Posts from the ‘Oregon’ Category

Dec 30

Gustav’s Pub & Grill

Did I love it? Not as much as The Rheinlander next door.

There are two reasons to go to The Rheinlander: fondue and Victor Meindl. Gustav’s, the adjoining cuckoo clock-free bar-centric offshoot (now a chain), only has the melted cheese in its favor.

Victor Meindl was the gangly Christopher Kimball-looking gentleman in lederhosen and a jaunty Tyrolean cap that roved around the restaurant playing accordion on our almost annual Christmas visits in the ‘80s. He was still there when I celebrated high school graduation at The Rheinlander. And he was still there when I was in my mid-20s and I thought I was too cool for him when he asked if had any requests. I brushed him off with a “No, thank you” then irrationally changed my answer to “Do you still play that Consider Yourself at Home song?” (Oliver—and Victorian England in general—always gave me the creeps) While being serenaded the confusion between kitsch and genuine love overwhelmed me and my nervous laughing turned to tears. That was over a decade ago, and the last time I saw him.

The Rheinlander wasn’t always the source of joy. In college my sister and I came along with my dad and his new family for dinner. The rotund druggie (I’m not svelte but I’ve also never been a meth addict and assumed the two went together) step-sister who wore Tasmanian Devil t-shirts down to her knees, demanded extra mushrooms in brown sauce and they actually brought her more in a little dish and her uncle got rowdy and angry when the waitress wasn’t familiar with a whiskey/beer drink he’d had in Germany while in the service. I wasn’t 21 yet and couldn’t drown my sorrows publicly but you’d better believe that when we had to spend Christmas with these folks my sister and I pillaged their well-stocked liquor cabinet (at the prompting of our step-sister who showed us where her wealthy grandparents—millionaires from the garbage business, trash genuinely—kept the booze).

Why didn’t I check in on Victor on my no-longer-recent Labor Day weekend visit? I think I was scared that he wouldn’t be there. But I also didn’t have the time to commit to a full-blown German meal. I was meeting one of my oldest friends before flying back to NYC in a few hours and The Rheinlander is only five miles from the airport. I thought I’d give Gustav’s a go once I saw online that you can simply order the fondue and that it would be happy hour.

Ah, the fondue, simple, sharp, creamy and served with a mix of pumpernickel and paler bread, none of that healthy vegetables and apples nonsense. If I’m correct this was the $4.99 version from the happy hour menu. There is a mini pot for $2.99 and you can also order add ons like sausage an pesto. As an old-timer pesto is just wrong. I’m torn on the new-to-me Dungeness crab and roasted red pepper version because that could be good if done right.

Imade fondue twice in the past two weeks and went totally classic: Emmental, gruyere, kirsch (ok, no Chasselas—I can’t even pretend to be highbrow now that you know I used Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc) and obviously good enough to prepare for two different sets of people. The Rheinlander’s version contains only Swiss cheese and no cherry brandy, and it doesn’t even matter. You’ll eat it and you’ll like it. This is Portland not Geneva. Wow, it’s all coming back to me; chef Horst Mager, used to (and still does for all I know) regularly appear in cooking segments on local morning news shows. It looks like he even has a self-published (Portland, always with the diy spirit) cookbook on Amazon.

The fondue is all you need to know about the food at The Rheinlander. The rest is just not that remarkable. However, I still went wild with a pre-flight repast ordering up a slew of bar snacks that I don’t recall from the original stodgier menu. Things like schnitzel fingers with honey-mustard, ketchup and thousand island. Both the fries and cutlet could’ve been crisper.

The potato pancakes with smoked salmon, chopped hard-boiled eggs and capers and sour cream were pretty good. I got these to share but no one seemed interested in them.

James picked a sausage trio (brautrust, weisswurst and smoked bier sausage) with potatoes and two types of cabbage.

What I learned from Lema, the only person I’ve known for over 25 years that isn’t family: the last time she was in the Philippines she and her mom visited a mystic four hours from Manila whom they call Angie. She made them turnaround and drive back to the city for a belt to use in a spell. Details are blurred but I think it was her dad’s belt and he stopped cheating after the ritual was performed so it was well worth it. Also, her 80-something grandfather has a 30-year-old girlfriend, which no one questions. Supposedly, she wooed him with her cooking, though I imagine his US citizenship has something to do with it. Her aunt, who had been trying to come to America since the ‘80s, was finally granted permission, got here, hated it and promptly returned to the Philippines.

