Photos by Libby Anderson
The Foie Gras Fruit Salad at Demi
Gavin Kaysen’s greatest dish ever? The foie gras fruit salad.
Entirely by coincidence, I ended up at Al’s Breakfast the first day I had a ticket for Gavin Kaysen’s new restaurant, Demi. Al’s Breakfast, is, of course, a Dinkytown institution: a narrow alley of a diner counter with 14 stools facing a grill. As my group flattened against the wall for the familiar squash-and-wait, my adrenaline spiked. Would we get seats? Like circus ringmasters, the three folks behind the counter firmly guided the chaos, cooking, joking, cajoling. And soon enough, we had perfectly fluffy pancakes, and I bolted into my day, forgetting the eternal tradition of the Minneapolis restaurant counter.
Until ten hours later. Because that’s when I rushed into Demi and suddenly saw many, many similarities, at ten times the price. First, seat anxiety. Gavin Kaysen—hometown hero, multi James Beard Award–winner, and occasional TV food star—already owns Bellecour and the spot that until now has been the toughest table in town, Spoon and Stable. Still, when Kaysen released Demi’s first flush of tickets, they sold out in moments. Just 40 diners get in each night. I snagged two leftover singletons—thank you parties of three! Hereafter, tickets will be made available at noon on the first day of the month, for the following month. (E.g., June 1 releases July’s seatings.)
The next Al’s parallel? I soon saw that Demi’s major task was to manage us all, relying on a staff ratio of roughly one worker for every two guests. First, they manage us away from anxiety, then into delight. And friends, the Demi delights are exquisitely delightful.
A few words on logistics. When you book, you choose between the $95 Barrington menu, an early seating with nine courses; or the later, more extravagant, $125 WC Whitney, with a dozen courses. Do you want to add an aperitif before dinner for $13? A temperance, non-alcoholic beverage pairing for $45 (early) and $55 (late) or a wine pairing for $55–$105? You want all these things.
The aperitif is a perfect example of the excellence to be experienced at Demi. You enter a vestibule-sized, bottle-stuffed bar, and bartender, Scuzzi (full name Nick Pascuzzi), lays out cards on a tiny table. At first it feels like he wants you to play three-card Monte, but, in fact, the cards will help discover your ideal cocktail for the evening. Alcohol strength? (The range runs from no alcohol to plenty.) Flavor elements? Base alcohol?
Scuzzi takes your choices and concocts a personalized cocktail. I got something made with fresh citrus and Campari that was the color of orange tulips in sunshine, and I felt utterly charmed. Just for me? Cocktail-heads would break down the door, but this privilege belongs only to Demi ticket-bearers.
Your seat lies somewhere along a rectangular U, arranged around a central service counter, with a stove at the end. There is so much to see, it’s like sitting in the front row at a three-ring circus. That is, if your idea of a good circus involves not watching poodles pedaling tricycles but observing the assembly of apple foie gras gelée domes. As it happens, watching apple gelée domes is my idea of fun. Add binchotan charcoal grills, sabayon aerators, bamboo steamer baskets, and three-part brioches rising in an oven. But I get ahead of myself.
Gavin Kaysen at Demi
Demi seats just 40 diners a night. The guest-to-staff ratio runs nearly 2:1.
Your seat also provides you glimpses of Demi’s glittering waterfall wall of wineglasses, an exotic floral arrangement as big as a waltzing couple, and the other 19 folks enjoying your same meal. (Demi accommodates the usual allergies and dietary preferences, such as vegetarian.)
The experience is endlessly interactive. Sitting at your counter seat, you first interact with someone—often Gavin Kaysen himself—who approaches with a clear teapot of broth. It rests on a bed of cedar and other plants that have just been set on fire, then damped. The chef wafts a bit of aromatic smoke your way and says a few words about original restaurants being places for restorative broth, while pouring you some. On my first visit I considered this all hokey. But I later came to appreciate it as a ritual akin to dimming lights at a stage show: You have to do something to signal the break between everyday life and theater.
