From Lavender Magazine - December 2004

Have your crab cake and eat it, too.

Dining Out By Carla Waldemar

The Irish are a funny lot. And yes, the Pope is Catholic. Both go without saying.

But the wittiest Irishman I can think of (the list is long) is Dublin-born Oscar Wilde, who never made it to the Pope’s short list of candidates for sainthood. Instead, his romantic escapades landed him in jail.

Yet Wilde was a highly moral man, allowing himself but a single character flaw: “I can resist everything except temptation.”

Me, too.

I make it my duty to toe the straight and narrow, except when pleasure beckons, which is my excuse for being caught red-handed (well, more of a chocolate color, let me add in the interest of accuracy), swooning over a slice of bête noir—aptly named “the black beast”—at Wilde Roast Café.

Actually, Wilde Roast is just as much a threat to society as Wilde once was himself. It challenges not the morality of our era—indeed, it weaves a strong fabric of inclusion as a neighborhood-centric gathering place—but rather the onslaught of the homogenized coffee-house chains that provide the same airbrushed aura in Bloomington as in Barcelona or Beijing.

No cookie cutter, this. The place actually is a hybrid—a coffeehouse cum wine bar cum café. Yet, while the list of food and drink is kept simple, the achievement is more than the sum of its parts.

In homage to Wilde’s lineage and era, partner-owners Dean Schlaak and Tom DeGree have made it their mission to create a niche of Victoriana here where Nordeast meets Southeast on Hennepin.

The cozy setting is dressed in touches of dark mahogany, from woodwork and pillars to an ornate fireplace mantle that’s the centerpiece of a cache of cushy, overstuffed chairs circling an Oriental carpet.

Music and lights are kept low to promote conversation as the art form of choice. Here and there, a laptop flickers in tandem with the fire, but it’s more about community than solitary patrons.

In fact, the tiny tables are so closely packed that when a diner to my left told her companion, “You are not a sick person,” I almost clinked glasses in a show of support. Even the page-turning pizza eater to my right gave her a “You go, girl!” grin.

The coffee’s as stimulating as the buzz of the book club in the corner, the wines as affordable and plentiful as the political opinions offered in another alcove.

No wonder that on a “quiet” Tuesday, we encountered a line waiting for a spot to perch.

But I suppose we should quit eavesdropping, and get on with the food.

Wilde Roast's bete noir, "the black beast" of flourless chocolate cakes. Service is not the forte, and it doesn’t pretend to be. Elbow your way to the counter, pick up a menu, return to place your order, and trot back with one of those little table flags that motivate a runner to bring your entire order all at once.

Awkward timing if you’re keen on tasting the soup before the pizza turns cold, but a small matter, especially in view of the paltry price tags.

The soup that night was a comfort cup of Portobello-barley in a broth rich with root vegetables—just the ticket for my friend, who either was fighting the beginnings of a winter cold, or a cold shoulder at the office (diagnosis uncertain).

We next tucked into a gorgeous, queen-size salad of baby field greens tossed with dried cranberries, candied pecans, and Gorgonzola crumbles—a trio of sweet, suave, and savory playing a riff on the hot tempo of a terrific chipotle-lime dressing.

Waiting its turn was an equally sumptuous plate of crab cakes upon another field of well-dressed greens. These plump babies were the lightest I’ve ever eaten, boasting a fair-to-middling amount of crab among the breadcrumbs, and a pair of dipping sauces that allowed for fire and ice: a spicy jolt of harissa, and cooling blanket of cilantro aioli. Nice, nice plate.

Other apps ($6.50-$12) include artichoke dip, hummus, and a thoughtfully selected cheese plate.

Additional salads gambol from a house spin on tuna with the addition of Gorgonzola and pine nuts to a Caesar and a Cobb.

Quesdillas run the customary gamut from cheese to chicken, beef, veggie, and black bean.

Pizzas, too, mirror what’s offered around town: “The Pizza of Dorian Gray,” laden with sausage, mushrooms, caramelized onions, and mozz under a marinara sauce; a barbecued chicken with pineapple number (help!—call the culinary paramedics!); and several, including our choice, blanketed in what’s called a “blanco” sauce.

White it is, and white in flavor. Ours melded artichokes, chicken, onion, and bits of kalamata olives, plus a mix of mozz and Parmesan, onto a thick, pie-plate-size crust (pizzas $8 range).

Save your carbo binge for dessert instead.

Sandwiches ($7 range) are another option. Eschewing chips (no loss), they’re served with a snack mix. Or, for a buck extra, one of those swell green salads.

We loved every last bite of the pulled pork item that bundled morsels of the tender meat in a snappy citrus ginger barbecue sauce dancing with sweet apples and golden raisins. Its host, a hoagie bun, was a bit of a wimp, but that’s just me, always whining.

No moaning about the house-made desserts ($5). Well, to tell the truth, there were a few, but they’re of the X-rated variety, brought about by that fabulous bête noir.

The carrot cake is fine—moist, tender, rich with nuts, and gilded with a perfect cream-cheese frosting, short on sugar and long on cream.

But, oh, that slice of chocolate! It makes Wilde’s “moral lapses” look like Sunday school stuff. Is it decadent? Back to our original proposition: Is the Pope Catholic?

In case you choose to seek penance the morning after, Wilde Roast Café also serves a terrific breakfast.

And next door is food for the mind— Query Booksellers.