Meanwhile, I’m toying with idea of going to Manila in February. Years ago Lema told me that she knew someone who had his hand outside the window of a car and a passerby chopped it off to get his expensive watch (she also has an unbelievable tale about a prostitute and a randy tapeworm). I don’t wear a watch.

The tenuous Filipino/German connection: When I ate German food in Hong Kong I ordered the monstrous pork shank like the Filipinos at the table next to me (not like the Filipinas on stage singing “We Are Family”). They stared at me in a possessive way that questioned, “That American likes lechon?” But see, it wasn’t lechon because it was German food in Hong Kong. Neither of us owned it.

Gustav’s Pub & Grill * 5035 NE Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR

Share on Tumblr

Oct 12

Belly

Even though I was only in Eugene for less than 24 hours, there was no way I was going to let any hippie food into my system. Brown rice, tempeh and soyrizo have a way of creeping up on you.

Not me. Instead, I sought out Belly, a pork-centric, small plates restaurant that had an Aviation on the menu. Could I get the same without leaving Brooklyn? Sure. At least I thought so initially. Now that I think about it, we don't really have a restaurant like this in my neighborhood or else I would go eat there and stop whining about Carroll Gardens. Belly is smaller and more rustic than, say, Buttermilk Channel.

I dined with five others and shared a few dishes. Even the vegetarians were happy with options—that might be one difference between Eugene and NYC where you’re likely to only find a token dish or two free of meat or else get used to eating pasta and salad.

The pile of stacked baby back ribs were served with a spiced molasses sauce that was actually pretty heaty. The cornbread was good for soaking (the word sopping kind of creeps me out) up the pool of sauce.

These might be the only vegetables I got in my system that whole week. Shredded beets flavored with mint were refreshing. While yogurt makes sense, I’m fairly certain the white dollop was crème fraiche.

My main dish was a bit hearty for late summer oxtail-stuffed tomato with spaetzle. I liked the tender shreds of meat against the springy pasta. I’ve never thought of oxtail as being an oddball meat—it’s beefy—but it seemed to freak out an old college friend I was eating with and I happened to catch part of My Life on the D-List where Gloria Estefan took Kathy Griffin and Rose O’Donnell out to eat Cuban food and they were completely traumatized by the idea of eating oxtails. Flan, too, for that matter. That’s just weird.

Belly * 291 E. Fifth Ave., Eugene, OR

Share on Tumblr

Oct 12

2 Comments

Voodoo Doughnut

It’s not as if the cupcake craze hasn’t overtaken Portland (not even the Middle East isn't immune to such fluff) but I still feel like it’s more of a doughnut town. Maple bars, specifically.

I never even particularly enjoyed those syrupy sweet tan-frosted oblongs, but I immediately noticed their absence when I first moved to NYC. Who knew maple bars were regional? And even more incongruously, why do they thrive in the Northwest, a region not known for maple trees yet are nonexistent in New England, maple syrup central?

Cult doughnut-hawkers, Voodoo Doughnut, knows how to use one of the culinary world’s most played out tropes—bacon making everything better—to their advantage. Thick sugary maple frosting and salty bacon strips padded by tender yeasty pasty are decadent, kind of gross yet totally makes sense. There are both more classic and more artisanal doughnut purveyors in town, but I wanted maple and bacon.

These would be amazing warm out of the oven, but judging from the near-constant lines around the block (this photo was from Sunday around noon and that red door is not the entrance–that's about half-way down the street) you take what you can get. We went back the same Sunday a little after midnight and there was still about a 15-minute-wait. A friend who lives in Portland happened to try their Northeast location that very same evening and claims to have waited 30 minutes.

One of my takeways from this brief visit was that Portland has way too many lines (I also waited just shy of half an hour for a cup of Stumptown coffee where in Brooklyn you can get it in a fraction of that amount of time) and is obviously in need of more brunch options, kooky doughnut shops, quality coffee and spot on Thai food. There’s high demand for all of this, even if thought that Portland had already hit coffee saturation point.

Local grocer Fred Meyer has certainly caught on to this demand. I spied Fruit Loop encrusted doughnuts in their bakery case, which are a blatant Voodoo Doughnut rip off.

