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Review from the October 2005 issue.

112 EATERY LIVES UP TO ITS REPUTATION

It was your mom who taught you, in her way, to be wary of hype. "If everybody was going to jump off a bridge," she'd ask, "would you do it, too?" Back then, of course, you would have -- but by now you've internalized her rhetorical tricks and turned them on yourself. So when everybody is scrambling for a table at a certain restaurant, and critics are ladling it with praise, you tend to want to stay away. You're a contrarian. We can empathize. But sometimes it pays to take the plunge.

Photographs by TERRY BRENNAN

 The 411 on 112

When a restaurant gets raves from practically everyone, can it possibly live up to the hype?
BY ANN M. BAUER


NO ONE LIKES to think of himself as a follower. In fact, some of us have a tendency to avoid what is wildly popular as a matter of principle. The Da Vinci Code? Haven't read it. Fear Factor? Never saw it. Paris and Nicky who? 

So when Isaac Becker opened 112 Eatery last January and reviewers almost immediately hailed it as the greatest thing since unsliced artisanal bread, I was suspicious. Perversely, my skepticism only grew when, in May, Ruth Reichl -- the legendary über-critic of Los Angeles Times, New York Times, and Gourmet magazine fame -- came to town for a book signing, dined at 112, and later told the Chicago Sun- Times that her meal in Minneapolis at "a little restaurant that turned out to be a chefs' hangout" had been superb.

The hype, for me, was a little off-put­ting. It became doubly so when I was preparing to review 112 and I could not get a reservation. "We could seat you... ah.. Friday at 8 p.m., three weeks from this weekend," said the woman who answered the phone. Was it just me, or did she sound smug? "Or" -- my heart leapt -- "maybe next Tuesday at around 10:30?"

This would hardly do: I couldn't assemble groups of dinner companions in the dark of night, nor could I make my deadline if I had to wait weeks to start visiting the restaurant. I ended up putting off my review for a month, but by this time I was just plain curious. So I showed up with a friend at 5 o'clock one day, just as the host was unlocking the front door, and snagged a table.

The recommended wine  --a Rioja the server described as "full and smooth" -- turned out to be weak, with an unpleasant aluminum note. There was a crab salad, beautifully sculpted but weirdly wet and too vinegary, topped with crunchy fried onions à la the hotdish at a Lutheran church supper.

We shared the scottadito, a dish containing three miniature lamb chops, pounded, blackened, and served with a yogurt-pesto sauce. On first taste, there was a moment of nice contrasts: Greek against Italian, fresh dairy and herbs paired with jerk-style, gamy meat. But the chops were chewy and dry, a little rough on the throat and the palate.

This place is no big deal, I crowed to myself. Sure, the Chinese fried eggs -- two wide-open yellow eyes served in a mist of buttery oyster sauce and scattered with shredded scallions -- filled my mouth with the most supreme leftover-Kung-Pao-for-breakfast explosion. But was this enough to warrant the restaurant's reputation? Surely not, I thought.
I was so wrong.
WHETHER IT WAS a rare off night at 112, or simply a reflection of my own grumpy mood, I cannot say.
What I can tell you is that when I returned at the appointed three-weeks-hence reservation time, everything was changed. My guests had arrived early and were drinking wine -- a plummy, slightly chilled Mark West Pinot Noir for an ultra­reasonable $6 a glass -- while grazing on olives and spiced almonds.
"I already love this place," one of them whispered as I slid into the booth.



Fleurs de la mer: Becker's beautiful bud-like scallops with julienne oyster mushrooms.


Spaghetti with sautéed lobster in a chile, mint, and garlic oil.

 It was a warm night, more than 85 degrees even at 7 p.m., and we'd been warned the restaurant could be stuffy. But the air in the dining room was fine. And unlike the many bistros that showcase their chefs like rent-a-babes at an auto show, 112 has its kitchen discreetly hidden away. While Becker and his staff sweat in the heat, patrons are left in a quiet, cool peace, able to focus on one another and on the food. A very good thing, because everything we ordered that night was nigh perfect.

The starters included sea scallops -- open like miniature roses, meaty with a golden seared crust -- atop a bed of julienne oyster mushrooms in citrus-spiked truffle oil. The final effect was smooth and delicate, ocean and earth. Our steak tartare appeared prettily marbled, but the white glints amid the pearls of juicy raw beef turned out to be fresh onion, and the two performed some sort of alchemical trick so the taste was faintly of barbecue -- the way the coals smell just as you begin to cook over an open fire. And the Bibb lettuce salad was a beauty, the ruffled leaves stacked in a soft pyramid and drizzled with vinaigrette that had garlic at the fore and then a long finish of anise seed and oil.

Over two hours, we sampled every fish on the menu: tender monkfish served in puffy, marshmallowy bites with a homemade tartar sauce that was both ultra­creamy and thick with chunks of relish; seared ahi tuna arranged in silky tongues of meat and sauced with a startlingly minty chimichurri; and the king salmon, which can't be summed up in a single phrase.
 
Every good restaurant serves salmon; it's the modern epicure's filet mignon. But at 112, I tasted a preparation like no other. First, it was hot. I don't mean warm or simply toasty; this fish had been infused somehow with the heat of a planetary core. With the first cut, steam billowed out in fragrant waves. Salmon is a robust fish to begin with, but Becker bravely embraced, then compounded, its intrinsic nature by serving it with farro (a hearty, chewy ancient grain), dots of chorizo, and a liberal sprinkling of exotic spice. The result was rocket-powered flavor that lay satisfyingly heavy on the tongue.

VISIT NUMBER ONE was disappointing; number two, exalted; it would be up to number three to break the tie. This time I brought out my most daunting test: I walked in unannounced at 5 on a weekend night, with a crowd of people that ranged in age from 16 to 40. The host didn't bat an eye and seated us in a prime location, despite the line beginning to form at the door. Our server was equally polite, taking it in stride when the youngest member of our group inquired about the sweetbreads and describing their preparation in great detail. As she promised, they were succulent -- tender meat on a base of stock-reduced porcini mushrooms and clam sauce. But even better were the blue prawns she recommended -- plump lobstery-shrimpish curls of fish, lightly coated and fried with a jaunty dusting of red pepper and a side of Becker's "rooster" mayo, which turned out to be a pungent aioli laced with an Asian-style hot chile sauce.

A cheeseburger came topped with musky Brie on a monstrous artisan bun. The French fries were sheer perfection -- thick and crisp but not greasy, served with a tarragon aioli that sang of garlic. Then there was the nori-encrusted sirloin with ponzu, a splurge (by 112 standards) at $24, but well worth it: a brick-size steak of satiny, juicy, rare beef served with the tiniest spritz of bright green wasabi alongside. You know those poisons so potent it takes only the smallest amount to vanquish an entire city? The same principle applies to this wasabi, only the effect is "killer" in a completely different way.

After this extraordinary performance, the desserts were a fitting curtain call. Winners included a banana meringue shaped like a sultan's hat, with a crumbly crust, disks of fruit, caramel sauce, chocolate shavings, and whipped cream; and a chocolate pot de crème accented with a barber pole of chocolate that twizzled from the top. But best by far was the tres leches cake: soft sweet whiteness in several iterations -- white sponge cake, whipped cream, sweetened condensed milk, and delicate white chocolate shavings.

I still have no plans to watch Fear Factor, but in this case I'll defer to the masses. Isaac Becker's 112 Eatery is, indeed, worth the wait.

Ann M. Bauer is a senior writer for Minnesota Monthly.