Restaurant Review: Black Sheep Cafe. Provo, Utah.

As a young clown with the circus I hoarded every penny of my meager salary, trying to put enough away so that I could travel to Mexico some day to study pantomime with Sigfrido Aguilar. I felt all the great clowns were well-versed in pantomime, and I needed that same kind of training to get anywhere as a big top zany.
One way I tried to save money was to never order a drink at a restaurant; a glass of water is all I wanted. However, I had a powerful thirst which tap water didn't really satisfy, so I often brought along a carton of chocolate milk in a brown paper bag -- I would take surreptitious swigs out of this when the waitress wasn't looking, like a wino. My pals ribbed me about it, saying they were embarrassed to be seen with such a tightwad in any decent hash house, but I refused to be put off by their specious reasoning. A dollar for a glass of milk? Getoutatown!
But one day I was brought up short at a Chinese restaurant, where the owner spotted me sipping my contraband moo juice; he rushed over and began yelling at me in an overripe James Hong accent:

"You no bling in such a thing! No outside to dlink! You go way, now now!"

That cured me of the habit. It was the last time I ever blushed in public.

Until today.

I got to the Black Sheep at 19 North University at 11:15, all hot and sweaty from the long walk and from wearing my winter jacket without checking the weather forecast -- it was a mild and sunny 60 degrees outside. The faux maitre d', name of Ben, gave a tiny cluck and said: "We can serve you in another twenty minutes" Apparently the joint didn't open until 11:30. So I went and sat down in a wooden chair that was too small for me. As I grunted to get out of it without breaking off the handles, Ben sashayed over to give me a supercilious look and ask; "Are we from out of town?"  He sounded like Arthur Treacher telling Shirley Temple to use the salad fork, NOT the pickle spear.

I blushed furiously as I finally popped out of the chair like a champagne cork, and then answered him:

"I was, uh, just passing by, and, uh, wanted to, uh, eat here, uh, y'know?"

He gave me a haughty look that plainly said I was about as welcome there as Freddy the Freeloader, and just about as well-dressed. When he finally deigned to seat me, it was under a monstrous light fixture that looked like something dredged up out of the depths of H.P. Lovecraft's imagination on a bad night:

Apparently the place is also an art gallery, with numerous paintings displayed on the walls -- none of them of much account, to my way of thinking. The main artist seemed to be one Kelly Larsen, who specialized in what the French call 'papier hygienique sur toile'. Loosely translated as 'wet toilet paper on canvas'.

I had studied this same technique early on as an art student at the University of Minnesota. When my request for a transfer to the Sorbonne was turned down later that semester I let the whole thing drop.

I started with Mexican squash cream soup. It was perfect. Not much more I can say about it -- when something is really good there's very little you should add to the description; it's like gilding the lily or adding ketchup to fried chicken.

Next I had braised beef with red chile sauce over Navajo fry bread. It, too, was immaculate.

I cleaned my plate like the veriest greenhorn in the bunkhouse, scrapping the plate with my fork to get the last little bit of fry bread and drippings. 

So I'm giving the place Four Burps, hands down -- despite that Ben guy. He I can do without. But anyplace that serves food this good can be forgiven for some well-deserved snootiness.

My soup and my beef chile on fry bread came to $25.88. And that's not including the carton of chocolate milk I snuck in under my coat . . .