Voodoo Doughnut * 22 SW Third Ave. Portland, OR

Share on Tumblr

Oct 4

1 Comment

North Oregon Coast Dining

The Oregon Coast, known to cynics (ok, myself and a few friends) as “suicide city,” isn’t the most uplifting region of the country. It’s chilly, damp, rugged, sunless, and there really aren’t any jobs to speak of. My mom and her husband moved to Nehalem a little over a year ago and have already thrown in the towel. Well, they’re keeping their mobile home for weekend excursions and future early retirement, but it’s back to the Portland area for now.

I was only in the area briefly, yet happened to be there (at the lovely Manzanita Inn, wood-paneled late ‘70s chic complete with Jacuzzi and captain’s bed built into a wall nook) on a freak of nature 80-degree September day. Totally unheard of. I even got a sunburn, which isn’t saying much since I also managed to turn red and peel during an outdoor wedding in Wales.

Unlike, say, the Chesapeake Bay, Nantucket, or other recognizable Atlantic Ocean destinations, the Oregon Coast isn’t particularly known for its edibles. People don’t even eat seafood in the state. Seriously, I never ate fresh fish, crustaceans or mollusks growing up. Gorton’s all the way. I even stumbled upon a message board discussion about why Portland lacks the fine dining seafood restaurants of Seattle, San Francisco, Vancouver or even landlocked Las Vegas—unadventurous, cheap denizens being the theory.

Nonetheless, here is a rundown of what I ate. As to what I drank, that’s a serious question. No matter how much I imbibed, I did not become drunk, just tired. They say that you become inebriated faster at high elevations like Denver. Would it stand to reason that at sea level you gain a tolerance for alcohol?

Wanda’s Café, a cute restaurant high on ‘50s kitsch and hefty portions, is popular with both locals and tourists. There is often a long wait, I’ve been told. We were seated no problem on a Friday morning, though. As I’ve said before, breakfasts rarely happen in my world and normally I get up too late on vacation to indulge in both breakfast And lunch. This 10am plate of eggs benedict was a concession all around. For me, that was early. For my mom and sister that was late. They’re dog people. Cats don’t need to be walked around outside at 7am, which is only one reason why they are a superior pet. This very second it’s Saturday and I didn’t wake up until 11:30am, proof that you only inherit so much from your family.

As if hollandaise and ham topped eggs were not rich enough (I take full advantage of my normal food/alcohol/nicotine regulating while on vacation—hollandaise appeared before me twice in one week) I also picked up a few doughnuts at Bay Front Bakery in Garibaldi while hitting thrift/antique stores. Not because I was hungry for sweets but because I had been regaled with tales of amazing fritters fresh from the oven.

I picked up an apple and a cranberry, which happened to be the two-for-a-dollar special that day. They had just the right balance of soft pliable middles and crackly, fried, glazed edges. My pecan roll was a bit dried out. The fritters are where it’s at.

Just as I predicted, by 2pm I was not hungry for lunch. My sister and husband bowed out of the excursion for Dungeness crabs at the Fish Jetty and my mom and husband showed up but has no interest in eating the creatures. Sister is vegetarian and mom says she only eats her seafood breaded and fried. People!

With roots in the Baltimore/D.C. area, James is a crab fanatic. I, myself, have only ever had blue crabs and in his presence. Despite more than two decades on the West Coast, I never ate a single crab (ok, once in grade school a friend’s family brought me along to a crab festival in Astoria but I don’t recall actually eating any, just the plastic bibs, wooden mallets and the thought that maybe crab-eating was a black thing because none of the white people I knew ever ate them).

So, we were excited to try Dungeness. “This is the first time all week I’ve seen you two smile,” remarked my mom. We were totally alone in our crustacean fervor.

The Jetty Fishery is down a steep hill where Nehalem Bay forms an inlet. There, you can rent a boat and catch your own seafood or have whatever is on hand in tanks cooked for you. There are a few picnic tables, an outhouse, a convenience store where you can pick up soda or beer, but oddly no sinks or handiwipes in sight. Eating crab is messy. Bring your own handiwipes.

