Robb Long

Saffron's charmoula burgers.

By Tricia Cornell

Appetizers — like the cheap and delicious offerings at Saffron — are a sneaky alternative to the standard American meal

Last month, the New York Times declared the death of the entrée. Farewell to the meat-starch-veg. The time-honored American meal (learned from the French) of "three plops on a plate" is being pushed out by some aggressive — and tasty — foreign invaders: sushi, tapas and meze.

But there's a wholly American enemy moving up on the entrée's left flank: happy hour. If you're too young for an expense-account dinner and way too young for the early bird special, but still willing to eat heartily between 4 and 6 p.m., you can dine very, very well indeed. Forget domestic beers and well pours, now happy hour is all about small plates and tasty little bites.

Take Saffron, the Warehouse District belle of the Minneapolis dining scene. Critics — mostly — love it, and other chefs in town have been heard to sing its praises. You could plunk down upwards of $25 for an entrée during regular dining hours. Or you could skip lunch, grab some friends, sneak out of office a little early, and all of you could eat like kings and queens for that amount.

I admit it, the more futzy little dishes on my table, the better I believe myself to have dined. So, with all six happy hour offerings ($3.50 apiece), each about four generous bites, arrayed on the low table in the lounge, I was already favorably inclined.

The French fries might have been straight from McDonald's (admit it, food snobs: you know that's a compliment): slim and crunchy, light and soft on the inside, highly seasoned. For dipping, a tiny pot of potent, creamy feta. They disappeared quickly.

The charmoula burgers were the embodiment of happy hour dining — a shrinky-dinked version of a more decadent, filling dish you probably didn't really want to finish anyway. The hit of charmoula — a lemony, cuminy paste — got lost under the yogurt dressing, but these were still tasty burgers. The vegetable paella croquettes were like crunchy balls of pan-Mediterranean flavor on a plate. A little bit of Spain, a little bit of Italy, a pinch of North Africa.

The kofta meatballs were declared the table favorite: the perfect one-bite vehicles for harissa, a North African chile and garlic sauce. This version was much milder than you may have had elsewhere.

The mini lamb BLT was a minor letdown. The tomato jam overwhelmed the poor little slice of lamb bacon. I didn't even get a chance to decide whether lamb's rough flavor was suited to the world of salty, bacony goodness.

But, even that last little bite found a happy home and, just before 6 in the evening, three happy diners had dined, and dined well, with nary an entrée in sight.