Slice and Dice

Sophie had hoped that after a couple of martinis and a plate of the Belmont's famous tiger shrimp on a bed of spicy couscous, Bram would be in a good enough mood for her to drop the bomb. She'd been preparing her speech all afternoon--ever since she'd talked to her son, Rudy. Rudy was currently biking and backpacking his way across Europe with his partner, John Jacoby. On the phone, they'd made an important decision, one she needed to tell Bram about right away. However, not only were the tiger shrimp no longer on the menu, but the usually prompt and friendly service at the restaurant was tonight a study in indifference. Any good mood the drinks might have engendered had been destroyed by the annoying boy-waiters buzzing about the dark, intimate dining room. Neither Sophie nor Bram had eaten at the Belmont since last fall. Almost all the old wait staff was gone, replaced by a more youthful crew, lads who seemed to think having fun was the essence of their job description. They clumped together at the wait stations, chuckling at little in-jokes, and occasionally, when the mood struck, wandered off toward one of the gilt-edged mirrors to check their look. They were exceedingly adept at pouring water, but that was about the extent of their skills. Initially, Sophie and Bram were so amazed by the staff's bustling inactivity that they hardly noticed that their waiter had hardly noticed them. Twenty minutes after their arrival, having received nothing more than two glasses of water and a couple of menus, Bram reached his limit. At first he tried some polite arm-waving, but when that was ignored, he stood, placed two fingers between his teeth, and gave a piercing whistle. Not only did that catch their waiter's attention, but every other eye in the place as well. Most of the other diners nodded their approval. Some even clapped. According to local restaurant scuttlebutt, the Belmont, an institution in downtown Minneapolis, was currently having problems. This was clear not only from the lax service but also from the wilted rose on the table, as well as the pile of dry toast and a slice of bland petE the waiter brought them when he finally sauntered over to take their order. "What the hell's happened here?" muttered Bram as the young man strolled off toward the kitchen. Sophie just shook her head. Harry Hongisto, the owner of the Belmont since the early Fifties, was an old poker-playing buddy of her father's. They were both Finlanders from the Iron Range, both born and raised in Hibbing. During the past winter, Sophie had been sad to see a restaurant review in the Times Register trash the food at the Belmont. She couldn't believe the place had sunk that low, especially since she knew the bias of the reviewer, a man with whom she rarely agreed. And yet, perhaps in this one instance, the review had foundation. For the first time, Sophie felt as if she was sitting in the faded glory of what had once been a premier restaurant in the Twin Cities. That wasn't to say that Harry hadn't done his best in the last few months to stem the tide of decline. First, he'd hired David Polchow as the new head chef. Arriving with the highest of recommendations, David was a graduate of the New Orleans Cooking Institute and had studied under some of the best chefs in Europe. He'd worked at Sur la Mere in Boston before coming to Minnesota. His attempts to improve the food service at the Belmont, however, didn't seem to be working. Sophie couldn't understand how a chef of his caliber could have produced such an insipid petE, though perhaps it was an off night. Or, more likely, the rest of the kitchen staff wasn't working at his level. He could do his best to educate and make demands, but he couldn't do all the work himself. [read more]