I don’t think James realized the size difference between blue and Dungeness crabs because initially he was going on about getting half a dozen. That’s excessive. I can’t recall the exact prices per pound, possibly $8, but we ended up with three crabs and three oysters (I didn’t even think to ask what variety these monsters were) for about $48. We had everything steamed, took a number and waited about 20 minutes for our chosen items to arrive in a metal pan. Old Bay is not de rigueur in Oregon, but they do have big plastic shakers of seafood seasoning, very similar in flavor, if you ask.

I have not eaten enough crab in my life to make authoritative taste comparisons, but for sheer ease of eating, Dungeness is a million times more superior. Blue crab picking is fiddly, hard work and I leave still hungry, hands cut up and stinging. This is like eating real food, more like lobster, lots of payoff.

The oysters were so meaty, it was practically like biting into a cutlet. I don’t know if these are typically eaten raw, it seemed assumed that we’d want them steamed. Smoked oysters are also a big coastal treat. I ate the first oyster immediately, and got a mouthful of warm briny liquid. I didn’t tackle another until much later and the cooled down meat had absorbed all its juice. Get them while they’re hot.

For dinner, my sister and I treated my mom for her birthday. Choosing a suitable venue proved challenging. Price wasn’t so much the issue, but finding someplace special occasion worthy that wasn’t stuffy. Not that anyone gets dressed up to dine in Oregon anyway. Polos and Dockers are as good as it gets.

Wine bars are not ubiquitous at the coast, and in Seaside, the Jersey Shore of Oregon, they are particularly unusual. Casual, fun, non-crappy was what I wanted and that’s what I got with Yummy Wine Bar. Yeah, the name’s a bit eh, but you have to keep context in mind. This isn’t a major city where small plates and wine flights are on every corner.

We chose the meat plate, cheese plate and hors d’oeuvre platter to share and start. Split amongst six, and two non-meat-eaters, the cheese was gone in an instant. In addition to crackers, we were also brought warm slices of focaccia with honey butter.

The spoons contained a black bean puree topped with smoked trout. I picked a Loosen Bros. Riesling and a La Rioja Alta Rioja for the table. Simple but good.

My attempt to eat three substantial meals was just about thwarted by these tiger prawns. I chose something with lots of fresh produce—and the dish enlivened by capers, lemon juice and basil was light—but I could barely get through it. And dessert was an impossibility.

I was looking forward to a few after dinner drinks at the only bar in Manzanita, unfortunately, the San Dune Pub had a $5 charge to listen to cover band versions of “Superstitious” and rowdy frat guys were crowding the entrance. Instead, I drank a few bottled microwbrews in my sister’s motel, which was also party central with youngsters drinking and running around outside all night (apparently, James and I had booked the classy, pricey adult no, not “adult” hotel in town) and tried to avoid all of the 9/11 coverage on TV.

On the two-block-walk back to our hotel I spied one of my Northwest enemies, the slug. Ack, I’d marveled all week about how the unusually warm weather must be keeping these normally rampant slimy guys at bay. There he was on my final night, quintessential Oregon.

Wanda’s Café * 12870 H St., Nehalem, OR
Bay Front Bakery * 302 Garibaldi Ave., Garibaldi, OR
Jetty Fishery * 27550 Hwy. 101, Rockaway Beach, OR
Yummy Wine Bar * 831 Broadway, Seaside, OR

Share on Tumblr

Sep 28

Laurelhurst Market

3/4 A dating anniversary just doesn’t have the same gravitas as a wedding anniversary, but after a decade of monogamous non-marriage I would take steak over the traditional ten-year-gift of tin, anyway. I almost always happen to be out of town on Labor Day, which I count as my first date (James thinks it was sometime in October), so I get to try a variety of non-NYC celebratory restaurants.

Laurelhurst Market is a butcher shop by day, restaurant showcasing these cuts and more by night. I swear this now-chic heavily windowed restaurant across the street from Music Millennium used to be a Plaid Pantry. It might’ve still been a Plaid Pantry this time last year. Who knows? Such is the nature of the new Portland, which isn’t all that different from the old Portland except now the food is better.

During a leisurely dinner, I like to start with a cocktail then move onto wine with the food but it never really works that way. We only spent a few minutes at the bar where I ordered a bourbon-based, bitters and champagne-topped Seelbach, before our table was ready. No, I’m not complaining, especially since every single other Portland dining experience involved epic waits.

