NOVEMBER 3, 2024 – (Cont.) Last Christmas our younger son and his wife gave us a gift certificate to a local swanky restaurant—sight unseen. Both son and daughter-in-law are foodies of the highest order, meaning both are experienced food critics. They’ve wined and dined in the finest eating establishments around the world, most particularly Paris and New York. Our daughter-in-law counts a number of New York establishments among her photography/marketing clients. And when a famous French chef took his talents to the sky aboard an Air France flight from Paris to New York, our daughter-in-law was invited to capture on film the culinary extravaganza.
She is familiar with the better restaurants in our own fair city, and though she hadn’t patronized the fairly new Khâluna in the Kingswood neighborhood of southwest Minneapolis, she’s good at sizing things up online.
We invited a couple of friends to join us, who met us Friday evening for a 7:00 reservation. All I knew about the restaurant in advance of pulling into the valet parking lot from busy Lyndale Avenue was that Khâluna featured Laotian[1] cuisine.
As we stepped into the spacious, light-infused establishment, we were greeted by the lively conversations of a packed house. This did not seem to bode well for a relaxed conversation of our own, but our initial impression soon dissipated. Suspended from the girders above were unobtrusive decorative light-bearing domes that we were sure muffled the sound around us. None of us is an acoustical engineer, mind you, but the critical point here is that initially all four of us in our party had been concerned about the noise level and each of us agreed that once seated at our table, we were able to carry on a conversation perfectly well, allowing for an expansive treatment of a whole range of topics, from our kids to books to politics to TV series to . . . the amazing food and drinks of Khâluna.
In the first few seconds after we were seated in comfortable quarters, I looked around for a quick view of our surroundings, which were simple but highly refined, featuring light polished stone and plant arrangements in artistically designed vases. I noticed numerous pods of patrons, all enjoying animated conversations but none distractingly boisterous. Our assigned place was intimate enough for us to retain an inward focus, and once I’d returned my attention to our corner, I never looked up again, except when our wonderful experience reached its close.
In short order we were welcomed by our waitperson, Nick, whose greeting and presentation matched the high standards already projected by this fine establishment. He served a tray of small porcelain cups filled with a special punch of exotic juices. The tropical mix entertained our palates as it transported our imaginations to climes distant from Minnesota in November.
With Nick’s knowledgeable guidance we ordered drinks. When these works of art were delivered, we seemed to have been transported to what was as much a gallery as a it was restaurant. I imagined walking into the former, discovering an unusual still-life featuring a drink festooned with flowers, then reaching in, grasping the beverage and pulling it right out of the canvas for a transformative sip. Since I don’t drink-drink, I ordered a tea that came from some miraculous part of the cosmos whose discovery is apparently a closely guarded Khâluna secret. After half a cup, I was feeling unusually optimistic about next Tuesday.
The menu offerings were magical in description. My suggestion for an order of shrimp rolls as one of the appetizers required no coercion: “shrimp roll, jicama, purple shiso, mint, cilantro, rice paper.” Nor did anyone hesitate over basil wings: “tempura fried wings, thai basil, jalapenos, signature dry rub.” I must avoid jalapenos, but my three companions swore by this set of “wings.” The shrimp roll was so divine I thought about ordering three more and calling it a meal.
The entrée descriptions were downright seductive: the chilled plate laab heed, for example, was “shiitake, king trumpet, beech, mint, roasted rice powder, makrut lime leaf (DF, GF) available vegan” and the red snapper crudo was “lightly cured sashimi grade red snapper, finger limes, fresh turmeric, thai chili, bolted cilantro, chilled coconut lime broth.” Among the dozen entrées were ribeye (with mak len, heed jeow and micro herbs), laksa (Malaysian curry broth, shrimp, tofu, [greens]), mango fish, duck laab, duck fried rice, crab fried rice, longan and rice, green curry and scallops, yellow curry and chicken red curry, massaman, and . . . Bucatini Talay (shrimp, squid, scallops, tobiko, thai basil, tom yum ragout)—which, when it first registered in my peripheral vision tricked me into thinking it was an Italian interloper.
After much deliberation, three of us ordered the massaman and one, the duck fried rice.
Within a timeframe measured exclusively by the rewards of our spirited—but patient—conversation, the wait staff backing up Nick placed our plates, chopsticks, ancillary cutlery ever so deftly onto the table as prelude to the smooth presentation of our mouth-watering entrées.
Our eyes were immediately tantalized by the main works of art that now graced our table. Before the first morsels could be laid upon our tastebuds, we marveled at the grace and color that were featured by the chefs and culinary staff. They had sent us not simply food but an arrangement.
The massaman was a magical mixture of beef short rib, shank, sweet potato, roasted red onion, massaman curry broth, and toasted hazelnut, with a side of jasmine rice reflecting purple light rays beamed in most likely from the same cosmic source as my tea.
To the palate, this choice was hitting five stars out of five. Rarely have I devoted such time and effort to the process of savoring food. It was of such a quality as to convince me that I had by some supernatural means I had become . . . a connoisseur and nearly a food critic with an international following. The closest experience I can compare it to is hearing a recording of Pinchas Zukerman playing a Mozart violin concerto (No. 5 comes to mind, just now), then imagining that I’m Pinchas Zukerman as he is playing the piece.
Our culinary experience wasn’t over with the main course, even though each of us declined to order a dessert, despite extreme temptation. Some snafu over our gift certificate (it was nearly a year old) required some backroom maneuvering. Nick, our waitperson, assured us that it was not a problem but would simply take a few minutes to straighten out on the restaurant’s system. To reward our patience, he served us gratis one of several desserts I’d been tempted to order—the mango sorbet with [multiple embellishments] and dried pineapple slice. Four golden spoons were tucked neatly into a cloth napkin. With these we sampled a delicacy that can be described no other way than “divine.” The dried pineapple slice—an exotic cookie—was to die for. I’ve been meaning to go online to see where an entire pallet’s worth can be ordered.
As we prepared to leave, I asked Nick how long he’d been working at Khâluna and how he liked working there. He’d been serving patrons for a year and a half (after having worked at other establishments) and loved working at Khâluna. “It certainly shows,” I said. It’s always inspiring to see someone who shines on the job, as Nick does. We tipped him well, and he deserved every dollar of it.
If Khâluna isn’t where you’d go for a “value” meal, you’d be hard pressed to find food, service, and ambience of higher quality than what Khâluna, its staff and management provide. As we told Nick on our way out, “We’ll be back!” And we will.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1]As distinct from Hmong, who migrated en masse to St. Paul in the late 1970s. Most of the Hmong originated in Laos, but ethnically they’re different from “Laotians.”
