The wood-burning grill that takes center stage of an open kitchen is a gleaming, magnificent beast flanked by two bumper car-sized wheels — a hangar for various meats, engulfed in flames that swell like bonfires. Cooks flip the hissing meat, inhaling smoke as it chars, watching closely like medieval blacksmiths. On a recent Friday, on the grill were pork chops, as thick as tomes of “War and Peace,” their edges caramelized.
The grill evokes ferocity from chef Yia Vang, who captures and cooks wild animals on the Outdoor Network show “Feral.” It also belies the influence of Ban Vinai, the refugee camp in Thailand that was Vang’s home before his family fled for the United States.
In the dining room, away from the kitchen, there are visual reminders of Ban Vinai. My colleague Sharyn Jackson described how after speaking with Vang as the restaurant was about to open: “Every detail means something, from the centerpiece wall tiled with gray zigzagging lines that emulate the corrugated metal walls of the family’s refugee camp home. Huge wooden triangles dangle from the ceiling, shaped like the pitched roof that crowned their house. A cinder block room divider calls up the makeshift barbecue Vang’s father built in their St. Paul backyard when they first arrived.” They are striking visual motifs that should not be lost on diners.
At Vinai, the Minneapolis restaurant that Vang dreamed up more than four years ago — and at last made a reality this summer, when it opened in the burgeoning Northeast corridor — there’s little to suggest ferocity. When the restaurant is in full throttle, a sprightly Vang may appear in the dining room, setting plates, greeting diners on the way back to the kitchen, leaving them with his everyman charm.
This may be why Vinai’s food is in fact so approachable despite the menu’s imposing headers and descriptors. “Contains fish sauce” is an allergen note affixed to nearly every dish. It can feel like a warning, too. But its funk is more rounded than sharp, coating many of the dishes with an umami that envelops invisibly, like a fresh coat of wax on a Camaro. There is heat, too, though not copious amounts. Rather, an array of sauces allows diners to choose their own adventures. Mine was Happy Tiger — a pale, bright relish not unlike chutney, made from banana peppers and pineapple.
I applied it on lamb hearts, an imposing-sounding dish that took me three visits to muster the courage to order. I wish I hadn’t waited so long. The lamb is gently chewy outside, custardy within, and meaty — with only a whiff of game. You may eat it any way you wish — commando; or with a lettuce wrap and rice noodles, dribbled with the provided nam prik, a funky lime-based chile sauce.
The skewers — both the lamb and a less compelling catfish one — cross borders, but many of the dishes are coyly referential. Those are also among Vinai’s strongest. “Sardines,” from a section called Khoom Noj, or snacks, recall Vang’s favorite after-school snack. The fish (actually mackerel) are instead daintily presented in a tin, crowned with herbs and flowers. Take a bite of sardine and wrap it in sticky rice, as Vang did in his youth, and note how gently briny, lilting and rich the combination is. It’s truly a revelation.
So are the braised meat soups, or Nqaij Hau, an icon of Hmong family meals. They’re served in a worn steel pot the size of a motorcycle helmet, a vessel for broth as thin yet as deeply flavored as good consommé. It’s softly fragrant, too, thanks to a 24-hour braise. My favorite among the two is the beef rib, where the meat falls off the bone with little resistance.
