Place #8: Toast Wine Bar and Cafe

I’m a cheater. I’m lazy. I cut corners. Or….do I?

Personally, I’d like to think of myself as resourceful and practical, efficient and flexible. I look back to the beginning of my blog and realize that it may have been unwise to have designed a Twelve Places list when I knew indubitably that I was not going to commit to it. I don’t plan well. Planning can sometimes create a very unnecessary stress factor that I, you know, would prefer to just eliminate altogether. Commitment issues? Possibly. There are plenty of places on my “list” that I’m just not going to be going to. So, if you were really looking forward to hearing about how my trip to Spam Town was going to go, or how my journey through the Boundary Waters was going to turn out, I’m afraid I’ve gravely disappointed you. I have no desire to go to Spam Town. Who would? And I would love to explore the Boundary Waters if I didn’t have this abhorrent allergy to poison ivy. I can’t explore Minnesota’s wildlife to its fullest potential because of this. There’s no way in hell I’m risking another summer like last summer. I’m not going anywhere near anything wild and green this summer, and you mark me on this one: I’m sure as hell not going to go anywhere near the woods. This breaks my heart because I love the forest, the trees, and nature, but being poisoned by poison ivy is just too damn traumatic for me. I’m afraid this adds to my loathing and frustration about living here, because I know damn well that Minnesota has an expansive natural world worth exploring. And I just… can’t afford to risk it.

However, the city has become my alternative. I began this blog telling myself not to make too many city destinations because, really, the city (in my own opinion) doesn’t really count. I’ve always loved cities and everything they have to offer, and Minneapolis (other than getting lost in it) has never been a sore spot in terms of me enjoying the life here. It’s been the prairies, the middle-of-nowhere, the outskirts of racist red-necks, hillbillies, creepy country neighbors, and a high school that should probably do the community a favor by burning to the ground that has created this corrupt vindictiveness for a place, that in truth, I want to believe with all of my heart is really not that horrible of a place to live. But alas! The city, I have discovered, is possibly one of the greatest redeeming qualities about living here. I’m less than an hour out of it, and Minneapolis has quite a bit to offer. All of the things I’ve been missing, the sort of things that feed my soul, my guilty pleasures, and my addictions to nostalgia are, well, in the city.

My third date with the man from my previous post involved going to see a show at the Acme Comedy Club. Before the show, we stopped in a wine bar down the street, and I wasn’t exactly planning on writing about it (I didn’t take any notes on this one, folks) but I definitely have to now that I’ve gone.

At the top of my blog page it reads, “…horrible food…” I’ll be the first to admit that this is pretty snobby of me, and I’ve no doubt insulted all the Minnesotans who love tater-tot hot dish and cracker crust pizza. My apologies.

I was more spoiled than I realized, in New York. They say it’s the water. New York’s water is some of the cleanest and purest in the country. I can attest to this because I’ve drank, out of the cup of my hands, from a gorge waterfall in Ithaca, New York and it was the most divine tasting water I’ve ever put into my body. This is supposedly why a lot of our foods are so delicious: pizza dough, bagels, cheese, et cetera. “It’s the water,” they say.

Cheese. For those who know me, I’m a bit of an addict. I keep a tight leash on it because if I didn’t I’d inevitably weigh three hundred pounds, and every one of those pounds would be answerable to cheese. I can’t say there isn’t a descent brand of cheese I can pick up at the local grocer, but it’s nothing like getting a fresh canister of grated parmesan from the deli. Or, any fresh cheese from the deli for that matter. Sure, there are always the staple forms: American, provolone, Pepper Jack, cheddar. However, they’re nothing but the truck-imported, vacuum- sealed brick cheeses that just don’t satisfy a cheese-spoiled New Yorker like me. I want fresh mozzarella out of the water. I want New York extra-sharp white cheddar that nearly melts in my mouth. I want deli-fresh grated parmesan with that perfect, aged bite that makes a homemade pasta all the more divine. I never realize how deprived I am until I return home and enjoy these nostalgic, savory treats. It’s often become a tradition to go grocery shopping while I’m visiting home, and bring the goods back to Minnesota for my family to enjoy. I’ve always considered that there has got to be a place in Minneapolis where I can treat myself to finer foods, but have never made the effort to explore it. This brings me back around to Toast Wine Bar and Café, and how a simple thing like fine cheese has the power to put wings on my feet.