Suppli al telefono were super Mozarella-y fritters that also contained risotto and short ribs. Normally, not a fan of arancini, a Carroll Gardens staple, these appealed because they didn’t rely so heavily on rice.

Marrow bones enhanced by olive oil and herbs, in this case pistou, are wonderful with toast. These particular bones seemed lacking in enough gelatinous goodness. I like more goopy chunks and really put the little fork to work scraping out every last fatty bit.

My flat iron steak accompanied by chimichurri was tender and medium-rare as requested. I would’ve given it higher marks until I tasted James’s medium culotte. It wasn’t the cuts of meat that were so different in flavor but the char. Mine needed a little more contrast between pink center and surface. The three leftover pieces were a great room temperature pre-breakfast the following morning.

Niman Ranch culotte with charred tomato salsa.

I’d never heard of pocha beans before this trip and ended up eating them both here and at Clyde Common. The white legumes were tossed with squash and seasoned with thyme. My one attempt at a healthy dish.

Sometimes I’m indifferent to dessert after so much rich food but in this case more richness was in order. I love all things caramel-ly and this dulce de leche cheesecake was perfection. I ate more berries in my one week in Oregon than I had all summer combined.

Laurelhurst Market * 3155 Burnside St., Portland, OR

Share on Tumblr

Sep 27

Elmer’s

Did I love it? More now than ever, though I wouldn't sway from the breakfast menu.

Elmer’s is yet another Northwest chain that has jumped on the seasonal/local bandwagon. In my day they were like a regional Denny’s. Really, they still are but now tout Dungeness crab, Walla Walla onions and the like. But being for regular Joes they serve Boyd’s coffee not Stumptown.

Boyd’s is the brand of coffee they might provide in your office break room. I went to school with a Boyd’s heir, which is nothing like being a Hilton. This kid was kind of geeky and had a bowl cut well beyond the age and era where that was acceptable or in style.

I was looking forward to a big Elmer’s breakfast because I rarely have the opportunity to eat that meal properly with the whole shebang: eggs, potatoes, smoked meat, toast and maybe more. In my normal life, I just eat oatmeal or granola bars in the morning, on weekends I’m vehemently opposed to brunch and on vacation I can never get out the door before noon. I thought the beauty of Elmer’s was that breakfast was available all day, so I was saddened to be presented with a lunch menu at 12:30pm on Labor Day while en route to Mount Hood. Bah.

I consoled myself with a grilled cheese (Tillamook, of course) with bacon and tomato. Or at least tried to, but the generous mayonnaise layer got in the way of my enjoyment. Warm mayo is scary like treading water in a murky sea and being brushed against by a plesiosaurus. Horrifying…and well, more common.

A group seated next to us asked for breakfast menus. D’oh. I don’t know why I just didn’t ask.

I had better luck a few days later in Springfield when I visited another Elmer’s and got the breakfast I had been dreaming of. There’s always an internal debate over sweet or savory at places like this. Eggs usually win but they do have a tempting Dutch baby pancake.

This is Mr. Elmer’s omelet with swiss, tomatoes, mushrooms and honey ham. I’m not even sure that there is a Mr. Elmer but that’s ok. I was swayed by the hollandaise topping. Either go caloric or go home. I love that you get a biscuit instead of boring ol’ toast ,and best of all, a choice of three styles of hashbrowns: plain, with onions and peppers or interspersed with Tillamook cheddar cheese. Cheese for me.

Elmer’s * 1590 NW Burnside, Gresham, OR; 3350 Gateway, Springfield, OR (and various locations)

Share on Tumblr

Sep 27

Taco Time

Did I love it? Yes, if only for nostalgia's sake.

It’s not as if we didn’t have Taco Bell in Gresham; I just never went. I always thought Taco Bell and Taco Time were on par with each other, not realizing the fast food joint with the green cactus sign was a rinky dink regional chain. It’s where we’d eat as kids and where we’d drive for lunch in high school.

Now, the appeal is obvious to me: fried food. They’ve diversified since the ‘80s but I’ll always associate this Eugene-originated restaurant with crisp bean burritos. A flour tortilla coated with a slurry of mashed pinto beans, wrapped into a tight cylinder and fried crisp more like a giant flauta than a burrito. Plain and simple.

