Riding on the back of a Vincent Black Shadow motorcycle several questions raced through my head.
First, why is it so hard to find a full body wet suit at 1pm on a Saturday in White Bear Lake, Minnesota?
Second, who was the man that I was holding onto for dear life?
Third, did the fact that he was wearing a shirt that said, "If you can read this, the bitch fell off" on the back make me less of a man?
Sadly, the only answer I got was to the third question. And I don't want to talk about it.
I would much rather talk about the restaurant that I just stumbled across in White Bear Lake. I was hungry. As I was unfamiliar with the territory, I walked into the first place that looked like a restaurant (a patio with umbrellas and tables). Enter Washington Sqaure Bar & Grill.
Just as with relationships (and with motorcycling companions), I have found that the most pleasant surprises come from little to no expectations. Inside was a cozy, fireside bar room. Tables and high-tops. Simple, understated, quite pleasing.
I opted to look around, through a door way revealed that the restaurant itself is split into two sides. As if a large circular bar had a wall fall through it a la The Wizard of Oz. Oh, Toto, there's no place like Washington Square. There's no place like Washington Square. There's no place like Washington Square.
Damn, it didn't work. I suppose I'll need to find another ride.
The atmosphere was unique and enjoyable. The environment seemed laid back. There was a chalk board with names written on it I didn't understand and didn't bother to ask about as I am far from a competent journalist. It looked like a list for people that wanted to buy someone a drink as there was three sections outlining from whom, what, and to whom. If that makes sense. If not, consider it another reason to go check it out for yourself.
But the environment should only be a cherry on top. You need to check out both the bar and restaurant menu. Washington Square proudly states that they make there menu from scratch and after eating there, I don't doubt it.
The bar offers incredible originality for such an out of the way, understated location. They infuse their own bitters, vodka and rum. No cheap stuff here. The blend their own margarita mix and make their own simple syrup (the only way to have a daiquiri).
They have a build-your-own margarita in which you choose the kind of tequila and triple sec. They even have the national drink of Brazil....
The answer is: caipirinha.
Their lemon drop and scratch margaritas include egg white. Again, I have no idea why. But it was 1pm and I had a hard enough time staying on the back of that motorcycle without having a buzz going. Though I can guarantee that it will gnaw at me until I find out for myself.
Their appetizer menu goes from the more common mozzarella sticks and onion rings to a fish-of-the-day ceviche (a dish in which the seafood is cooked thanks to citric acid. Therefore both accentuating and preserving the flavor. Pretty bold for a local bar in Minnesota). Also intriguing were the sausage platter and the roasted vegetable platter options.
Again, all made from scratch unless otherwise mentioned on the menu. The personal pizza concedes that it is made on a Boboli crust. The lunch menu is mainly salads and sandwiches, but the back cover reveals an interesting Mexican menu with tacos, burritos and the very intriguing mole enchiladas. Novias enchiladas with queso fresco. The list goes on and on and on...
As for first hand experience. The clam chowder is second only to the ambrosia at Kincaid's Seafood and Chop House in St. Paul. The freshness shining through in every bite. From the fresh Minnesota Sourdough Bread (one of the four bread choices you have with any sandwich choice) to he ham in the ham and swiss being thick cut. These were not cold cuts. Delectable!
Time to get more experimental. Of course, I don't experiment. The buffalo chicken sandwich sounded good. The fact that they offer either a 6 or 4 ounce (slightly cheaper) sandwich was even better. More options is a pain for the kitchen, but bliss for the patron. This is a restaurant with the patrons in mind.
Just before ordering, my eyes wandered one spot down. The Naughty Buffalo? Sounds... naughty. The short of it was a buffalo chicken sandwich rubbed with jerk seasoning, served with a pile of thick cut french fries.
The sweet and savory taste of the Jamacian jerk seasoning (with the every present cinnamon overtones) complimented the spice of the buffalo sauce. So much so that the side of blue cheese wasn't necessary to balance the heat. But it was still appreciated.
The bun soft. The chicken tender. Making a barroom staple as good as it can get.
Too much food, too little time. Having never had reason to want to live in White Bear Lake before, I only now regret such a long travel time between my place of residence and what will quickly become my default choice if I am hungry, thirsty or just trying to kill time within a 30 mile radius.
I would have had a post lunch drink or at least got a dessert to go, but my ride was leaving and I wouldn't have wanted anyone to think that the bitch fell off.
My belly full and my faith in my own sexuality momentarily restored (I don't know my buffalo chicken reaffirms my sexuality, it just does) I held my traveling companion like the man I was as we road down Highway 96 towards places unknown. Only two questions that remained.
First, In the bar on the north side of the building, how did they get the TV into the nook above the door? There is a water pipe running across the very top of the TV and the screen was far to big to get past at any angle (proves I was there, suck it!).
Second, would my traveling companion remember me as fondly as I remember him for bringing me to Washington Square?
I think not. And I am sad.
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