Tastes like hell

For Mitch Omer, the brilliant -- and bipolar -- chef behind the hit Minneapolis restaurant Hell's Kitchen, food has been both a dark obsession and a lifesaving blessing.

By Ann Bauer

Read more: Life, Eat and Drink, Food and Travel

March 27, 2007 | On the southwest side of downtown Minneapolis sits an old, smoke-darkened brick building. It's home to an appliance mart, a nail salon, a violin repair shop, and a long alley-shaped restaurant identified only by a sign that reads: Hell's Kitchen. Just blocks from the city's busy convention center, somehow the corner manages to look deserted even on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Inside Hell, however, it's another story.

The blood-red walls are hung with black fixtures and artwork by Ralph Steadman, whose leering skeletons and cartoon crows are like the "Bloom County" of the underworld. Behind the maitre d' station, handing out pagers, stands a tall, dark Elvira wearing Goth makeup -- whiteface, inch-thick eyeliner, some kind of bolt through her lip -- and a silk kimono with puffy Shrek slippers. She's scowling. The room is mobbed, she's running out of waiting space, and the post-church crowd is getting mean.

Meanwhile, a server in pink Winnie the Pooh pajamas hurries from the kitchen in back, her tray loaded with bison benedict, lemon-ricotta hotcakes, scrambled eggs with shrimp, and foie gras in black truffle sauce, plus a basket of bread and a glass pot of homemade peanut butter. She's headed for a table by the window. But as she tries to cross the entryway, a bulky guy with a mustache steps out and blocks her way.

"You're not getting through until I get my table," he says. Then, turning toward the maitre d' station. "Just seat me now, and your waitress can go deliver her food."

The server starts to cry and mascara runs in rivers down her cheeks. But the hostess is unfazed. She's seen this before: Customers who come to Hell's Kitchen never give up and go elsewhere; there's not another restaurant in the world that serves sweet sausage bread stuffed with buffalo meat, pecans, currants and black coffee.

She tells the customer she'll find the owner, who will see to him personally. The man smirks and steps aside; the server sniffles and delivers her meals. Everything is pacific for a moment.

And then a collossus in a chef coat comes lurching from the back of the restaurant. Six and a half feet tall in steel-toed cowboy boots, with thick white hair and tiny gold spectacles, he moves through the crowd headfirst, like a bullet, apologizing politely as he goes. His voice is loud and reedy, like a bassoon. "Excuse me, excuse me."

At the front of the restaurant, he stops and his face twists, a Steadman character come to life. "OK, where is this asshole?"

The server, returning with her empty tray, nods in the direction of the mustachioed man. Mitch Omer, Hell's Kitchen's owner and chef, pivots, reaches out. "No one fucking treats my people that way," he says calmly, yanking open the front door. Then, glowering down at the man, his volume rising. "Now get the hell out of my restaurant and do not come back again."

It's clear to everyone in the place -- including the ones who applaud -- that he means it.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I first met Mitch Omer in late summer of 2004. I was a Minneapolis food editor with pages to fill when a woman called, telling me that her husband had auditioned for a new reality cooking series because his restaurant had the same name as the show: Hell's Kitchen.

It was a pretty slim hook for a story. But I was desperate and the restaurant was around the corner from my office, so I grabbed a notebook and walked over.

At 11 a.m., Hell's Kitchen was mostly empty. And the man I'd been sent to interview didn't seem at all happy to see me: His hair was wild, his face creased. He looked as if he'd been sleeping somewhere in the recesses of this blood-red cave. Still, he sat and offered me something to drink.

"I heard about this TV show called "Hell's Kitchen," he began. His voice echoed with energy. "I hate reality TV. And I have proprietary rights over the name Hell's Kitchen -- at least, I do here in Minnesota. So I started making phone calls." Then he discovered the show would offer a fully equipped high-end Los Angeles restaurant to the winner, and that tryouts were going to be held in Minneapolis. He went to the casting call, completed a videotaped interview, and filled out a 25-page application. But no one from the show "Hell's Kitchen" ever called.

Dead end, I recall thinking: He tried out, he failed. No story here.

But to be polite, I scribbled some notes and poured my tea. It was an umber Asian blend that tasted of lavender, thunder and earth. Omer leaned back in his chair, peering at me over his little glasses.

"They probably thought I was too old, which is shit," said Omer, who had just celebrated his 50th birthday. "But I think I had about a dozen other factors working against me, too, not the least of which is my foul language. And I probably shouldn't have told them I'm manic-depressive, or that I was treated for alcohol abuse last summer. I said that I own handguns. They asked if I'd spent time in jail and I said, 'Yes, I have, actually.' A studio executive sees someone with my profile, he might think I'm a risk."

I looked up to see if he was joking. His blue eyes were as clear as a baby's.

"Hey, you want something to eat?" he asked.

I shook my head. As a food critic, I'd found it was necessary to conserve, eating sparsely on my own time so I could go out and sample calorie-laden dishes all over town. That day, I'd already had my allotted apple for breakfast; lunch would be a cup of yogurt, after I ran a couple miles at the gym.

But Omer paid no attention. He stood, towering over me, and beckoned over a young man whose lips were studded with bolts. "Get her some Mahnomin porridge," he called out, then turned back to me. "You'll love this; it's my own recipe."

Not five minutes later, a bowl the circumference of a frisbee arrived and inside was a colorful, steaming stew of wild rice, roasted hazelnuts, dried blueberries and cranberries. I took a tentative spoonful and the taste was of nutty popcorn, sunlight, blueberry pie and chewy fruitcake -- all nestled inside a maple-spiked custard that had the mouth feel of gently whipped cream.

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