The only side was Mexi-Fries, deep-fried tater tots coated with maybe a little cumin and chile powder. The thing about their frying that I remember is that it was intense, not just crisping but oil-heating until a shell formed on the tots and especially at the ends of the burrito, a treat akin to burnt ends in bbq parlance.

I had to pull over to grab a crisp bean burrito for old time’s sake when I saw a Taco Time on the side of the road in Sandy en route to Mount Hood. The beans were a little al dente, there’s nothing complex about the wrap and the salsa was kind of a mushy but that’s how it’s supposed to be.

I was snapped out of my reverie when I overheard a rugged elderly gent going table to table, “Who has the car with Texas plates?” Uh, I did, and being given a rental car with out-of-state plates was a source of embarrassment all week. I was half-scared he wanted to pick a fight with the Lone Star residents in his mountain town (it might’ve been worse if he knew we were New Yorkers). But no, in my excitement to get a burrito I had left the car’s lights on. Two rarities in my life: crisp bean burritos and driving.

Taco Time * 17475 Beers Ave., Sandy, OR

Share on Tumblr

Sep 22

Burgerville

I can’t decide if I should be cross-posting relevant missives for as long as I can keep up this two-blog charade. I don’t believe Carl’s Jr. is worth mentioning outside a chain-centric blog (especially since I wrote next to nothing about the food) but Burgerville is certainly worthy of Goodies First status.

I can’t pinpoint when Burgerville went from being a regular, albeit regional—they’re based in Vancouver, Washington—burger chain to the
revered sustainable/local/seasonal darling it is today. For many, like that bike-riding drive-thru woman who recently caused a flap, it’s the only fast food they’ll deign to eat.

I primarily remember it being where my dad and his fellow classic car enthusiasts would meet up and show off their tricked out autos in the parking lot. I guess because Burgerville has adopted a vague ‘50s décor and uses a jukebox on their sign?

But the food is really good and who can argue with using what’s fresh and when it’s gone it’s gone? I’m just bummed that we missed the Walla Walla onion rings by a few weeks. On my visit they were promoting poblano peppers, sweet potatoes and blackberries, as well as advertising upcoming apples and cranberries.

It was also worth noting that you can substitute a side salad for fries and bottled water is a combo option in addition to fountain beverages. As a soda-loather, this is appreciated. I’ve always been bothered by water costing more than soft drinks. I’ll take the fries, though.

I accidentally ordered a wimpy cheeseburger instead of one of the beefier varieties so I had to strain to try and detect all of those grass-fed, antibiotic and-hormone-free nuances shining through. Frankly, what made this burger so awesome was the combination of melted Tillamook cheddar and that sauce that I’d totally forgotten about. Plain mayonnaise scares the crap out of me but incorporated into condiments, the eggy richness transcends the fluffy white emulsion. They sell the spread in jars at the counter so I know I’m not alone in my love.

I prefer caramelly, chocolate, nutty flavors of ice cream over fruity varieties. I guess I’m just not crazy about fruit, though I do like berries, cherries and tropical stuff. The Northwest is teeming with berries like huckleberry, marionberry, boysenberry, olalaberry, not just regular black and rasp. This lavender shake ruled; sweet without straying into sickly territory.

After eating, we ordered two pepper bacon cheeseburgers for the road. I think the counter kid thought we were crazy.

The bread is from Franz, with whom I happen to have a personal beef with for a very legitimate reason.
Not too long before I moved to NYC, one of their delivery trucks crashed into my parked car and totaled it during an early a.m. rainstorm. (In a weird way, it kept me from going to court. Days before this incident I had been pulled over by cops and cited for driving without insurance. I was scheduled to go to court to prove I had gotten it but no more car solved that problem nicely.)

These Franz trucks haunted my entire week in Oregon. There was a Franz bakery outlet just a block from the Burgerville in Albany where we stopped on our way to Eugene. We ended up spending over $10 on non-Franz junk like pepperoni sticks, mini pecan pies and Annabelle
candy bars, Abba Zabba and Big Hunk, both non-existent on the East Coast (what, no Idaho Spud?) so we were entitled to two items from the sale rack. No one needs loaves of white bread on vacation but I grabbed a pack of hamburger buns just to be safe.

