Surprised by the Falls — Owamni

 

It was a crisp morning, with heavenly blue sky and sharp sunlight igniting the yellow leaves, and it cried out to be experienced. I could see that from every room of the house. When Hilary returned from an early morning walk along West River Road with a friend, she was eager to get back out in it, and take me along.

"Well, why don't we go downtown," I said. "There's an article in today's paper raving about the architectural features of the newly opened riverside park down there."

Good plan. We parked in a pay lot across the river from Boom Island and began our stroll under the brilliant trees along the pedestrian path past a very active children's playground, past the Federal Reserve building, and under the Hennepin Avenue Bridge to Water Works Park, which architectural journalist Linda Mack was calling "the most intriguing new building in the Twin Cities."

We weren't seeing it at its best. It was half-wrapped in mid-morning shadows, the charcoal firepits hadn't been lit, the chairs were tilted up against the tables, and almost no one was using it. I found it hard to remember what used to be there, because the area had been under construction for many months. But all of that being granted, this short slice of riverfront looked handsome. No doubt next spring it will look even more appealing.

A spanking-new two-story building stands at the east end of the park.(see top photo) The facade is partly rough-hewn limestone of the type used to build the flour mills than once dominated the riverfront neighborhood. The rest is faced with attractive fresh-cut stone, perhaps of the same kind, if not the same vintage. This is the home of Owamni, the Native American restaurant that has been in the news off and on for years, though the restaurant itself opened only a few weeks ago. (I picked up a copy of chef Sean Sherman's cookbook at a book convention several years ago, and I've actually tried to make a few things.)

It was dark inside, but the heavy glass door opened when I pulled on the handle, and we went in. To the left I could see a hall containing several comfortable-looking chairs; to the right a man was sitting behind a desk, minding his own business. We continued straight up a long flight of stairs, eager to see as much as we could before they kicked us out.

Upstairs a young woman was standing behind a podium, talking to someone on the telephone. "No. We take a few walk-ins, but reservations are booked until the middle of December. Once the reviews appeared in New York and Los Angeles ...."

When she hung up I inched closer and said, "Can you find a place to squeeze us in?"

"Two? I can seat you at the bar."

"That would be great."

 We hadn't planned to eat lunch at Owamni. We'd never discussed it. But we followed her into the restaurant without a word or a glance.

When we'd seated ourselves the bartender said, "You know the basic idea here, right? No dairy, no wheat, no care sugar." He handed us a couple of menus.

Sitting at the bar has advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, you can't see the river. But we've seen the Mississippi hundreds of times. No big deal. On the other hand, you can see things being done in both the bar and the kitchen, so much so that you almost feel involved. You can chat with the staff from time to time; they're right in front of you. On the other hand, you see food under the heat lamps that you wish you'd ordered, but didn't, and your server is often standing three feet in front of you, mixing a drink for someone else. A drink you wish you'd ordered.

The food was very good. The drinks only fair.

We've made two of the drinks on the menu ourselves at home or on the trail more than once using ingredients we'd gathered in the field. Sumac tea tends to be bitter, like Lick-um-Aid without the sugar, and Labrador tea tends toward a nauseating vegetative flavor. In a word, terrible. We were curious to see how Owomni's versions, which came iced rather than hot, compared. The flavors were the same, but much milder, and refreshing at first sip. By the third sip, however, and especially with the food, I felt we might just as well have stuck with tap water and devoted the funds to other food items.

Waksiti (left) and Garden Sisters (right)

The dishes we ordered were all good in different ways. The fresh tostatas that accompanied the smoked Red Cliff lake trout, blueberry/maple syrup reduction (wojape) and tepary bean spread were wonderfully light and crispy. The Garden Sisters, which consisted of black bean puree, pickled squash, and purslane on a chubby corn disk, had a complex blend of flavors and a surprisingly spicy kick. And the native grain bowl (waksica) with bison offered a complex but balanced palette of  flavors drawn from the beans, nixtamal, wild rice, quinoa, pesto, wojape, and grilled vegetables. (I ought to mention that our servers described these things to us one by one as they were being served, but I had to look them up on the menu later and google a few Ojibwe and Spanish terms to complete this paragraph.)

Looking around, I didn't see a salt or pepper shaker anywhere in sight. The bison could have used a pinch. But I suppose it was hard to come by in precolonial times.

Smoked trout with crispy tostadas and wojape

Lots of other things on the menu sounded interesting. I wouldn't mind going back, though we might not be so lucky as to get in next time.

 A young woman with long blond hair was sitting alone next to Hilary. She was trying quite a few of the dishes. I wondered if she might be a reviewer, but she wasn't writing anything down. Hilary struck up a conversation, asked her which dishes she'd liked best. Turns out she was from Los Angeles, but not a food critic. She had enjoyed most of the things she'd ordered, but found the squash too spicy, and had hardly taken more than a bite. (I was tempted to ask her to pass it over to me, but I didn't want to reinforce the widespread bi-coastal stereotype of Minnesota Gauche.)

She expressed disappointment that the walleye only appeared on the dinner menu. "We don't have walleye in Los Angeles," she said. I was on the verge of remarking, in order to add to the stereotype, that walleye was delicate, but didn't really have a distinctive taste.

Our bartender/waiter, who was also hers, assured her near the end of her meal that all of the wild rice served at the restaurant was Minnesota-harvested. She had no idea that most of the wild rice on the market comes from California and Manitoba. I tried to explain that most wide rice is now paddy-cultivated and machine-harvested, though the natural Minnesota type grows in shallow lakes and stream margins and is harvested by canoe with wooden poles.

Do they taste different? I have no idea.

As we left the restaurant, I heard the couple to our right mention that they were from New York. But anyone can come to Owarmi. And you don't even have to come inside. The outdoor seating is accessible from the street. After all, it's a public park.