Take the top of Wayzata Bay, for instance. An adorable little shopping strip covers, I don’t know, a half-mile of 6th Street. It’s filled with little shops with names like Merilou and Oh Baby! There’s a Steele Fitness just for funsies; and a Starbucks because obviously. It’s a nice little idle, down that strip. The pedestrians don’t even seem suicidal.
Pull into something called the Boat Works Building and experience a state-of-the-art-looking center with angled, windowed walls and bricky curves and other accents that make you want to compare it to the Opera House in Sydney except the Opera House in Sydney is 100 times bigger and looks nothing like this. Perhaps it looks like the Opera House entrance? I don’t know, something something Sydney. Moving on.
It’s within this prim, proper building, this something something Sydney on this idyllic little street stretch with the white spotless Benzes and mindful street-crossers, that you can drop a measly $10 and get back two half-pound pork patties, a yolk mine, two fried bananas, countless bacon strips, and caramelized onions spread out between PB-lined Texas toast slices.
It’s also where you can get a gravy-soaked stack of Eggo waffles, bacon bits, biscuit, onions, and fried chicken. Welcome to 6Smith Wayzata. In that weird little six-block-long universe on the bay, this is the restaurant at the end of it.
The Basics: Did I seriously not capture the location well enough? Google it, or get the address from the website. Fat Pants Friday is every week. It’s a different creation, but it’s always $10. That isn’t a misprint.
6Smith starts messing with your mind the second you walk in the door. There’s a wall to the left of the entrance, a wine shelf that climbs to the heavens; mounted onto the right wall is a metal cow head. The wall facing Wayzata Bay is entirely windowed and the ceiling patterns perfectly square. The gray shirts of the staffers have all got black ties tucked in between their second and third buttons.
My wife and I have sat right against the window and marveled at the water and the mansions built at its edge. I’ve also squeezed into the last seat at the bar, between a symmetrical man in a striped button up and a white-haired man in a vinyl wind jacket. What the two men had in common: They both said hello, and everyone — EVERYONE — at the bar had their napkins draped on their legs.
You can tell the staff apart. The woman who took care of my wife and I had perfectly-spaced blue streaks in her perfectly brown hair, a nose stud, and midnight-shade nails. The tender when I sat at the bar wore hockey hair slicked back, and a tattoo peered out from under his left sleeve. Uniform, schmuniform: from what I could tell, there isn’t a boring-looking one on the payroll.
Should I get into the food now?
I was introduced to my new Friday tradition by what they called The Kingslayer: It went toast, onions, pork patty, bacon, cheese, pork patty, bacon, cheese, toast, peanut butter, bananas, toast. A pickled pepper thing was staked into the top, and a spear of asparagus was served on the side.
I made a banana taco out of the top slice, chopped off and ate a quarter out of the bottom floor, and tapped. Like most such monstrosities, this isn’t so much an examination of flavor depth as it is a culinary battering ram. You’re paying for glances and visceral aches, and it’s worth every penny.
The Eggomaniac sounded imposing, and stood tall, but was considerably lighter in mass than the Kingslayer. Somewhere in this gravycano were two Eggo waffles, a piece of fried chicken, a biscuit, onions, and bacon. I came ravenous, and cut this one down in less than 10 minutes. I didn’t even need a beer break.
There’s other food, too, of course. At happy hour, their panko-crusted mac-n-cheese is a steal at $4 — a creamy, cheesy, gooey, magnificent steal. On the other end of the value spectrum is A Fat Burger. Though delicious, at $14, it left my wife wishing she’d have just gotten the $6 happy hour burger. The beer prices, while not intimidating at regular, don’t drop much at happy hour. The selection is good. You can find one to drink here.
My wife’s and my waitress had timing as precise as her hair streaks, and we had multiple rounds of dishes and drinks. At the bar, I only need one beer and one plate but the tender was quick in a crowded bar.
Look into the dining room as you leave and you’ll see a poster of a suit-and-tied ruffian. He wears a demanding scowl, but his message is EAT MEAT. DRINK NEAT. It’s your last reminder that you just ate at a different place. It doesn’t matter what we do in the daytime and how big our checks are. We all want the same things after the office on Friday, and 6Smith defies its community’s expectations and serves it in a way anyone can enjoy.
It’s weird, but I don’t think anyone in Wayzata would have it any other way.