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Apple Martinis and The Bachelor Farmer

After an exhausting Saturday of food, fun and friends – when I awoke  Sunday morning still in Minneapolis – I was not as perky as the previous day.  A bright ball of sunlight shone threw the window beaming me awake way too early and no amount of pretending  would change the lovely post too many beers feeling in my limbs.   

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The cure – force your friends out of bed for another round of brunch.  This time at the Grand Cafe – where the best omelet I've ever had in my life was presented to me along with a bowl of bacon. I wish I had the presence of mind to photograph this phenomena before I ate it all.

Sadly I had to put my traveling companions in their cars to drive multiple hours to far off Minnesota destinations such as Moorhead and Duluth – but not without affirming each other's ability to sap the entire amount of life possible out of a 36 hour period of time. We win.  And I continued on alone – for a very brief period of time.

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My Minneapolis dwelling friend Fabre texted to say he went apple picking the prior day and had gallons of fresh made cider – so we just had to make apple martinis.

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photo courtesy of Jeff Fabre

What a better way to spend an autumn afternoon but watching the gold and red leaves drift down from the trees with fresh apple cider, grey goose vodka and a little cinnamin lightly shaken.

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After a little nap it was time for Sunday dinner at the current star of Minneapolis foodie restaurants – The Bachelor Farmer. 

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Sunday supper is a set menu of Scandinavian delights – no decisions required – which in our relaxed state was the perfect thing.  

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In began with a bowl of mussels seasoned with tarragon among other unique flavors to my now Northwest leaning palette.

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After a pronounced wait and a cleaned table the main courses arrived in all their simple farmhouse glory.  A braised pork shoulder with broccoli

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cauliflower gratin

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 and the most amazing biscuit I have ever tasted in my nearly 3.5 decades of existence on this planet.

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When I asked our so gracious and cheerful server what the secret of the biscuit was she said – butter.  It allowed for the crispy outside that crumbled like the most perfect of grandmother's apple crisps and the clouds of St. Peter himself soft innards that didn't squish but buoyantly danced with the tongue and teeth as you chewed.  I will say it – it put the most delicious french bakery crescent I have ever eaten to shame. 

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After pausing to appreciate the perfection that glutenous flour and the cream of dairy can make together dessert arrived – a simple porrage of apple, oats and a sherbert nicely capped the tongue with a little sweet to top everything off.
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The Bachelor Farmer sits in a refurbished warehouse bedecked with simple but modern repurposed material lighting and wallpaper that places me back in my grandmother's kitchen.   The strong Minnesota accent of our waitress only doubled the homey effect – but made me question somewhat my own nativity to the scene.  Is authenticness kitch? or was it just some new found sentimentality in those things once so familiar Iused to take for granted but can no longer as a stranger? 

Either way the food was amazing and my purposes in this midwestern city fulfilled for the moment – I was ready to call it a night and ready myself for a farewell to Minneapolis the next morning.





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