Curtain raised, the show really begins. A checker-sized portion of venison tartare arrives on tiny porcelain antlers. A coin-sized tart—filled with a slightly anise-scented mousse, topped with trout roe—perches upon a cross-section of birch log. A square of squash tamago the size of a Monopoly house wobbles on a wooden spoon. Again, at first, I thought these theatrical bits were a little corny. But I came to regard them fondly for the way they move you from the general hubbub of life into a new and very specific world.
Perhaps during this course you may notice the music, a deep-rooted Minneapolis playlist of The Replacements, Bully, The Suburbs, and other hits from the town that brought you The Current. At one point I mentioned to the excellent sommelier, Tristan Pitre, that Bully, the band then playing, would be performing at Surly Festival Field this summer.
“Alicia was my prom date!” Pitre said of the band’s singer-songwriter.
You will not encounter this absolute Minneapolis-ness in any other Michelin-caliber restaurant on Earth. Also: The steak knives were custom crafted from a fallen Nicollet Island tree. The crabapples were picked from a chef’s family farm near St. Cloud. And there are a hundred other Minnesota elements to be discovered at Demi.
Nothing may be more Minnesotan than Demi’s foie-gras fruit salad, my favorite Kaysen dish ever. This foie gras is cured in Borealis cider from Sweetland Orchards, cooked, whipped with cream, formed into a round, encased in a golden apple gelée, and finished with toasted local hickory nuts, surrounded by both fresh-salted and fresh-cut apples. It comes together like a supercollider convergence between the white-toqued legends of Lyon and a Minneapolis post-War Lutheran after-church potluck. The result? Something harmonious, new, whimsical, light, and delicious enough to knock you out of your chair.
Dessert at Demi
A chocolate-orange concoction from pastry chef Diane Moua
Meanwhile, razzle-dazzle beverage pairings sweep in, fun and funner. A Teutonic Riesling flattered the rich cod it came with: Each bite became its own fresh thing. The nonalcoholic temperance pairings, by bartender Robb Jones, are just as good and wildly original. Take the “red,” a blend of hibiscus, beets, apple, black pepper, and black trumpet mushroom broth. It came together as a scarlet liquid and tasted meaty and wild, in the ways wine does. It paired prettily with the rare wagyu strip loin. A strategy if you’re dining with a companion: One of you orders the temperance pairing, the other gets the wines.
Wonder after wonder appears. A boneless disc of poached pheasant arrived on a bed of millet porridge, blended with fresh cabbage and nutty-tasting toasted sunflower seeds. Then, table-side, the plate got a snowfall of fresh black truffle. Another highlight, the black cod, delivered a sploosh of aerated saboyon over a brilliant base of salted Minnesota crabapple, prepared in the style of Japanese pickled plums.
For the first time, here at Demi, I saw not just Kaysen’s technical virtuosity, but also what new he has to say in food. Take the city-centered, jet-set cuisine found on the plates of the world’s top 50 restaurants…filter it through a Twin Cities Millennial rock-’n’-roll soul…and you have something that’s never existed before.
Now, this fusion may not seem like something new. But then whole food careers and cultural dining shifts have followed thoughts like this: What if we used California farm and orchard products simply? What if we replaced the butter and cream in French dishes with other elements? What if we looked around the countryside in Norway and ate what we found?
At Demi, the question is this: What happens when a spirit that loves the humble church-potluck Jell-O salad meets an intellect that delights in making it fit for the world’s greatest French and Japanese chefs?
Will food tourists from San Francisco and Paris flood here to discover the answer? They should. If so, they’ll be delighted with the whole kit and caboodle, including Diane Moua’s mignardises, little chocolates and bite-sized desserts. Alone, each is a sweet jewel, a level beyond any dessert course I can remember eating in the Cities. It’s an ideal way to end an evening at the most accomplished and original restaurant we’ve ever had.
212 N. 2nd St., Mpls., 612-404-1123, demimpls.com
