Food And Loathing in the Mall of America, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Start Loving The Good People At Old Vine.
By
Timothy Braun

When entering the Mall of America, largest of it’s kind in all the world, the first thing noticed is the sent of Victoria’s Secret perfume. This is the same fragrance ironworkers, French chefs, jazz bassists, and writers (all falling under the designation of a “coarse bastards” in my book) refer to as “jailbait.” This is a smell frantically communicating sophistication before it’s time. I came here to find out what makes the Mall of America unique from every other mall in America. And to drink some wine.

The Mall of America is located in Bloomington, MN, a quaint village wedged between Minneapolis and St. Paul. The structure stands on the grounds of a demolished football stadium, and makes a perfect three-story square. It features three Starbucks, the world largest underground aquarium, a land of legos, and a twisted rollercoaster smack dab in the middle of the joint. I crawled around the building for three hours, trying on shirts, skirts, hats, shoes, talking with cheerleaders, chatting with a kid dressed as a shark, and watched a banjo player amuse children in the kiddy corner at Barnes and Noble. The Mall of America is capitalism at it’s most egregious. You can get a water massage, order sushi, buy work boots, and even apply for your AARP card all under one climate controlled roof. At the Mall of America, you can walk in, but leaving is optional.

The splendor of “The Mall” lands at the food court with 67 different digs to satisfy any craving. You want tacos? This mall’s got ‘em. Pizza? Sure. Hot dogs, sandwiches, shrimp, cinnamon rolls, ice cream, fajitas, funnel cakes, muffins, cookies, pretzels, fried chicken, steak, and whatever the Hell they serve at Ruby Tuesday’s? Come in out the cold and lonely night, sailor. The Mall of America’s got it all. Most of it is rather vicious in appearance, and I was curious as to how the foodies passed the eyes of the health code boys, but the mall has everything and that is what matters.

In the food courts I sampled everything I could get my meat hooks on. Japanese, Thai, Chinese, what appeared to be “island cuisine” and anything that was thrown at me on a sample sized toothpick by the carnival barkers and grill guys trying to wrangle my attention and hard earned dollars away from the competition. At Little Tokyo I sampled “bourbon chicken.” At Panda Express “General’s Chicken.” And, at Asian Chao/Maki of Japan I tried something classified merely as “chicken.” Every single one of these dishes tasted precisely alike. Was this jazz chicken? I hope so. Was it Asian in any figure or flavor? No, but that can be expected at any food court.

The most unsettling aspect of culinary life in the M.O.A. is the “restaurants.” Sure, Wolfgang Puck has a place on the north side of the building, and we all love Wolfgang and his adorable frozen pizza pies, but the M.O.A. also features a Dave’s BBQ, complete with a neon pig in a chef’s hat, roasting his own ribs over the door frame. That’s what the gates of Hell must look like. Porky Pig cooking his own ribcage over amber colored neon coals. I only have a problem with everything about this. Down the hallway is Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., boasting some duds worn by Tom Hanks. You had me at “de Core.” And half-off margaritas.
I talked with patrons of “The Mall.” Young, old, fat, thin. Tourists. Townies. I asked why they came here, what made this mall special, what was its value over other malls. Most looked at me with untrusting eyes and gave succinct answers. “Because it’s the best”, one man told me. I talked to children playing tag around the tables of a Starbucks. ” Why are you chasing each other?” “Because there’s nothing better to do” the boy said as he slugged his sister in the shoulder. The two ran in circles over and over again until I left. The roller coast was right next to them.

“Because it’s the best.” “Because there’s nothing better to do.” These words stuck with me the rest of the day. I went to Old Vine, a booze shop on the third floor, and drank the free samples of Riesling. Good people, at Old Vine. They know how to treat a “coarse bastard.”
I began to notice the Mall Of America has no curves. It’s all direct lines and ridged angles. This made me think of an old Chinese myth in which ghosts can only move in straights lines, which is why navigating Chinatown in New York can be a pain. All the streets in Chinatown twist and turn. The Mall of America is ghost friendly.
“Because there is nothing better to do.”

The Mall of America is big. It’s got rides and coffee and a lot of chicken and the whole slam. You never need to leave. It’s also a gloomy, aloof palace, reeking of simulated sophistication. Just like every mall in America.