Diane's Place
the world may go to hell, but I will go to Diane's Place
Lee chose Diane’s Place on a whim for a Friday Day Date at the end of February. The year-old, Hmong-influenced bistro and bakery was packed when we arrived at 5pm, and several groups awaited tables. For a moment, it seemed we’d have to take our Day Date elsewhere, but then we spotted two seats at the end of the bar and were escorted to them. In front of us, the bartender shook drink after drink. To the side, we could see into the kitchen where small, whole chickens waited to be finished.
The lead server, a dark-haired sparkplug of a person, visited each table, explaining the menu and nearly making diners’ choices for them. She was trailed by a tall, mustached trainee who mirrored her poise with an equal and opposite uncertainty. But, he had a gregarious demeanor and seemed like he’d be good at the job if he could survive the training. For a moment, I observed him standing by the server’s station holding a french press and wine carafe in either hand as if contemplating the culinary histories that had led to them. Then, his trainer removed these from him and summoned him for another traverse of the floor.
I found myself rooting for them both: that she would never lose the verve with which she overwhelmed patrons, that his coolness would one day add another modality for sorting oneself through supper at Diane’s Place. I wanted her to tell Lee and I what to do. I wanted him to be our friend.
We’d been there all of 10 minutes and I was rooting for everyone: for the bartenders who would not stop shaking drinks for four more hours, for owner and chef Diane Muoa, who had just been nominated for a James Beard award, for Lee and I in our ongoing conversation with the universe regarding the choices we’ve made that have landed us, randomly, in Minneapolis.
In a whirlwind of possibility, the server arrived to take our drink order. Lee chose the Shady D--bourbon, tamarind, Averna--mostly for the fun of saying Shady D. I asked a question or two, and like magic an off the menu drink was offered to me: the Tom Khallins, a take on the Tom Collins, but with condensed milk and coconut juice. To mine, the gin was swapped out for mezcal, and one or two other things added.
“It’s more refreshing than you think,” the server said, and she was right. I tasted new subtleties with each sip. This was true of the beef carpaccio that floated in shallot broth, and the curried bamboo and bok choy dish we ordered as well, and the affogato we shared for dessert--all of it delightful on first taste and better after that.
The bamboo dish was best of all. I felt a moment of skepticism as I observed the thinness of the liquid that the server poured over it. How could that liquid live up to its billing? That something so thin would have so much flavor, and that the flavor would so slowly reveal itself, as if it educated us while we ate, felt like a magic trick.
Let’s call these revelations the magic of Diane’s Place. Let’s call them the magic of eating in Minneapolis, where a bistro like Diane’s can exist in an unassuming beige building with whimsical pantry items painted onto it. Diane’s was not our first Day Date, but it suggests the reason for them--that places like this exist, and the quiet, discerning people of Mill City have found them, arrived as if through teleportation on otherwise gray streets.
How long will it last? May it never end. May the server never lose her charge. May the trainee never lose his charm. May the bartender’s arms never tire. May Diane never lose her culinary dynamism. May Lee and I make it back to try the eggroll stuffed chicken.
As we left, we purchased a croissant dipped in chocolate and dusted with pistachio. It arrived in an oversized pink box. We drove home with it mounted on the dash like a trophy.