Burgerville * 2310 Santiam Hwy SE, Albany, OR

Share on Tumblr

Sep 20

Pok Pok

Originally on my list of Portland to-tries, I ultimately omitted Toro Bravo from my itinerary. I went Spanish on a recent visit to Philadelphia. Do I really need to try tapas, good as they may be, in every US city I visit?

The same could be said for Thai food, a cuisine I’m more particular about, maybe because it’s so messed up so much of the time. I’ll eat chorizo and gambas practically anywhere, no problem. I’m not taking chances on a weak, watery papaya salad that tastes of lime juice, sugar and nothing else, though. I already knew Pok Pok wasn’t going to serve soggy pad thai doused in peanut sauce. Chef-owner, Andy Ricker has been all over the glossies as well as the blogs (as a Gresham native, I couldn’t help noticing that Austin is from Sandy, Oregon). I imagine he knows what he's doing.

And it’s not even close to a secret. Add Pok Pok to the list of Portland restaurants that don’t take reservations for groups under six, engendering 45-minute-waits. I was on vacation and the food lived up to my expectations, so it didn’t kill me. But if I lived in the neighborhood I could see it being a frustrating Lucali-like tease. This photo was taken as I was leaving and the crowds had died down.

The most unusual part of the Pok Pok experience is that in their striving for authenticity, half of the seating is outdoors. The thing about outdoor dining in Thailand is that, um, it’s in the tropics and you’re eating fiery food under intense heat and humidity, all punishing and part of the experience. Portland is all fir trees, moss, slugs and dampness, more pot roast and potatoes in front of a fireplace. The incongruity of a frosty Singha and tongue-searing som tam in these temperate environs was jarring. I’ve often said that I would enjoy Southeast Asian street food more if the weather was kinder. I just didn’t picture it like this.

We took whatever we could get, as did the majority of the wiser Gore-Texed, polar-fleeced customers also waiting to dine. Who knows how long it would’ve taken for an indoor seat? On this sunless, late summer Sunday, the temperature was 60, if that, with intermittent bursts of rain. I was wearing short sleeves, a sweater and light jacket and was a touch chilled. In NYC they would’ve had heat lamps. Oregonians are hardier people.

Papaya salad with shrimp (I’m now wishing I’d tried it with the salted black crab) was the hottest thing on the table and I appreciated its intensity. Painfully spicy and tart, very much in a Northern Thai vein like most of the food here. This isn’t a restaurant for rich, coconut-heavy curries.

The Aviation is having a moment in Oregon. I spied it on the menu at Belly in Eugene, as well as here at Pok Pok where it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I don’t recall either places using Crème de Violette. Instead, I chose the Asian take on a whisky sour using tamarind, lime, palm sugar.

Just looking at this iced plate of mustard greens makes me shiver. What normally might be a refreshing accompaniment to tart, peppery boar collar seemed unseasonably cooling on this particular evening. The bitter greens did pair well with the rich, tender meat.

We made these Vietnamese fish sauce wings for a Super Bowl party this year. Ours turned out pretty well but I had nothing to compare them to. Grilled over charcoal, these had great char and lots of caramelization. A funky sticky-sweet crust forms around the edges. They got cold really quickly, though.

The pork belly salad was a balancing relief from some of the spicier dishes. This had a fresh, crisp quality from the Chinese celery, cilantro and onion slivers.

I just read that Pok Pok is opening a bar across the street, rather than sending expectant patrons to Matchless as seemed to be the routine to keep the front patio clog-free. This might help matters. As to other Andy Ricker projects, I just couldn’t bring myself to stop by Ping because it replaced Hung Far Low, an Old Town icon (yes, I did note flyers advertising a benefit gig to restore the famous dilapidated sign). I spent so many nights nursing a whisky sour and sharing sesame chicken in the upstairs lounge. There's even a photo of me climbing up said stairs on inside sleeve of Casiotone For the Painfully Alone's, “Answering Machine Music.” I'm like a New Yorker who fled for the suburbs in the '70s and is all freaked out by the new face of The Bowery.

After dinner, I checked on the Space Room. And yep, the cocktails are still $3 a pop and they still have the creepy black-light murals of Haystack Rock and what I think is supposed to be Mount St. Helens being volcanic.

