Restaurants come and go. The ones that stay the course often find ways to veer off them. So for a restaurant to court a loyal clientele while attracting a new one over the past decade(ish) of its tenure, there's a whole lot of restraint at play.
For years at the Kenwood Restaurant, the eponymous burger has remained one of the best in the Twin Cities. The brioche bun still comes from the uncontested Patisserie 46, for good reason; the glorious slab of pork belly bequeaths another dimension of fat onto a burly-enough beef patty; and a polished sunny egg crowns it all. It's an intensely pleasurable eating experience.
When Joel DeBilzan took over the Kenwood five years ago from Don Saunders, the original chef/owner, he made the right plays. Keep the hits (burger, for one) alive, pivot from all that precocious tweezering, and gently push an easygoing brand of Italian fare. There's not much by way of seasonality, and there's no sermon about some phantom philosophy.
Just good food, really. And surely why DeBilzan purchased the restaurant in early 2021 and scaled the restaurant down to more user-friendly cooking. The bones are French but the best dishes lean rustic Italian, done well.
The Bolognese may not sate Nonna because it's a lighter, spicier take without the acidic tinge of wine — but it's flavorful in its own way, with a thin but toothsome pappardelle. The pillowy gnudi is an equally simple revelation; as are the meatballs, which are loosely packed with ricotta, as airy as cotton candy. I could eat it with a side of their exquisite, rosemary-studded housemade focaccia and dine happily.
It's (now) what you should expect from a neighborhood restaurant serving brunch, lunch and dinner, even though the dining room can feel a little dichotomous. See: walls with the type of tartan and clubby mirrors that recall your rich uncle's Scottish abode Up North vs. dining tables and chairs that belong in an all-day bistro.
Does the décor play tricks on the kitchen, too? They give undue credit to legacy dishes, no matter how lofty. For one, the promised Robuchon potatoes taste nothing like the smooth, butter-rich purée that defined the late chef; instead, it's loose, gritty and butter-averse, though good enough not to foil an otherwise lusty and tender short rib, which is generously showered with black truffle.
For another, the Perigord sauce that gilds a serviceably cooked Wild Acres duck breast isn't really a sauce at all — it's more of a reduced syrup in place of something meant to be deeply savory.
