Dave Wood

My Beautiful wife and I have spent more than half a century dining out together, even when we were poor grad students in Bowling Green, Ohio. Toledo was only a few miles away and on payday we invariably traveled to the Glass City which had a cornucopia of Lebanese restaurants like Sammy Thomas’s, where the shish kebabs were great and Sammy looked just like his famous brother Danny. 

When we graduated we took jobs in Minneapolis that allowed us to really celebrate at famous eateries like Charlie’s Café Exceptionale (now gone), Harry’s, reached only by rickety elevator (gone also), where once my sister got to shake hands with Chuck Conners!, Chateau de Paris in the Dyckman Hotel (now gone, also), the “Turtle” (now gone), The Polonaise Room for pierogis, the piano bar, and a dance band next door, where my polka-loving father (now gone) found eating out almost perfect.   

When we moved to River Falls, we loved the Copper Kettle (now gone), The West Wind when Eddie Chamberlain was chef (now gone—Eddie, not the West Wind!) The new Tattersall doesn’t impress us at all, with its cocktails out of a faucet and mediocre food.  =Thank goodness for the old Copper Kettle near Beldenville renamed Shady Grove (after its 3.2 beer ancestor.) B.W. and I eat there so often (we call it “Chez des Grove”) that the waitstaff pours my usual as we come through the door. So thanks for that Bridget and chef Shane.

When B.W. dines out with her women friends they usually end up at Hudson, “Land O’ 10,000 Restaurants,” where Pier 500 provides consistently decent fare. And me? I’m fortunate to have been invited to a hyper-exclusive band of hunters who go each week in search of the elusive terrific hamburger. We’ve found good ones in hamlets like Prescott’s Philanders, Roberts’s The Spike, and Hammond’s Parkside. Each Wednesday leaves B.W. all by her lonesome because the Hunters are members of the macho swinish herd and femmes are forbidden. 

Last week was B.W.’s 37^th (ahem!) birthday and she expressed a desire to cross the river into—I shudder to think of it—Minnesota. B.W. thought we might take one more chance at I Nonni, once known for its authentic Italian vittles (“I Nonni“ means grandmothers). So we got all dolled up and planned for a big bash. We began at the lovely bar, where we sipped a house specialty, the Vieux Carre’. Delicious? We thought so and continued to when we received our platter of exotic salsiccia and formaggio. The Italian bread was unbaked and doughy like Wonder Bread, but what the hey? Nothing is Perfetto.

We were the first to be seated in the beautiful dining room, but more guests began arriving and we wondered how our accommodating server Emma and only one other waiter could manage the crowd.

Nevertheless, we made our orders. I ordered Polpette, my favorite meatball with a side of black truffle-scented linguini. Ruth went for a trout that its famed lusciousness took Emma five minutes to describe. Then it took nearly an hour to even get a look at our food, as Emma raced back and forth mumbling something about the kitchen. No wonder. There’s only one word to describe our repast: TERRIBLE! No: INAUTHENTIC!

An Italian meatball should be soft, unctuous and pleasantly seasoned, not like the three I received, which resembled a Simek frozen version that has sat for days out on the Sahara and only sliceable with a steak knife. My pasta was as cold as a well-digger’s knee. And Ruth’s trout? No real Italian chef would have been allowed to treat a fish thusly: The skin had been baked so long and violently that it was black as coal and shattered when touched. Inside revealed flesh that looked like fish hash. Emma apologized and presented us with a complimentary layer cake, so sweet . . . well, you know, like Dunkin Donuts fare—which, you know, we still have in town . . .