I’ll admit, Reader, when we walked into the wine bar I was feeling a little out of my element. I was feeling sorry I hadn’t had the time to properly style my untamable hair which I had tied up into a frizzy ponytail before leaving the house. I was feeling less than classy. When I set my eyes on the menu, I didn’t recognize any of the wine names and realized that I certainly wasn’t going to be able to pronounce any of them. This is when my timidity flares, when I feel substandard, inadequate. The pendulum swings fast. I can go from feeling like Wonder Woman to a lamb in a wolf’s den in 3.2 seconds. As I sat there reading the wine list I said to myself, “Be a grown up. Just point and ask how to pronounce it… It can’t be the first time someone’s done that…” So I did. And it worked. Now, I know you’re supposed to let wine breathe: swish it, swirl it, and wait for it. But I was too anxious, so I drank it immediately. Having made several “warnings” to my date that wine gets me drunk rather quickly, drinking it quickly may have not been the wise thing to do.

Deciding to eat a little something with our wine, we opted for cheese and bread. There’s an option on their menu to choose three cheeses for $14, so that’s what we did. We chose extra aged Grafton Village Vermont cheddar (Vermont is just as comparable to New York if not better, dare I say?); Tuscany pecorino tomato washed sheep’s milk; and taleggio.
The cheese came quickly, and I immediately reached for the aged cheddar first. It’s my favorite cheese, especially if you get the good stuff. I bit into it slowly, savoring the easily broken off edge that slipped over my tongue and nearly melted in my mouth like I was hoping it would. It instantly brought me back to a memory of eating aged cheddar and good wine on my brother’s front deck when the whole family was together for his college graduation. We bought the cheese in a deli on The Strip by the river, and the bite of cheese I was currently savoring brought me back to the valley of Pittsburgh and everything that city life had taught me about finding myself. It also brought me back to a point when my family still gathered together for important events, and even though that seems a melancholy, sort of bittersweet thought, it made me happy to remember happiness that once existed. The cheese? Was really good cheese.

In trying to choose a second glass of wine, my date’s indecisiveness was met with the owner of the place. His name was Scott. I liked Scott. He began to pour several different wines into several different glasses for my date to taste. I, of course, couldn’t miss out. However, they were all red wines. DANGER! This is a how-to-get-Jess-really-really-drunk lesson: give her red wine. They were only tastes, but enough tastes add up quick with me. And then, of course, I had to order a glass of the one I liked best. Of course I did.

By the end of our mini romantic feast, my date got up to use the restrooms. The barmaid put the bill on the counter while he was gone. Now, so far on our outings my date had been taking care of everything financially. He’s a gentleman, and I was grateful for that. But I’m not used to these luxuries. Most women are. I’m not one of them. I’ve had a knack for dating really poor men to begin with (must be those free spirits I’m attracted to or something…), “dating” being a relative term. The relationships I’ve been in have been with guys that were friends first, or friends of my brothers, et cetera. Our relationships were made up of entertaining ourselves in his apartment, the financially cheap way: bargain beer and movies. I’ve never been properly taken out like a lady. Sad. Go ahead. You can say it. It is rather pathetic. But the circumstances in my life have not exactly been in my favor. After a devastating blow to my heart six years ago, I haven’t been able to quite recover as fast as I would’ve expected myself to recover. This is twice as pathetic. It’s been five years since I was last serious with someone. I’ve been alone, self-reliant and all on my own for a long time, trying to hold out for someone worth it this time. In short, Reader, I was feeling guilty that my date was paying for everything. Is this how it should be? I don’t want him thinking I’m a moocher… I should just allow myself to be treated, I say. But why? I’m not that special. I’d have to think myself something pretty special to sit here and say, “I deserve to not have to pay for anything.” Although, I do have to admit there is that part of me that relishes the idea of him paying for everything, but only because all of my friends have been able to enjoy that luxury, something I’ve always envied a bit. In truth, I’ve always wanted a piece of that cake. I won’t lie. It’s nice to be treated nicely. But my inner battle of “Pay? Or not to pay?” ended with: “Pay.” So while he was gone, I snatched up the bill and stuck in my credit card.

We left the wine bar. The wind was whipping up my frizzy ponytail which I was no longer self-conscious about, for I? Was drunk. The taste of red wine and really good cheese lingered not only in my mouth, but also in memory. I thought to myself, “Of all the places I’ve been to, this is probably the first one that has connected me with Minnesota in a redeeming light of invitation, has given me a desire to return, a desire to stay.”

Well. Let’s be honest: I was far too drunk to have had this articulate of a thought, but at least I can say the semi-developed idea was somewhere in there as I stumbled down the sidewalk.