Pok Pok * 3226 SE Division St., Portland, OR

Share on Tumblr

Sep 20

Carl’s Jr.

Did I love it? In theory. The experience was more exciting than the food.

Eating at Carl’s Jr. on a Portland vacation doesn’t make much sense but I like trying West Coast chains that are absent in NYC. Don’t worry, I also ate at Burgerville, the acceptably seasonal and local Northwest fast food chain, too. If I had more time I would’ve also popped into Jack in the Box and the strange new-to-me sit down restaurant, Claim Jumper.

The first thing I was reminded of while walking along the bus mall from our hotel to Carl’s Jr. a few blocks up the street was that Oregon may as well lose its Beaver State nickname and borrow from Oklahoma. I don’t know that there’s a more panhandley state in the nation. Oregonians who haven’t been to NYC don’t seem to realize that here it’s not normal to see someone sleeping on porches, in every doorway and to be asked for change every few feet. Last year I noticed a man asking for change on William St. near my office. He’s been there ever since and the only reason I notice him is because he’s the only pandhandler I’ve encountered in the Financial District. Ok, there’s also that tranny who begs at the Carroll St. F in the evenings but that works out to like one panhandler per neighborhood.

I was reading blog reviews about Clyde Common (which I just wrote about) and was struck by this comment, which you would never see on an NYC website:

"I will indeed try to visit. Unfortunately my last effort left me confronted with about 30 street people lying or sitting on the sidewalk around the entrance at noon. Not wanting to go through the beggars brigade with associated insults if I did not drop money, I left for more options in less confrontational climes."

Nice. But even more striking was that the entire Carl’s Jr. and neighboring streets had been taken over by cosplay kids. Apparently, an anime convention for youngsters (I saw maybe two chubby guys over 30 and there were a few over-21s because I heard an exchange, “I’m not drinking any $5 beers.” “No, this place isn’t expensive.” If I had any doubt I was back in Portland where a $5 beer might be considered luxurious) was in town and everyone had on their best rainbow tights, hooded cloaks, cat ears, turquoise wigs, plastic swords in tow. The thing is, no one appeared to be dressed as a particular character. I withhold judgment since I was once a bored, white, middle class, geeky teen living in the suburbs of this very second (third?) tier city. There are worse outlets for too much free time.

Most jarring of all (after noticing that the staff was entirely white, super polite, some middle aged, and that they bring the food to your table–I suppose that in minority-less cities, someone must staff service industry jobs) was that the eatery had completely run out of ketchup. What kind of fast food joint runs out of ketchup?! We were offered bbq sauce instead.

Knowing I would be eating a proper meal in a few hours, I shied away from the Six Dollar Burgers and chose the basic Famous Star with cheese. It was fine, nothing more. You can order your meals small, medium or large, meaning the size of your fries and drink. My respectable skin-on fries and Minute Maid lemonade were mediums.

Concentrating on the burger proved difficult because we had walked into the middle of what felt like a high school drama club field trip with a dash of non-dining tweekers going from table to table saying who knows what because I wouldn’t make eye contact since I know better than to engage spazzy strangers. As we were getting ready to leave, a young-ish tattooed bike messenger-y kid came over and asked if he could have the rest of our fries, the six or so stragglers that were covered with a used napkin. Uh, I guess.

On one hand, I hate waste, maybe it’s because I’m an Oregonian, I never throw out substantial food and always take home leftovers. Why shouldn’t someone eat remaining supersized portions getting tossed out? On the other hand, have some dignity, man. James enjoyed the novelty and went and found this guy and his comrades hanging out down the street and gave him the last quarter cup of his Coke Zero. “Thanks!” was the genuine reply.

I’m still torn on this practice because in Portland so many are destitute by choice. In fact, there’s an entire culture of scrounging at the Reed College cafeteria, a university that costs $39,440 per year.

Carl’s Jr. * 508 SW Taylor St., Portland, OR

Share on Tumblr

Posts from the ‘Oregon’ Category

Gustav’s Pub & Grill

Belly

Voodoo Doughnut

North Oregon Coast Dining

Laurelhurst Market

Elmer’s

Taco Time

Burgerville

Pok Pok

Carl’s Jr.

Featured

Occasional Instagramming

Yes, it’s come to this

My Other Blogs

What?

The Past Will Haunt You

Pigeonholing 101