage sale long ago. (But there’s nothing old-hat about the lovable, offbeat list, at drinker-friendly prices.) The cocktail lineup runs from Old Fashioneds and Sidecars to Manhattans, with, yes a single classic Martini, straight up with olives—no pomegranate juice or blue Curacao.

The chef is anything but old school, though. Say hello to J.D. Fratzke, the talent responsible for the revamp of well-beloved Muffuletta. (Story goes, he met up with Niver way back when both started out at Pronto, the long-gone posh Italian by Muff’s parent company.)


He’s a determined locovore, and so will you be, dining here. His signature beef comes from Thousand Hills Cattle Co. Walleye fritters are a staple. Foie gras is local, too. (OK, he does fly in the Arctic char and his mussels come from Maine, but they’re bathed in Summit Pilsner.)


That’s the good news. Another good report: You can dine very nicely on Fratzke’s small plates (mostly $3-$9) and never go near the beef.

The not-so-good news is that most of the dishes we tried fell short of the mark. The evening’s soup, a tomato-fennel blend, was just fine, plenty soothing, as far as fresh tomato soup went, but, to paraphrase an old commercial, where’s the fennel?

Among the small plates, the foie gras was sizable, perfectly timed and uber-succulent, but its pairing with oranges, olives and braised fennel was dissonant and didn’t convey much oomph. A special, scintillating magic happens when this luxury liver is paired up with a sweet-sharp fruit—say, rhubarb—that didn’t happen here. (Plus, we were dismayed to learn that the bread we used to sop up the soupy sauce rang in at hitherto-unannounced $4 a basket).

The escargot, served with pistachio butter, proved a little chewy and forgettable. The devilled eggs, however—some pickled in beet juice, some virginal—were swell. They carried a potent punch of chile oil and curry, most welcome. The walleye fritters arrived a bit overcooked and crisp, but their interior melted in our mouths. Slather them with the accompanying tarragon aioli and smile. The chef’s Beans & Toast, a play on whatever you make of it—Norwegian or New England hardscrabble fare—came off nicely, if innocuously, in this reconstruction of white cannelini beans soothed with sage, olive oil and onion, served on slices of baguette.

The star of the starters, however, was the Ladies’ Night Shrimp Scampi, presented in a footed glass that probably had seen lime sherbet in its day. The critters proved divine: sweet, succulent and bouncy-textured, infused with white wine, herbs and a lovely zing of citrus.
We split the very generous New York Strip ($28) three ways and still took home a doggie bag. The meat is fine enough but not the stuff of dreams. It arrived bloody-rare, just as requested, accompanied by a grilled lemon half and lots of carrots. Sauces are add-ons: Our favorite was the chunky, rich and mildly salty blue cheese-scallion butter ($5), which parried nicely with the sweet, pristine red meat. A pistachio butter ($4) was elegant on its own but perhaps better saved for Fratzke’s Scottish salmon steak ($21). Then, our indulgence, the foie gras-Port wine sauce, which, while delectable, wasn’t 15 dollars’ worth of delectable. Save your bills.

Next time, I’ll go for the pork shank ($22, serves two) accompanied with mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts, apples and roasted garlic jus. I’m also curious to try that Arctic char, sided with lentils, cabbage, spaetzle and mustard broth ($19) or the duck breast paired with wild rice polenta, mushrooms and a Port glaze ($19). Or, how about this? Swede Hollow meatballs with mashed potatoes, truffle gravy and lingonberry sauce—back to our roots for a mere $14. (Burgers are listed, too).

Three desserts, made in-house, are on offer: a flourless chocolate cake topped with cherries, a complicated-sounding trifle, and our choice, a blueberry cobbler. Frankly, it needed work (and a lot more ice cream on top for balance). The berries, immersed in their good-for-you, granolalike crumble, didn’t convey much flavor—or what flavor there was seemed sort of dead. Lemon juice? More sugar? Something, please?
As the menu notes, “Vegetarians are regarded with benevolent amusement,” which probably won’t shorten the line out the door. I’ll be in it, elbowing my way to a chair.